Thomas William Herringshaw.

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

. (page 50 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 50 of 138)
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In the scene he deigns to grace,
Whil6 he shades it here and there
With Purple, and Green and Gold.
Purple, and Green and Gold !
There's a loveliness untold

In the fading grass and leaves.

And he who cannot behold

A glad beauty here, but grieves

At Autumn's change, stands aloof

From charms, and a somber woof

In life's web he throws, and weaves

No Purple, and Green and Gold.

Purple, and Green and Gold!

The buds which we saw unfold

In bursting Spring, spreading wide

Such a charm-spell uncontrolled.

But ope'd to the Autumn tide—

This brighter, maturer stage

Of verdure, and foliage,

And of fruits now glorified

In Purple, and Green and Gold.

Purple, and Green and Gold!

Oh ! when we are growing old,

When youth and the ripening prime

Of life are past, and the cold.

Cold winds shall blow, may the time

Of our Autumnal show

A moral glory bright, and glow

In colors more sublime

Than Purple, and Green and Gold.


Wind-flower, blooming
In the spring.
Gracefully my path along.
Thou art coming.
And I'll sing —
List to me
While I chant a welcome song.
Wrapped in slumber —
Fast asleep —

Dreaming they.
All besides on Nature's breast —
All the number —
Vigils keep

Wind-flower gay.
Harbinger of all the rest.
Tho' a tender.
Fragile thing.
Ere the snow
All has gone, and winter cold —
Strong tho' slender
Up yoti spring.
Quickly grow.
Then thy pretty blooms unfold.
Thee defending —
All around

(Queer defence)
Now thy downy guard-leaves stand;
They are lending.
With profound
All the II id at their command.





Tempting mellow
Lips are thine,
Like a maiden's kisses sweet.
Bright their yellow
Tiugings shine —
Pretty thing.
Let thy lips and mine now meet.
Thou appearest,
Flow 'ret fair.
Like a cup
Painted by one highlj- skilled —
Cup of clearest
Partly up
With the richest gold-dust filled.
As I greet thee,
Flow'ret dear,
Gayly send
Out upon the breeze's wing
Perfume; sweetly,
Far and near,

Fragrance blend
"With the breath of earlj- spring.


Born; Sharpsburg, Pa., Dec. 15, 1859.
Graduating at the age of twenty-one, Mr.
Sallade five years later entered the field of
journalism, and has since been more or less
identified in that profession. He is a law clerk
and notary public in his native state.



Stand up — erect! Thou hast the form

And likeness of thy God'— who more?
A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life — a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.
What then! Thou art as true a man

As moves the human mass along.
As much a part of the great plan
That with creation's dawn began.

As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy? the high

In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye !

Nay ! nurse not such belief.
If true unto thyself thou wast,

What wei'e the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather which thou mlghtest cast
Aside, aside as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.
No!— uncurb'd passions, low desires.

Absence of noble self-respect, —
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires

Forever, till thus checked, —

These are thine enemies — thy worst ;

They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labor and thy life accurs'd.
Oh, stand erect, and from them bust.

And longer sufl'er not !
Thou art thyself thine enemy !

The great!— what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favors thee

Neglected to endow?
True, wealth thou hast not —'tis but dust?

Nor place,— uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust

Of both,— a noble mind!
With this, and passions under ban.

True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then; that thy little span

Of life may well be trod !


The quiet of a conscience free.
From cause of quarrel or offense.
Is not imperatively to be
The drunkard's show of wit or sense.
With many a row and many a fall.
Who onward hastens to that bourne,
Where sinks the sin o'er burthened soul —
But here, oh! never more returns.


Born: Georgetown, Wis., March 34, 1866.
From an early age Orville had a passion for
composing rhymes. His poems have appeared
in the Chicago Inter-Ocean, Galena Gazette,
Springfield Leader and other leading papers.


You tell me love is but a dream
An imagination, a vision, a belief;
That passion creates, and good sense doth
Beautj- allures it, as charms unseen,
Poverty kills it and drives it to grief:
All things divert it, even joy.
Tell me does the mother love her son.
Why does she watch so careful every move?
Why does she speak in such kindly praise

Of every noble, manly action done?

Ah, who can doubt a noble mother's love.

When tears are shed to criticize our ways.

And is there not one who often robs our

And steals away the love her son hath shown.
Passes in between and in silence takes
That mysterious something for another!
Ah, who can doubt, in candor, or disown
That love is real and slumbers and awakes.







Born: Columbus, Ind., March 16, 1839.
Keared on a farm, James continued on it un-
til 1862, when he entered the Union army, serv-
ing- in the Armj- of the Tennessee about three
j^ears. He then went to school and taught in
the schools for about ten years. Afterward
Mr. Edwards entered the ministry, and ever
since hn^ been ai^tivoly ensaavd in it, serving


some of the prominent churches of the Dis-
ciples in Indiana and elsewhere. In 1885 he
received a call to a congregation in the city of
Melbourne, Austi'alia, which he accepted and
served for thirteen months. Returning home
via Adelaide S. A., Aden in Arabia, Egypt,
Italy, Englaiad, Ireland and New York, Mr.
Edwards thus circumnavigated the globe.


Who can hear the heaving sigh,

Wrung from hearts forsaken;
Watch the dimmy, tear-set eye,

When the soul's o'ertaken
First with sorrow's bitter tide;

See the sets of jewel,
That upon the tear-paths ride

From a cause so cruel ;
Hear the moans that cursed shame

Wrings when hearts are broken ;
Witness rising up the flame

Which conscious guilt betoken ;

And feel not to him 'tis wrong.

Shameful wrong, who, turning
Quick away with soulless song

From the anguish burning.
Careless heeds the ruin made,

Feeling naught of pity?
Cold the heart that never paid

Debts of sun-lit Sympathy !

Do you hear those silver chimes.
Ringing out so loud and clear!
Yes ; 'tis merry Christmas times.
Gayest times of all the year :
Cho.— For, Happy hearts and happy voices
Sing the songs that Christmas brings ;
And every little one rejoices
Over Santa Claus' things.
Let the children now alone.

Cheery words to them be said,
Blessed joys their spirits own.

As they dance in happy tread :
Once a j'ear these gladsome scenes

Bring to them their welcome cheer.
Drive away what intervenes,

If it mar their pleasures dear:
Be one day In every year

Consecrated to their glee.
Christmas be the children's cheer.
Cheery as glad cheer can be :


A little rose came forth one day,
And blush'd in hues of early morn;
Its odors sweet were borne away,
Where lay one feeble and forlorn.

Its beauty made the spirit glad.
And help'cl to cheer a lonely hour;
Its fragrance sooth'd away the sad
And dreary gloom with silent pow'r.

A fretful wind broke off its stem,
(Its hues impal'd, its odors ceas'd,)
And, dropping" down, it soon became.
Of things that were, the very least.

So, too, a little child was born.
And smil'd its innocent delight
Through all the day, from rosy morn
Till deepen'd shadows made the night.

The mother-heart soon learn'd to pride
Each token of its wak'ning pow'r;
But, like the rose, it drooped and died,
And cast its fragrance in an hour.

And yet, not like the rose which fell
And perish'd on the humid land.
This little one can rise and tell
The sweeter joys of a heav'nly baud.





Born: Marshall, Mich., July 22, 1869.
Attending the high schools of Marshall and
Valparaiso,Elwood later took a literarj- course
In the University of Chieag-o, which institu-
tion conferred upon him the degree of Bach-
elor of Literature. A printer by trade, Mr.
Small drifted into ioiiriiali^in ;ni<l ]i;t^ imb-


lished various periodicals. His poems have
appeared In the Chicago Times and Inter-
Ocean, Cosmopolite of Cincinnati, and other
prominent papers. In 1880 a small collection of
the poems of Mr. Small were published under
the title of Rhj'mes with Reason and Without,
a work which received favorable mention.


Oh, the " Miglit Have Been " is a lovely path.

Decked out with the sweetest ilowers;
It leads from the dust of the world's highway.

Thro' eternal blooms

And sweet perfumes.
To lovelier, holier realms than ours.
Weary and dark is the world's highway;

But the "Might Have Been " path is fair.
Soft breezes blow o'er its pleasant length.

And on either side

The lilies in pride
Raise their lovely heads in the fragrant air.
As I plod in the heat of the common way,

A wondrous \ision I see
In the " Might Have Been " of a dainty home,

And a woman fair,
With golden hair.
My wife, who is watching, half-beek'ning me.
And I do not mourn that I leave her there.

Away from the dust and heat
Of the path I trod, with my burdensome load
Of trouble and pain.
While my throbbing brain
Aches, as 1 plod on with faltering feet.
No. It is far better as it is.

My life may be lonely and drear;
But "my wife," the sweetest, most precious
of sounds.
With an echo of love
From far above, —
From the heights of the " Might Have Been "
I hear.

I sit to-night at my opened desk,

And turn its treasures o'er.
While my thoughts glide back on airy wing

To days of the happy yore.
And among the reminders of fleeing years,

I find,— Oh, pity me,
A token pale of a love long dead,

I ne'er thought more to see.
'Tis a lover's fond gift, a faded rose,

Pinned to a parchment white.
On which he wrote, "I'm coming, Maude,

Expect me by to-night.
To greet your waiting lips again. —

Your Harry." That is all.
But how my heart enraptured leapt

At Love's impassioned call!
And so he came ! And my memory paints

Again that summer day.
With its wealth of joy and happiness,—

Which I thought would last alway.
The words of love he spoke, I'd hoped

Forgotten long ago.
When first I learned their treachery.

Oh, God ! The pain and woe.
For he counted glittering wealth and pow'r

Worth more than love, true and pure.
And in the pride of vanity, bowed

To the tempter's golden lure.

But I would not that his pretty wife

Should know the heart and vow
He broke, or guess at the cruel wrong,

For she may be happy now.
So, I'll keep thee now, thou faded rose.

Lest, some day, in my ear.
Another may whisper his tale of love.

And I be tempted to hear.
But I'll look on thee, and my heart will turn

From his passionate words away,
For the lesson learned in that hour of pain

Cannot be forgot in a day.







Born: Delhi, La., Nov. 29, 1865.
Commencing to practice law at the age of
nineteen, Mr. Muuholland now has a growing:

Which added light unto his ejes.
And spread its gold thro' western skies.

But weaker, paler, doth he grow.

His breath the zephyrs cease to blow ;
The blacken'd cloud hath hid his eyne,
■ Th' etherial orb no more doth shine:
In death he sheds no ray of light.
And earth is cloak'd with sable night.


practice at Farmerville. A few of his poems
have occasionally appeared in the local press.


A gentle zephyr shook the trees.

That spring had donn'd anew The breeze
Seemed wafted from a western cloud,

That strove to hide beneath Its shroud;
The waning Sunlight's ling'ring raj'.

That ling'ring strove to light the day.
The zephyr touch'd me on tlie cheek

And bade me, (though it did not speak).
Gaze on its path, (a western course)

And view the grandeur of its source-;
I turning looked, and there descried.

Fair Sunlight shrouded, as he died.
The zephyr seemed the struggling breath

Of Sunlight, us he sank in death.
Around him peace did rest, and while

That peace remained, a placid smile
Did light his face and then unfold

To view his couch of burnished gold.
And on his couch thus bright he lay.

Still peeping through the cloud with day.
His cheeks did glow with fever's flush.

Or crimson grow with beauty s blush;

Neglecting all, save all I craved.

That all combined in Cupid's muse.
On fancy's tablet 1 engraved

An image that I dared not lose;
My model far away doth dwell.
Yet mem'ry holds his likeness well.
O ! could he all my musing read.

Knew he where'er my thoughts doth
Then would he sip from Cupid's mead.

And learn what I am loth to tell:
The secret he doth seek to know
I'll not reveal, I dare not show.
And yet I would he could discern.

My secret held by Cupid's vow;
O ! naval lad, from Cupid learn !

I cannot tell! I know not how.
My sovereigii's dart I cannot wield,
I'm stranger to love's battle-field.
Harmless seem my sovereign's arms.

An artful word, a subtle glance ;
Yet, by a crafty mien, their charms

The strong subdue and bind in trance :
And I am bound ; my lips impart
No secret treasured in my heart.


Born : Nett Brunswick, Aug. 18, 1835.
The poems of this lady have occasionally ap-
peared in local papers. She now resides in
California at Pasadena.

Away from the heated boulevards,

Away, away, away.
Aweary our lives, we drone and nod,

Away to laugh and play.
Where the white foam breaks on the

Silver sand.
And the mists, and the moon, make

A fairy land,
Wbere starry eyes meet, and dear

Hand clasps hand.
Where the waves and the moonbeams

Where the moonbeams stray, and the

Hovering mist.
Like beauty's robe of lace.
Half hides, half reveals, 'Twas a scene

Like this.





Hallowed by a dear face,
In the long ago. Oh the joy to know
'Twas my presence made the tender eyes glow,
While the whispering waves ebbed to and fro,
The tide rolling in apace.
Now, the tide roUs in with a lonely
The moonbeams brightly play.
To the heart that's true, a sweet rest
Is found.
In hope, from day to day.
And the brave will toil, and the

World is wide.
To the faint give help, whatever betide;
And we'll laugh and sing as we

Onward glide.
Where the waves and the moonbeams


Born: Brewster, Mass., Sept. 15, 1833.
Commencing to teach at the age of sixteen,
this lady three years later was married to a
prominent clergyman. The poems of Mrs.
Sawyer have appeared from time to time in
the Waverly Magazine, Country Gentleman,
and many other prominent publications.


A mother wandered with her babe

Along a rock-bound shore.
To watch the foamy crested waves

And hear the billows roar.
The mother, weary — soon sat down

Bidding her boy to play.
And tired, noticed not how he

Moved step by step away.
Led on by childish fancy free

The boy far from her strayed.
Till, close he neared the rocljy point

'Neath which the billows played ;
He heard them rolling at his feet.

And wondering, still moved on.
Till, kneeling down and bending o'er.

He saw the dashing foam.
A dizzy head or trembling step:

The boy must surely fall: —
The mother looks — her heart must burst,

She sees — she sees it all ! ! —
She eager starts to catch him up

But knows his childish way ;
She knows his little form will spring

As when with her at play.
I must not thus — she sadly thinks.

Then kneels upon the sand
And reaches forth a pebble bright

Upon her trembling hand :
The boy looks round, then shakes his curls

And turns again to hear

The foamy flood, that dashing fast.

Makes music to his ear.
Almost beside herself with fear,

Again she starts to save
Her boy before he plunges off

Into the boiling wave;
But still she stops — a mother's heart

Whispers a surer way:
And calmly now the mother sits

As though her boy did play.*
And quickly loosed the folding band

That laid her bosom bare.
And beckoned to her little one

To come and nestle there.
He looks, he smiles, forgets the flood.

Forgets the dashing tide;
Turns from it and in eager haste

Seeks his fond mother's side.
She softly clasps him to her breast.

And thanks her God above
That he is saved from dreadful death,-

Saved by a mother's love ;
Saved when all other arts had failed

To tempt his fancy wild.
Saved by that magic tie that binds

A mother to her child.

High up in Heaven, the foamy flakes

Of sunset-clouds are resting,
The rose-tint o'er them softly breaks

Their ragged edges cresting;
Here lies a strip of darkling blue,

Fringed with a soft pale yellow.
Close by a crimson shade is seen

Blending with each bright billow.
But see ! a purple light now glows,

Fading, but lovely still.
Replaced by gold and silver rays

That flash from hill to liill.
Low down beneath an orange shade

Of clouds more still and dai-k.
The sun is slowly sinking now

Of Heaven's sea — the bark;
For like an ocean broad, methinks

The tinted clouds are spread;
And through their billows bright, the sun

Each day his course hath sped.
But he has gone — and lo ! the clouds

That flitted o'er his way.
The blue, the gold, the orange shade

Have changed to sober gray.
'Tis thus with life — some brilliant sun

Our rough path crosses o'er.
But soon is gone, the ray is lent.

Then quivering, gleams no more.
Not in ourselves are all the shades

That make our sky so bright;
But like the clouds at sunset hour,

We shine with borrowed light.






Born: GiiANBy, Vt., Sept. 20, 1844.

The poems of Mr. JRice have appeared from
time to time in some of the leading publica-


tions of America. He is still engaged in jour-
nalistic work. Mr. Rice is now a resident of
the town of Scotts, N. H.



Strange vibrations seem to quiver

Like the bullet's old-time hiss,
And by northern mount and river

Stir the whisper — what is this?
Scarce a trace of battle clangor.

Or of hate to vanquished shown.
Lingers round the fearful murmur

Of this all-pervading tone.
Yet, as when to distant thunder

Moves some quiet, rock-bound lake.
Deep a nation's pulse tells ever

Of the strength that might awake.
We may all do well to listen

Ere this dread voice dies away.
Thus we may retain the lesson

Which the moments teach to-day.
Trifle not with what was written

On the battle's lurid sky!
O'er the fields by carnage smitten.

Truths are traced in living dye.

While the bells of peace are rung

By the soldier spirit brave,
Spurious love and peace are flung

Like the weeds on ocean wave.
Better toy in childish blindness

Where the wildest surges roar.
Than to think, by maudUn kindness

Smoke-cleared eyes are clouded o'er.

Part the dark grave's sombre shadow?

Swing its grass-grown curtain wide!
Let its sleeper speak a welcome;

For once more the loyal bride

Claims her station by his side !
What although her step grew feeble.

While he long has waited there
'Neath the wild flowers and the dewdrops

That were snowflakes in her hair —

For his presence makes her fair.
Smooth again the thin locks' silver —

His were dark as waves of night —
Let the worn ring brightly glisten.

Fold the bridal vesture white.

Bring the orange-blossoms bright!
Years unnumbered and unbroken

Here will come with noiseless tread;
In their circle all unending

Who shall care for those now fled

With their withered flow'rets dead?
Leave them now; place back the curtain;

Seek again the great world's strife;
While this silent home shall witness —

Ever less for death than life.

With its shut door — husband, wife.


The poems of Mr. Malloy have appeared quite
frequently in the Texas papers. He now fills
the position of emigrant agent at El Paso in
that state.

The arid sands of Egypt are

Ensanguined by the tide
Of blood that flows from English hearts.

To humble English pride;
The children of the desert rise.

Their prophet leads them on.
To smite the proud invading hosts

Of modern Babylon.

The music of the cataracts.

The Bedouin loves so well.
Sounds as a dirge in English ears.

Or toll of passing bell.
Khartoum, the city of their hopes.

The Arabs bravely hold.




And t)id defiance to the power

Of British arms and gold.
The banner of the holy war

EI Mahdi beai-s on hig-h,
■While scorn and anger fiercely gleam

From out his threatening eye.
Ne'er since the days when Saladin

His Saracens arrayed.
To meet the lion-hearted king.

And crush the great crusade,
Have Ishmael's sons had higher hopes,

Or dreamed more of that joy
That's promised to the faithful who

The Infidels destroy.
God bless the hand that strikes the blow

For holy human right,
And cursed be the power that rules

By force of brutal might.
And may the work that's now begun.

From day to day go on.
Till tyrants find beside the Nile

Another Marathon.


Born: Granby, Vt.
This lady received a good education. Her
poems have appeared in The Brattleboro'
Household and the leading papers of her na-
tive state. Very flattering notices of her
poems have been published, and she has be-
come known as the Essex County Poetess.


Where soft flows the river.

Just down by my door,
And the shining leaves quiver

Along its green shore,
I catch the bright shimmer

Of light through the leaves,
As the sunset's last glimmer

Falls on the still waves.
And all through the hush

Of the still moon-lit hour,
The river's soft rush

Sounds with magical power;
While the bright watching stars,—

Night's radiant crown —
To its clear, sparkling depths.

Sank lovingly down.
When the Sun-god's brightest ray

Flames down on its banks.
At the noon of the day

Like a murmur of thanks,
I hear the glad voice

Of its musical flow.
As it seems to rejoice

In the bright summer glow.
Though winter may bind it

In his stiU icy chain.

In the springtime I find it

The same friend again;
And I love it the more.

And lonely am never.
While down by my door.

Flows the bright sparkUng river.


Born: Salem, N. J., Feb. 10, 1827.
Mr. Sixxickson is a printer by trade, but has
followed the profession of journalism from an
early age. He has contributed to the leading
periodicals of America, from which they have
been extensively copied by the local press.


Bright little message of love!

Speed on thy way.
And cheer the weary hearts of those

In sorrow's fold.

Thy tiny mold
Doth concentrated power inclose.

Which even may
The weight of Sorrow's mountain move.

He said he'd traveled east and west.

Both continents all over;
But liked his native land the best.

Where springs the Jersey clover.
I asked him if he was the " swell "

I'd met with in Vienna;
He said that I might go to — well,

Tliey call it now Gehenna.

What shall I write
For her to-night? —

Though young, she's far advanced:
Shall it like wine.
With richness shine,

Its worth by age enhanced?
Now let me see —
What shall it be?

Methinks I see her laugh.
As she replies
With sparkling eyes.

Why, write your autograph.


Four horses (powers) of prophecy.
On national highways.
May now attract attention.
In these, the "latter days,"
The white horse first presenteth.
To approach the kingdom's gates:
Its rider is Caucasian —
Its name, United States.

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 50 of 138)