Thomas William Herringshaw.

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

. (page 57 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 57 of 138)
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literature of the day, and gave promise of be-
coming noted among- men and women of let-
ters. At the meeting- of the Semicolon Club in
Cincinnati, she first became conscious of the
power she could wield with her pen; ands^aort-
ly after her mari'iage published Mayflower.
In 1853 Mrs. Stowe took up her residence at
Andover, and soon after went abroad to i-ecu-
perate her exhausted strength. Her visit was
one continuous ovation* and a year later, she
gave to the public her Sunny Memories of For-
eign Lands. Subsequently she wrote Dred: a
Tale of the Dismal Swamp, The Minister's "Woo-
ing, Agnes of Sorrento, and several novels of
quite domestic Interest. This gifted woman
has produced poetry, some of which has been
published. It is chiefly religious and pathetic
in chai'acter.



SIMON THE CYRENIAN.
But lo! a crowd:— he stops,— -with curious eye
A fainting form all pressed to earth he sees;
The hard, rough burden of the bitter cross
Hath bowed the drooping head and feeble
knees.
Ho ! lay the cross upon yon stranger there,
For he hath breadth of chest and strength of
limb!
Straight it is done; and hea-vy-laden thus.
With Jesus' cross, he turns and follows him.

Unmurmuring, patient, cheerful, pitiful.
Prompt with the holy sufferer to endure.

Forsaking all to follow the dear Lord,
Thus did he make his glorious caUing sure.



THE OTHER WORLD.
It lies around us like a cloud,

A world we do not see ;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye

May bring us thei-e to be.
Its gentle breezes fan our cheek :

Amid our worldly cares.
Its gentle voice doth whisper love,

And mingle with our prayers.
Sweet hearts around us throb and beat.

Sweet helping hands are stirred.
And palpitates the veil between

With breathing- almost heard.
The silence, awful, sweet, and calm.

They have no power to break ;
For mortal words are not for them

To utter or to partake.
So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide.

So near to press they seem.
Thy lull us gently to our rest.

They melt into our dream.
And in the hush of rest they bring

'Tis easy now to see
How lovely and how sweet a pass

The hour of death may be; —
To close the eye, and close the ear.

Wrapped in a trance of bliss.
And, gently drawn in loving- arms.

To swoon to that — from this, —
Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep.

Scarce asking where we are,
To feel an evil sink away.

All sorrow and ail care.
Sweet sou;s around us! watch us still !

Press nearer to our side;
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,

With gentle helpings glide!
Let death between us be as naught,

A dried and vanished stream ;
Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering hfe the dream.



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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

Born: Portsmouth, N. H., Nov. 11, 1836.
The early youth of this poet was spent in
Louisiana. At the death of his father he entered
the counting-room of his uncle in New York,
where he remained three years. During this
time he began to contribute prose and verse
to various journals. His Ballad of Babie Bell
won universal favor, and other successes fol-
lowed. Ever since he has been engaged in
literary work, and his poems and prose writ-
ings are read throughout Europe and America.



PRESCIENCE.

The new moon hung in the sky, the sun was
low in the west.

And my betrothed and I in the churchyard
paused to rest —

Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old
dream over;

The light winds wandered by, and robins chirp-
ed from the nest.

And lo! in the meadow sweet was the grave of

a little child.
With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy

running wild —
Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and

over:
Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little

mound up-piled.

Stricken with nameless fears she shrank and
clung to me.

And her eyes were filled with tears for a sor-
row I did not see :

Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her
tears were flowing —

Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that
was to be!



SI-



GN LYNN TERRACE.
All day to watch the blue wave curl and break.

All night to hear it plunging on the shore-
In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,

I cannot ask for more.

Behind me lie the idle life and vain.
The task unfinished and the weary hours;

That long wave bears me softly back to Spain
And the Alhambra's towers !

All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here.
High on the windy terrace, day by daj' ;

And mine the children's laughter, sweet and
clear.
Ringing across the bay.

For me the clouds: the ships sail by for me;
For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;



And mine the tender moonrise on the sea.
And hollow coves of night!



IDENTITY.

Somewhere, — in desolate, wind-swept space,
In Twilight-land, in No-man's-land,—

Two hurrying shapes met face to face.
And bade each other stand.

" And who are you? " cried one, agape,
Shuddering in the glooming light.

" I do not know," said the second Shape,
" I only died last night! "



SLEEP.

When to soft sleep we give ourselves away.
And in a dream as in a fairy bark
Drift on and on thi'ough the enchanted dark

To rosy daybreak — little thought we pay

To that sweet bitter world we kno^- bj- day.
We are clean quit of it, as is a lark
So high in heaven no human eye may mark

The sharp swift pinion cleaving through the
gray.

Till we awake, ill fate can do no ill.
The resting heart shall not take up again
The heavy load that j-et must make it bleed:

For this brief space, the loud world's voice is
still.
No faintest echo of it brings us pain.
How will it be when we shall sleep indeed?



UNSUNG



As sweet as the breath that goes
From the lips of the white rose.
As weird as the elfin lights
That glimmer of frosty nights.
As wild as the winds that tear
The curled red leaf in the air.
Is the song I have never sung.

In slumber, a hundred times

I've said she enchanted rhymes,

But ere I open my eyes

This ghost cf a poem flies;

Of the interfluent strains

Not even a note remains :

I know by my pulses' beat

It was something wild and sweet,

And my heart is strangely stirred

By an unremembered word.

I strive, but I strive in vain.
To recall the lost refrain.
On some miraculous day
Perhaps it will come and stay;
In some unimagined Spring
I may find my voice, and sing
The song- 1 have never sung.







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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



419



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RICHARD P. KEPLINGER.

Born: Waverly, III., April 22, 1856.
This writer is well known as The Poet of the
Plains. After receiving a thorough educa-
tion, he began teaching school in 1878. In 1885
here moved to Kansas, where he took a special
course in the Kansas Central Normal College,




RICHARD PRESTON KEPLINGER.

and he is again working in the field of educa-
tion. His poems have appeared constantly in
the local press for the past few years. Mr.
Keplinger is now residing with his family in
his native town.



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EULOGY ON WOMAN.
From Genesis, chapter one,
I draw this true conclusion:
The Author of creation
Created by progression.
After creating the earth,
He gave day and night their birth ;
And following after these,
He divided land and seas;
And afterward, at a word
He made the grass, flowers and herb;
Then the sun to rule the day.
In his dailj' course and way.
Next he made the moon so bright.
And the stars to rule the night.
Of creatures created He
First the flsh within the sea;



And next the fowl of the air

And bird of paradise fair.

Then, the beast to till our grain,

The cattle on hill and plain ;

Next man in his own likeness.

But lacking in politeness.

Last fairest and purest, too.

Woman, God created you.

Yes, woman, you've become the capstone

And crown of God's AUwise creation.

For, after creating all the rest.

He then made woman, though last, the best.

Woman is man's fair benefactor —

Although he's oft her malefactor.

For by your loving, angelic ways

His drooping spirits you cheer and raise.

Woman's presence makes man more polite.

Her loving smiles chase away his night.

In fact, like an angel from above.

She is man's fair message of love.

She's the magnet of influence, too.

With her loving heart so kind and true.

And she's the compass and guiding star

That beckons man toward the "Gates Ajar."

'Tis woman's counsel and loving rule [school

That molds great minds in the home and

Your worth consists not in these alone.
Woman's most angelic sway 's at home—
The citadel of earth's paradise —
Where alas! you too oft sacrifice
Your talents and life for those you love,—
Your most constant devotion to prove.
Woman's jealous nature doth but prove
Her fitness to be loved and to love.
'Tis a universal admission
She excels man in intuition ;
And more power for good in woman lies
Than iu the press, pen, or statesman wise.

Of all earth's gifts, sure there's no other
Dearer than sister, wife and mother.
Fair personage of human neatness.
Purest type of angelic sweetness.
Type of beauty and chaste demeanor,
And mother of the world's Redeemer.



GEMS.
Let him who cannot wield the poet's pen.

Remember there is a grace far more sweet,—
Though alas more rare in women and men,-

'Tis that priceless gift of being discreet.
When you number the drops in ocean blue,

Or e'en the stars of heaven above,
Then, but not till then, I'll define for you,
That purest emotion that men call love.
Of all the agents that beckon the soul above
The most potent are music, poetry and love.
Of all the dear names to men in life,
Tlie dearest are mother, lover, wife.



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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



JOHN AVILSON JASPER.

BORX: Bethel, C, March 20, 186T.
Since his youth, Mr. Jasper has followed the
occupation of railroad telegraph operator.
He has written poetry more as a recreation




JOHN WILSON JASPER.

than anything- else. His verses have often
appeared in the local press. Mr. Jasper is
now a resident of Marshall, Texas.



ASPIRATION.
O for a time, and place to fit each part.

Of complex nature, to its next removed;
Discovering thus, the li^-ing natural art,

Of nature proving, by all nature proved :
A secret see in every leaf that grows ;

Solution find in every separate flower;
The whole a secret, which the All disclose.

Always light upon liglit, power upon power.



PLEASURE.
A moonlit river, glassy and serene ;

A clear, star-spangled sky a-hanging- o'er ;
A boat, smooth-rown among the rushes green,
A pleasure-loving party, loving party num-
bering four.
A brooding night, faint stirred by whispering
lireeze,
By gurgling waters, oared in eddying whirls.
By laughter bhthe, and pleasant railleries.
Of shouting, whistling boys and singing
girls.



O happy time, and fair associates I
O tranquil river, silent cove, and shoi-e !

Too short the fleeting hour which indicates
Our e'er to be remembered evening o'er.



THE PARTING.
I have parted from one most dearly loved;
And when the hour of separation came,
I felt her grief-pale face against my own ;
Her deep-distilled tears upon my cheeli.
Stern duty bade us part. Though wayward, 1
Must her pure prayer repeat, that heaven

should bless.
And join our souls: Could any man do less?



JOY AND SORROW.
The truest happiness is when the eye.

Unswerving image of the soul.
Can bravely face the world; Or when a sigh

Is passed at joy; a smile at woe.
The truest type of grief, is but to part
The highest realm of real, from hollow art.
And soar grief-high upon pure misery;
Thy grief a joy; and joy wiU comfort thee.



JOHN R. HANCOCK.

Born: Monroe Co., Ky., Feb. 11, 1868.
Since an early age the poems of Mr. Hancock
have appeared in the local press. He is now
the editor of the Post.pubUshed at Li^-ingston,
Ky., where he resides.



THE DRUMMER AND HIS GRIP.

Though the rain and sleet are falling

And the roads are awful muddy.
Though all men hard times are bawling.

Though a fellow's nose gets ruddy;
Though the rivers may be frozen

And the frost may bite and nip.
They can never stop the advent

Of the Drummer and his grip.

Oh. he teaches us a lesson

With his energy and grip.
Things that " Paralyze " people

Don't astonish him a bit ;
And he is ever bright and cheerful

And a smile is on his lip.
He is a daisy from a-way back,

Is the Drummer and his g-rip.

Give him a kind word always,

He'll give you back the same.
For the doings of some .'black sheep "

Don't give the whole tribe blame.
For down, clear down to Hades

Some so-called good men slip.
While along- the road to heaven

Goes the Drummer and bis grip.



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LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA.



421



CLARENCE A. SHALER.

Born: Mackford, Wis., May 39, 1860.
After receiving a good education he returned
to his father's farm. On the death of his
father in 1883, the care of the farm, some six
hundred acres, devolved upon the subject of
this sketch. Since that time Mr. Shaler ha=:




CLARENCE A. SHALER.

invented several labor-saving machines, two
of which have been patented. He has become
quite skillful with brush and pencil, and dur-
ing the long winter evenings he devotes him-
self to the muses. For the past fifteen years
his poems have received publication.



THE MUSIC OF THE WAVES.

I lay dreaming, my soul filled with music.
Like a shell that is cast in the depths of the

sea ; _ [bers

And over the chords of my feeling sweet num-
Were trembling in light and subdued hai -

monj-.
Oh, was it the waves that were lonely thus

sighing.
If so, could I dwell in the depths of the sea,
Where my soul to their music forever could

listen, [rest unto me.

And their beatings would bring their sweet
They were strains only such as the soul can

remember, [ing ear.

Those chords that were played to my slumber-



m-



For no hands that are mortal could wake with

each murmur
A thrill of glad joy, and a heart-rending tear.
They were tones that awake the soul to new

beauties, [cold ear;

They were tones played too fine for a mortal's
I slept on as a man, yet my dreams were of

angels, [near.

And I felt that their heavenly presence was
Oh, will they come back, those numbers not

mortal.
Or will they be ever again breathed to me.
Those strains that I heard like soft music

from heaven.
As I lay in deep slumber beside of the sea.

THE BROKEN HAKP.

Ah, silent is the harp to-night,

Its strings are all unstrung;

Oh let us weep for her that died

In that she died so young.

For evermore its golden throat

Is dumb to mortal ears.

For oh ! we heard each breaking string,

Ring though tne moisture of our tears.

The harmony of former days

Around them still doth cling.

But never more will tremble o'er

Each light and airy string.

Ah, silent is the harp to-night,

'T has lost the master's will;

And shall those sweet tones be forgot —

Those lips that now are still.

Her spirit was a lovely sound

That dwelt around a string.

And when that sweet sound died away.

Her soul had taken wing

And wafted her to skies beyond.

Where she again shall reign.

And there has strung her harp anew

Unto a sweeter strain.

Ah, shall we chant for her a song.

An anthem o'er the dead,

When her bright soul has flown before,

L'pon the strains she led.

Ah, nevermore, but let us weep

Over the broken l5-re.

And listen for those heavenly strains

Lit by celestial fire.



COME TO ME ANNA!

EXTRACT.

Yes, Anna come, and lay your white

Arm 'round my neck, as oft of yore,

Mj' gloomy fancies will take flight.

And the whole world look brighter than it

has before;
'Tis joy to feel that there is one,
Adown beside life's pathway waits.
Will weep when my short race is run
And softly close life's glimmering gates.



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LOCAL AND NATIO^rAL POETS OF AMERICA.



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MRS. MATTIE E. W. BRIGGS.

Born: Maple Park, III., May 19, 1858.
The poems of Mrs. Briggs have appeared
quite extensively in the local press. She has




JIKS. MATTIE E. W. BRIGGS.

lived at different times in many of the west-
ern states, and is now located at Franklin,
Nehraska.



*



MY DEAR FATHER.
Father dear father is gone, but I remain.
To work awhile in sorrow and pain.
But God knows and sends what is best,
Though oft I tire of life and long for rest.
I'll work on, the redeemed I soon shall see,
For this I know that "Jesus loves even me."
Although father is lying in his grave so low,
The sun does not seem to lessen its glow ;
And the world moves on,— each clan.
The same as if father were here to plan.
But oh, is it true, that on his breast
His weary hands in death are at rest ?
On life's tempestuous sea we are sailing.
Some in mirth, others in sorrow are wailing.
The lightnings flash, the thunders may roar.
Trusting in God our bark will safely glide
o'er;
The nights may be di'eary; the days seem

long.
But by and by we will sing that new song.
You ask me whj- 1 mourn and weep
While father in silence so sweetly doth sleep;



I answer this mourning is not to complain,
And I can assure you, will not be in vain.
While onward we go, in life's toiling way
We look beyond the clouds to that perfect

day.
In my dreams I often see my loved ones yet.
And those precious moments I ne'er can for-
get.
We are •' Gathering homeward one by one,"
May we meet again when life's journey is
done ;
We'll "Look away to Jesus" he reigns in

Heaven-
He is the dear son whom God has given.
And now dear father I bid you a brief adieu.
In this world I no more can see you.
But mother dear, brothers and sisters and I,
Will wait till the Lord calls us on high.
Though the family tree has been rent in twain,
May we meet in that land that is free from
pain.



C. W. ALEXANDER.

Born : Nodaway Co., Mo., May 12, 1867.
Moving to Carbondale, Col., in 1886, Charles
and his father there started in business, and
are still running a store. Until recently Mr.
Alexander had a telegraph office in the store.
He has been local correspondent and has writ-
ten up the countrj- in general for the Denver
Republican, News, Times and other papers.
Several of the poems of Mr. Alexander have
been widely published.



I AM THE SON OF A YET.
Of all the boys that walk the globe

That ever with me met.
The one I prize the highest is

The true son of a vet.
He has a noble heritage,

Of which but few can boast;
Although I love most all my chums.

'Tis true I love him most.
I love to sit and chat with him

About our fathers' deeds.
Of how they bravely fought the rob

Among the corn and weeds ;
And how they toiled from morn till night

With blouses soaking wet.
And of the grandest name on earth —

A late rebellion vet.
Just now I'm only in my youth.

There's matrimony yet ;
Be sure that girl will have to be

The daughter of a vet.
Before I'd marry otherwise

I'd splice with cousin Net,
And if she'd jilt me then I'd be

The lone son of a vet.







LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



423







ALLEN DORMAN.

BORN: Field's Creek, Mo., Sep. 9, 1857.
This rising- young- poet has -svritten both prose
and verse for the local press since 1875, and
has a collection of over five hundred poems
wliich he hopes to publish in book-form at an
early date. Allen has lived all his life on a




ALLEN I)()1;M v\

farm near Clinton, Missouri, where he still re-
sides. The poems of Mr. Dorman have ap-
peared in some of the leading publications of
America, from -vvhich thej' have been exten-
sively copied by the local press. We predict
for this young litterateur a bright future.



GREAT MEN.

Great men are bright and shining lights.

They help tht woi'ld to shine.
And luminate the firmament

Of turmoil and of time;
And when the clouds of darkness spread

O'er every plain and hill.
And when the foe oppress them most

They shine the brighter still.
Great men, we know them by their deeds.

And see their actions bright;
They rule and sway the hearts of men.

For they are gems of light.
So let us all determ'd to be.

As all great persons should.
And honor merit in great men.

The worthy and the good.



HENRY KIRKE -^'HITE.

The bright gems aud the worthy.

The jewels of the earth.
Are with the human sacred

Of real gest and worth ;
The diamonds of the human,

In merit pure and fine,
The highest and the rarest

Of mortal most divine.

And thus it was with Henry,

Divine that he shall live,
A gem for earth and heaven.

The purest earth could give ;
A light of hope and glory,

A lonely star to shine
In this great world of darkness,

For ages and for time.



GIVE ME LOVE.

Give me love —pure sacred love,—
With all its hopes and pleasure.

Sweet maiden's love and heaven's love
Are man's best gift aud treasure.

Oh, when I die, pray let me die
The death of lovers sighing ;

The death of love, pure happy love,
A thousand years a-dying.



LIFT THE FALLEN.
Go help your fallen brothers.

And help them like a man ;
Go cheer them with your presence,

Go lend a helping hand.

In helping- fallen brothers,

The Lord will surely see
And give the heart due credit

Out in eternity.



HOMER.
Homer, Homer, epic Homer,

Distant far away.
Like a lonely star of glory.

Stationed there to stay ;
Shining lonely in its distance.

With a lucid hue.
Tinted with a diamond lustre.

Ever beaming new.

Yes, a name of ancient glory.

Real far away.
Bearing us much light and story

Of his ancient day;
Thus the great men of the present

Will in future be,
Distant like the ancient Homer

Is with you and me.



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LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF A3IJERICA.



EVENING SHADES.


Beauty charms and beauty praises;


The evening- shades how still they grow,


Beauty hides the art of sin.


And hasten in their length,


With the shroud of its discretion


Until the glorious sun is set


Fastens what it gets within.


In all his might and strength.


Beauty serves a noble purpose;


The evening shades, how oft they come.


God is beauty and divine ;


At close of sunny days,


And we all should claim it ever.


And tho' their scenes are sometimes sad,


Let our deeds with beauty shine.


May have their mirth and praise.


Beauty sweet is fascinating;


Tis sweet to watch the evening shades


Fancied colors Ught and gay


The little shadows move;


Charms the heart till it is blinded.


The little lessons that they teach.


And he's rich who feels that way.


Tet mighty problems prove.
And as the shades of evening come.




MOTHER IS DEAD.


Will come the shades of time,




And hearts will vanish in the darii.


Oh, Loi-d, my God, my Savior,


That have no lights to shine.


My heart is filled with pain:




My mother, 0, my mother,


AT EARLY MORN.


I ne'er shall see again;




In death she sweetly slumbers.


How brig-ht the morn is dawning.


I ne'er shall see her more —


And opening into day.


Her face, her form, and features, —


And melting thoughts of sadness.
And driving them away.


Or pleasant smiles she wore.


It is indeed delightful,


With her, bright hopes have perished.


To see the rising sun


Bright hopes within my breast.


Shed forth his rays of gladness


Yet one that I must cherish,


Around for every one.


Is that she's with the blest.


We feel it is a blessing.


We hope to meet thee, mother.
On heaven's far-off shore;


The sun alone can give.


Yes meet and greet thee mother.


That we so much enjoy.


Where we shall part no more.


So frequent while we live;




And as our sun that rises




And opens into morn.


HENRY CLAY.


The sun of life eternal


The great men and the useful men,


Will likewise truly dawn.


The worthy and the true.
We love to praise and imitate




NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.


In much thej" say and do.


Of all great men who ever lived


Yes, great names, and the cherished names


In this great world of ours.


That glow in history bright,


There's none that's swayed more human


They shine like lone and stationed stars.


hearts.


Or burning suns of light.


In conquest with earth's powers.


They help the world, they bless the world.


He awed the world with monarch force.


In all their might and main;


More dreadful than a flood


Their lives and deeds are shining lights.


Was cannon fright along his trail


Of what we should attain.


That flowed with human blood.


Oh to the hearts that rule the world.


Oh shall who fought to check his march,


By worthy deeds and ways.


Still hope for victory;


We owe a debt of gratitude,


Or shall their wounds go unrevenged



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 57 of 138)