Class. [ oil_ Book ,33ft Jfe Copyright N° . COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THE POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO EDITED BY JAMES N. JO-HNSTON BUFFALO, NEW YORK MCMIV LIBRARY of CONGRESS TWo Oootes Received SEP (9 1904 WrtErrfry XXo. No. 3 CLASS T6 r*l Copyright, 1904, by JAMES N. JOHNSTON 1 ~* this book is dedicated to the Buffalo Historical Society, AS A SLIGHT CONTRIBUTION TO ONE IMPORTANT PART OP THE LOCAL HISTORY WHICH IT LABORS TO PRESERVE. PREFACE An anthology of Buffalo verse has long been talked of and much of the plentiful material for such a collection has been hitherto pointed out. The late David Gray, in articles written for his journal, The Buffalo Courier, referred to some of the poets of his time. Mr. Frank H. Severance, while editor of The Buffalo Sunday Express, gave considerable attention to our local poets, and in a paper on "The Authors of Buffalo," contributed by him to the publications of The Buffalo Histori- cal Society, named a number of our writers of verse. Papers at different times have been read before our local literary societies on the poets of Buffalo. Mr. Charles Wells Moulton, in his Maga- zine of Poetry, especially in what he named The Buffalo Number, gave a selection of poems from Buffalo authors. All these helped to stimulate in many minds a desire to see more from the writings of our local poets brought together in one repre- sentative book. It has not been difficult for my friends to per- suade me to undertake the gratifying of that desire; for I have watched the flowering of this native verse with a very warm interest from the early years of my life in Buffalo, when I began acquaintance with men and women in the older circles of those to whom poetry is a delight. About half a century ago my mother, the late Jane Nichol Johnston, began a scrap-book hoard- ing of poems which pleased her, including such local verse, from newspaper print, as she and I thought worthy of preservation. These scrap books, some of them now falling in pieces, have made the nucleus and the principal source of the present collection. Other sources have been opened to me by Mr. Henry R. Howland, Miss Phoebe Vail Salisbury and Miss Marietta Salisbury, Mr. Charles D. Marshall, Mr. John McManus, Mr. George Alfred Stringer, and others. I have been diligent, too, in gleaning from the files of the city press, especially from such literary periodicals as, now and then, have had a brief existence here. Authors, or their living representatives, have given cordial assistance to my work, and publishers who own copyright in many of the poems chosen have been generous in permitting them to be used. Due acknowledgment of the latter courtesy is made in another place. In forming the collection my greatest difficul- ties have arisen from the abundance of the mate- rial at command. I have found it far beyond my expectation. It surprises one to find how many volumes of verse, public and private, by poets con- nected in some way with Buffalo, have been put into print. Certainly the number exceeds two score. As David Gray once remarked, our poets begin in the newspapers, then appear in the maga- zines, and end often by publishing a book. Con- sidering that, three or four generations ago, the ancestors of two-thirds of our present population did not speak our English tongue, and that we are a commercial and manufacturing community, en- gaged strenuously in material enterprises, we may feel some reasonable pride in the field of poetry from which these gleanings are made. I have aimed to make my selection representa- tive in a comprehensive way ; not limited to a few of our foremost poets, but extended to less ambi- tious verse, where it has a merit of its own, or where it is significant of the taste and culture of former times. The poems of the Honorable Jesse Walker, going back into the thirties, have a pecu- liar value aside from being the first book of printed Buffalo poetry coming under my notice. I have taken some poems because of their historical or personal associations, and a few — which include a small number of my own pieces — at the request of friends. This may be deemed excusable in a book not prepared for general public sale, nor for any pecuniary profit to the editor. Many of the writers represented in the book were or are my personal friends, and it has been a labor of love to bring their work together in a single volume. The proportion of space allotted to the writers severally is not to betaken always as the measure, in my judgment, of the value of their verse. His- torical and other considerations have entered into the apportionment of space. Nor must it be sup- posed that writers omitted are thought to be unworthy of a place in the book. A few whom I intended to reach, but did not, have written poems that are superior to some that are here. xi My thanks are due to the many who have assisted me in this work ; primarily to those who encouraged and aided its publication, — to Mrs. John C. Glenny, whose fine taste has added beauty to the book, and above all to my mother, Jane Nichol Johnston, whose aid in the selection and preservation of our local poetry made it possible for me to undertake the present collection. J. N. J. All rights in poems in this collection are reserved by the holders of the copyright. The publishers, authors, and others in the following list have given permission to use the poems named therein, for which the editor would make courteous acknowledgment : To ADVANCE PUBLISHING CO., CHICAGO, ILL. For " Her Face," by Bessie Chandler. To AINSLEE'S MAGAZINE, NEW YORK. For "A Garden in Greece," "Cameraderie," by Charlotte Becker. To HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON, MASS. For "Recompense," "An After Thought," "Dandelion," "Love in May," " At Sunset," by Annie R. Annan ; " Murillo's Immaculate Conception," by David Gray; " The Marguerite, " "A Last Word," by Augustus R. Grote. To R. G. BADGER & CO., BOSTON, MASS. For "Obscurities," "Keats," by Philip Becker Goetz. To CATHOLIC WORLD MAGAZINE CO. For " Night and Peace," by Blanche B. Wade. To THE CENTURY COMPANY, NEW YORK. For "Terra Incognita," by George Hibbard ; "Snow Born," by Henry R. Howland ; " Rydal Water," " Maidenhood," by Annie R. Annan ; "At First," by Amanda T. Jones; "The Tapestry Weaver," by Anson G. Chester; "The Last Council," by David Gray; "Dora's Eyes," by Irv- ing S. Underhill ; "The Highwayman," by Allen Oilman Bigelow ; "The Wood Nymph," by Helen Thayer Hutcheson ; "The City of Light," " The Comfort of the Trees," by Richard Watson Gilder. To WILLIAM C. CORNWELL, BUFFALO, N. Y. For "A Night of Winds, A Night of Clouds," by Annie R. Annan. To THE CRITIC COMPANY, NEW YORK. For "A Poet's Apotheosis," "Crossing the Meadow," "A Song Sparrow," by Walter Storrs Bigelow ; "Alfonso," by Effle Dunreith Gluck. To FIELD AND STREAM. For " A Child of the Woods," by Charlotte Becker. To HARPER'S BAZAR. For " The Awakening," by Emily Howland Leeming. To HARPER'S MAGAZINE. For "The Cost," by Charlotte Becker. To GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. For "Love Stands and Waits," by Emily Howland Leeming; "Song," " Prescience," by Rose Mills Powers. To THE INDEPENDENT, NEW YORK. For " Gethsemane," by Minnie Ferris Hauenstein. To AMANDA T. JONES. For "Shipwrecked," by Amanda T. Jones. To P. J. KENEDY. For "The Launch of the Griffin," "My Irish Wife," by Thomas D'Arcy McGee. xiii To LESLIE'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE. For " The Soldier's Mother," by Amanda T. Jones; "What do Shepherds Think?" by Blanche E. Wade. To LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY. For "A Long Drawn Sigh," "To Him, to Her," by Irving S. Underbill ; "The Last Lover," by James S. Metcalfe. To THE LITERARY WORLD. For " The Life Natural," by Jessie Storrs Ferris. To A. C. McCLURG & CO., CHICAGO, ILL. For "Father," from "A Prairie Idyl," by Amanda T. Jones. To CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, BUFFALO, N. Y. For poems from "Magazine of Poetry." To FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY, NEW YORK. For " A Street Song," by Charlotte Becker ; " The Summer Noon," by Blanche B. Wade. To NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE. For "Delight Rose," by Henry R. Howland. To FREDERICK PETERSON. For poems from " In the Shade of Ygdrasil." To PUCK. For "The Beautiful Trio," by Irving S. Underhill. To G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS. For extracts from "Risifl's Daughter," "Sunrise from the Mountains," "Through the Trees," "The Nightingale," "Premonitions," by Anna Katharine Green. To ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS. For selections from "The Wind in the Clearing " and from " For the King." To SATURDAY EVENING POST, PHILADELPHIA. For "Envoy," "Sympathy," by Charlotte Becker. To CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK. For "On A Head of Christ," by Bessie Chandler Parker; "Good Night," by Marrion Wilcox. To THE SMART SET. For "The Reckoning," " Arden," by Charlotte Backer. To MRS. JULIA M. THAYER. For "The Recluse," "The Unwelcome Guest," by Helen Thayer Hutcheson. To TOWN AND COUNTRY, NEW YORK. For " Pierrot," by Charlotte Becker. To FREDERICK A. STOKES & COMPANY, NEW YORK. For "A Picture of Millais," Published in "Vol. H. of "The Life and Letters of MilJais," by Edith Eaton Cutter. To THE YOUNG CHURCHMAN COMPANY, MILWAUKEE, WIS. Selections from the works of the Rt. Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe. Also the editor would express his obligations to all authors included in this collection, or their legal representatives, for copyright poems, or those not copyrighted, whether published in books, otherwise printed, or hitherto unpublished. xiv INDEX OF AUTHORS Adam, Thekla, Albertson, Rev. Charles Carroll, Almy, Frederic, Annan, Annie R. (Mrs. William H. Glenny), Annan, J. V. W., Arey, Mrs. H. E. G., Austin, Arthur W., . Austin, Mary Evelyn, Balfour, Grace, Barker, James W., Becker, Charlotte, Bigelow, Allen Gilman, Bigelow, Walter Storrs, Browne, Irving, Burroughs, Ellen. (See Jewett, Sophie.) Burtis, Mary E., Burwell, Dr. Bryant, Chandler, Bessie ( Mrs. LeRoy Parker ), Chester, Anson G. Christy, Edward, Conway, Katherine E., Coxe, Rt. Rev. A. Cleveland, . Cronin, Rev. Patrick, Cutter, Edith Eaton, Davenport, Esther C, Ditto, Mrs. John A. ( See McKenna Dixon, Master, Dowling, Jane F. ( Mrs. Robert B. Foote ), Emerson, Agnes D., . Fernald, Hannah G., Ferris, Ellen M., Ferris, Jessie Storrs, . Foote, Mrs. Robert B. ( See Dowling, Jane F Fulton, Linda de K., Gilder, Richard Watson, . Gildersleeve, Rachel Buchanan, ( Mrs. Gildersleeve street), Margaret.) 434 375 270-273 166-180 112 . 34-42 212-217 267-269 241 226-228 422-428 256-260 360, 361 246-255 218, 219 13 341-344 . 66-77 . 15,16 280-285 203-211 293-299 406-408 236-238 1, 2 435 43, 44 402 242-245 403-405 220, 221 429, 430 Long- . 45-48 INDEX OF AUTHOES Glenny, Aline, 431 Glenny, Mrs. William H. (See Annan, Annie R.) . Gluck, Effie Dunreith ( Mrs. James Fraser Gluck ), . 235 Goetz, Philip Becker, 438-440 Gray, David, 152-165 Gray, David, Jr 395-398 Green, Anna Katharine (Mrs. Charles Rohlfs), . 196-202 Grote, Augustus Radcliffe, .130 Hadley, Clara A 127-129 Hartzell, Rev. J. Hazard, 115-119 Haueustein, Minnie Ferris, 277-279 Hibbard, George, 318 Hosmer, James Kendall, 109-111 Hosmer, W. H. C, 239, 240 Howard, Emily M., 393,394 Howland, Henry R., 337-340 Hubbell, Mark S., 355-359 Hutcheson, Helen Thayer, 380-384 Jewett, Sophie (Ellen Burroughs), . . . . 366-369 Johnston, James N., 144-151 Jones, Amanda T., 93-106 Kellar, Elizabeth 107-108 Kendall, Ada Davenport 326-328 Keyes, WillardE., 377 King, S. Cecilia Cotter (Mrs. Wm. A. King), . . 436, 437 Kittinger, M. J 224,225 Larkin, Frances Hubbard 391, 392 Lamed, Anne Murray, . * 410, 411 Leeming, Emily Howland, 415-417 Letch worth, Josiah : 222, 223 Letchworth, Sarah Evans, 414 Longstreet, Mrs. Gildersleeve. ( See Gildersleeve, Rachel Buchanan.) Lord, Emily Bryant, 55 Lord, Rev. John C, D. D., 49-54 Loton, Jabez, 120-124 MacColl, Mary J., 274-276 MacManus, Theodore Francis, 370-374 McGee, Thomas D'Arcy, ' 20-25 xvi INDEX OF AUTHORS Mcintosh, William, McKenna, Margaret (Mrs. John A. Ditto), Mahany, Rowland B., Marshall, Charles D., Martin, Charlotte Rosalys, Metcalfe, James S., . Mills, J. Harrison, Mixer, Mary E., Montgomery, Carrie Judd, Nichols, Walter Clark, O'Connor, Joseph, Olmsted, Mrs. Elizabeth M. , Parke, Charles S., Parker, Mrs. LeRoy. ( See Chandler Peterson, Dr. Frederick, . Powers, Rose Mills, . Ripley, Mary A Roberts, Caroline Mischka, Robinson, Grant P., . Rogers, Robert Cameron, Rohlfs, Mrs. Charles. (See Green, Salisbury, Guy H., . Severance, Frank H., Shalloe, Agnes, Shea, John Charles, . Sprague, Carleton, Stillson, Jerome B., . Stuart, Matilda H., . Thompson, Mary Norton, Tracy, A., Underhill, Irving S., Van Fredenberg, Henry A. , Wade, Blanche Elizabeth, Wade, Elizabeth Flint, Walker, Honorable Jesse, Wentworth, David, . Wilcox, Marrion, Wright, William B., Young, Julia Ditto, . Bessie.) Anna Katharine.) 286-292 14 345-348 . 86-92 376 441 . 78-83 125-126 319-325 378-379 229-234 132-135 307, 308 309-317 412, 413 136-143 432, 433 113, 114 445-462 . 26-33 300-306 362-365 261-266 442,443 . 84,85 . 58-65 131 . 17-19 399^01 329-336 388-390 385-387 3-12 . 56, 57 418-421 181-195 349-354 MASTER DIXON MASTER DIXON* A NEW SONG Composed in Commemoration of the Completion of the Grand Erie Canal. Ye brethren dear, who now unite In this grand scene of pure delight, We now have reached the glorious height, The level of Lake Erie. The waters of the east and west, The Hudson, Mohawk, and the rest, In sweet communion now are blest ; They mingle with Lake Erie. This day we all rejoice to meet ; The glorious work is now complete, The mountain's levelled at our feet,— Is levelled with Lake Erie. Accomplished is the grand design, The work of Level, Square and Line ; ! Masonry, the art was thine, To triumph o'er Lake Erie. Where is the nation that can show Such streams as through our mountains flow To the Atlantic, far below The level of Lake Erie? * This song was printed in the form given here, on a broad sheet of silk, at the time of the celebration of the opening of the Erie Canal, 1825. Nothmg is known of the writer. POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO The work of many a freeman's hand, A brave, a bold, a noble band — The guardians of this happy land, The conquerers of Lake Erie. Buffalo, — ! who can ever view These works so grand, these scenes so new, And not admire, and love thee, too, Thou child of ancient Erie ? Around thy paths I love to roam, For every house is here a home ; I bless the hour when first I come To meet with thee and Erie. ! who will not this day rejoice, And lift on high his grateful voice ? Come — men and women, girls and boys, Shout for Buffalo and Lake Erie ! This happy day shall ever be Remembered as a jubilee ; The Lakes, the Rivers, join the Sea, The Ocean weds Lake Erie. HONORABLE JESSE WALKER HONORABLE JESSE WALKER INVOCATION TO GENIUS Extract. Child of the skies ! spark of celestial fire ! Yet doomed on earth awhile in man to burn With bright and transient gleams and then expire, Thy reign no bounds — thy flight has no return. Thy course, forever onward, cannot learn The mystery of thy being ; nor thought define, Nor yet the workings of thyself discern. Must Reason then o'er thee her power resign, Nor hope to know thy destiny— thy source divine? Waked into birth by Nature's kindly care, And from his silent slumbers roused to fill The measure of the soul, who shall declare The limits of that high, mysterious skill That taught the noblest powers of mind distill From Nature's works their sweets, nor yet to find Throughout the valley, verdant plain, or hill, A spot whereon to rest in peace resigned, But yet must rove through all creation unconfined. Such is the flight that Genius takes around The viewless regions of the boundless skies, That naught of sight remains unseen, or sound Unheard in all the lovely tones that rise In song, or scenes designed for mortal eyes ; 3 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO But various views and harmonies combined By Nature's plastic hand, with glad surprise Do charm the finer feelings of the mind, And blend in that consistent piece, by Heaven designed. Borne on the ceaseless wing of Time along, Like burning stars that shoot athwart the sky, Now seen to fall, and now his course prolong — Now to depart, yet ever linger nigh — Immortal Genius wings his way on high, While Reason's powers her brightest gems display, At first to shine, and then in darkness die ; The vast extent of earth and air survey, Nor yet the laws of matter or of mind obey. His ever kind regard no favorite knows ; The friend of all — of every art the pride — Alike on rich and poor his smile bestows, And gives to them the boon by wealth denied. To him imagination opens wide Her shining gates, and quick appears a scene With every sight, and sound, and sense supplied, Where gentle rivers roll the hills between. And shades and fragrant flowers adorn the vales of green. Let Genius here his nobler powers display — With living laurels crown the Statesman's fame; Let Liberty here shine with purest ray, And youthful Patriots guard the sacred flame ! HONORABLE JESSE WALKER Here let the Muse's deathless notes proclaim The beauty of the bright and glittering gems That shine around immortal Franklin's name, Till every tongue the ruthless hand contemns That tears one wreath from off our nation's diadems. Let Virtue's consecrated temple rise From its broad basis to the lofty spire ; Of genius claim the holy sacrifice That Love, and Hope, and Truth divine inspire. Let Folly, Sin, and Crime in shame retire ; Let proud Oppression meet his fearful doom, And hated Vice with mournful sighs expire ; Let Freedom live the while in vernal bloom, And sing her solemn dirge around the Patriot's tomb ! LET LOVE ABIDE FOREVER Let Love abide forever ! Thus did Affection sing — Thus wrote the faithful lover Upon a golden ring ; He gave it to his love — She vowed to keep it ever ; Witnessed the stars above — " Let Love abide forever ! " Let Love abide forever, Nor think the date too long ; 5 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO In vain might Time endeavor To swell its sweetest song. I'm bound to thee with bonds Which earth may not dissever; Thy look of love responds " Let Love abide forever ! " Let Love abide forever ! Though mourning on us come And sorrows round us hover, Love rest upon our home. When in affliction's hour May holy friendship ever Exclaim with softening power, " Let Love abide forever !" Let Love abide forever ; It was not born to die ! Who shall its life recover, When falls its dying; sigh? Yes — Love shall live, though death Our earthly ties should sever, And sigh our dying breath, " Let Love abide forever !" SATUEDAY EVENING The work of labor now is done, and rest Awaits the happy millions that repose Upon the lap of ease. Content is there, To whisper of the promises of Hope — G HONORABLE JESSE WALKER Of Hope, the bright-winged messenger of peace. For who, that meets this hour aright, but feels An inward flow of joy which lifts the soul To elevated themes and holy thoughts, Meant for the morrow ? Him I envy not Who would not claim these feelings as his own. Not all unpleasing is the evening walk, The gaze upon the stars, whose steady eyes Have never failed of lustre since the day The Great Eternal bathed the world in light. The moon, more proud, but less sublime, walks up The sky and boasts her brighter than the clouds, Whose shade but helps to give her glory. These, The balmy air, the crickets' song, and all The soft accordances of evening, mould The thoughts in harmony ; but he who views This scene alone, can see and feel but half The beauty. Happy he that knows there's one Who would be with him in this quiet hour. THE HEARTHSTONE Pro Aris et Focis. — Cicero. Deep in the solitude Of the darkened wood, Where never hut had stood, With hammer alone, Fast by a ledge of rocks, A man of youthful locks, With oft repeated knocks Had shaped a hearthstone. 7 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO With trunks of trees, he there, In rudely measured square, Built up a cottage where She he loved would come ; With lusty arm and lone. He raised and bore the stone, While Hope alone looked on, To his rustic home. Years have passed away ; 'Tis a bright morn in May ; Children are at play — A daughter and son. A happy home is there, And the bright altar, where Uprise both praise and prayer, Is the old hearthstone. Day swiftly follows day ; The world calls them away — Those children at their play — Sister and brother. Far, far away they roam, But back to blessings come, To happy hearth and home, For father, mother. Another year has fled, And one of these is dead ; For him a prayer is said, Each day returning; The other, aged grown, HONORABLE JESSE WALKER With widowed heart, alone, Upon the old hearthstone Keeps love's light burning. And there, by day and night, That flame of holiest light She watcheth sweetly bright, And will not falter. God ! such love that gave, When she is in the grave ! That ancient hearthstone save! It is thine Altar. ADDRESS SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE BUFFALO THEATER, JUNE 22, 1835 Extract. Hail to thee, City !— the home of the free ! Come thou, the child of the Drama to greet. Hail to thy children as well as to thee !— The child of the Drama, they joyous shall meet. Ye, who have listened to the son of song, While oft Avith angel-touch he swept the lyre ; Ye, who of music would the notes prolong, Or feel the flame that Genius may inspire ; Ye, who would praise the arts divine, that make The lifeless marble into being wake, And to the canvas rude, the hues impart That bid to life the form of beauty start- Let noble sentiments your mind engage — Salute ye now the Genius of the Stage ! 9 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO The Drama comes, we trust, a welcome guest, And owns your home the Mistress of the West. Alive to finer feelings of the soul, Let Genius now your willing hearts control. And here may Virtue's purest spirit breathe On him whose brow the laurels love to wreathe. Let sympathy with sweet amusement flow, To cheer, with blissful hopes, the heirs of woe. Let Charity, the child of Heaven, descend — In him she'll find a brother and a friend. The orphan's grief he soothes with accents mild, While yet he owns himself a joyless child. O'er all the world is Genius doomed to roam — With thee, fair City, may he find a home. He chose thee from the little and the great, The fairest daughter of the " Empire State." TEHOSEKORON^ beautiful and softly-flowing river, The gentlest of the torrent's daughters, Departed hath the forest-child forever From the green margin of thy waters. Thy banks of beauty once were clothed with wild- ness; Of feeling, then, there was no coldness ; The bravest heart was tempered well with mild- ness, — The weakest one full high with boldness. * The Indian came of Buffalo River. 10 HONORABLE JESSE WALKER No barge, with whitened sail, the lake was sweep- ing; All round the shore the shades were waving ; The waters, now, within were sweetly sleeping, And now the banks were softly laving. The red man there his bark canoe was rowing, And woman little ones caressing ; The beauteous flowers in wild luxuriance growing; Great Spirit ! thou didst give the blessing. And when the warrior, from the chase returning, Beheld his children's smiling brightness, And holy love on fireside altars burning, His bosom swelled with buoyant lightness. Here breathed the poetry of love's devotion, And burst the laugh of bounding gladness ; The spirit struggled here with deep emotion, When dimmed its light a shade of sadness. And when he felt the frost of age advancing, The chieftain told his thrilling story To fearless children round the war-fire dancing, Of deeds that built the hero's glory. When bound him Death, within his soothing slum- bers, His tomb unmarked by stone or willow, Sung then his funeral dirge the wind's wild num- bers, The moss-grown rock his dying pillow. 11 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Now perished hath his bright, ethereal vision ; The red man's glory hath departed ; Great Spirit ! grant a sweet Elysium To beings here but broken-hearted. Mid blooming vales and gently rising mountains, With ivory bow and golden quiver, Give them, Heaven, to drink at crystal fountains, And hunt along the rolling river. The arrow's point with string elastic throwing, Give them to guide with aim unbending ; happiness, in peaceful streamlets flowing, Grant them the bliss of life unending. 12 BRYANT BURWELL BRYANT BURWELL ON THE DEATH OF MARY BURWELL Farewell, dear child — we humbly bow To Heaven's decree, and yield thee now; But oh ! what keen emotions rise, While thus we make the sacrifice. Forgive, sweet child, the falling tear; Though brief has been thy life's career— Yet in our hearts shall ever dwell The thoughts of her we've loved so well. We've seen thy infant dawn disclose, Fair, as in June the opening rose ; — But sickness came, with withering blight, And thou art gone to realms of light. Parental love delights to trace Thy mental beauty's nameless grace, — With all th' affections deep and strong That e'er to childhood could belong. Farewell, dear Mary ! —rest in peace ; — Thy parents' sorrow soon will cease ; To us, with thee, will then be given The richest joys of pitying Heaven. October 18, 1836. 13 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO MARGARET McKENNA (Mrs. John A. Ditto) LINES ON THE REMOVAL OF A FAVORITE TREE Farewell, old Tree ! mine eyes have seen Their last of all thy strength and pride; Gone are thy leaves and foliage green, And all thy branches scattered wide ; Yet ere the spoiler's ruthless hand Had dared thy beauty to efface Thou wert the noblest of the land, The loveliest, dearest of thy race. How oft beneath thy spreading shade, In childhood's merry, thoughtless hours, With gentle spirits here I played, And deemed thee coolest, best of bowers ; Within thy sheltering boughs the bird Was wont to build her tiny nest, The soft south breezes, too, have stirred Thy leaves, and lulled my heart to rest. Long years may pass, and still thy fate Forever shall remembered be, For linked with thee in social state Are recollections dear to me. May I, old Tree, when life has fled, And earth receives its kindred clay, Have one to drop upon my bed The tears that memory loves to pay. February 24, 1848. 14 EDWARD CHRISTY EDWARD CHRISTY BUFFALO GALS As Published with the Music and Copyrighted by William Hall & Bon, New York, in 1848. As I was lurab'ring down de street, Down de street, Down de street, A handsome gal I chanc'd to meet ; Oh ! she was fair to view. Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night And dance by de light ob de moon? I ax'd her would she hab some talk, Hab some talk, Hab some talk, Her feet covered up de whole sidewalk As she stood close by me. Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night ? Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night And dance by de light ob de moon? I ax'd her would she hab a dance, Hab a dance, Hab a dance, 15 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO I taught dat I might get a chance To shake a foot wid her. Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night And dance by de light ob de moon ? I'd like to make dat gal my wife, Gal my wife, Gal my wife, I'd be happy all my life, If I had her by me. Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night? Can't you come out to-night ? Buffalo gals, can't you come out to-night And dance by de light ob de moon ? 16 A. TRACY A. TRACY THE WOODSAWYER By the crowded thoroughfare all day long The Sawyer plies his trade ; Ever and aye to the passing throng Sounding a solo, deep and strong, From the cord-wood round him laid. And a very notable wight he is, That none may overslaugh ; We might forty times freeze, in a land like this, And many things find to go all amiss, But for him of the buck and saw. Maple and birch, and the green beech wood, He taketh them— straight or askew — Each one at its worth, like his evil and good, Nor worketh as one in a dainty mood With the task he is set to do. For an iron grip has the hand, I wot, That driveth his keen-set blade ; And his mailed knee huggeth the log's rough butt As if it were Poverty's self he'd got, Like a victim fairly laid. The splinter shrieks, and the knot provokes His steel in its path, mayhap, But deeper it sinks with his sturdy strokes 17 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO And the dusts pulse out, amid groans and chokes, Till the last tough fibres snap. You might deem in the crowds that come and go, In an ever-shifting scene, There were few on him a thought to bestow — The old Woodsawyer, poor and low, Plying a task so mean. But in many a glance that him espied, How did the envy lurk ! Oh, he had no heart from men to hide — No honor lost — no thorning pride — Nor was he ashamed to work ! Stick after stick, with a patient toil, That heeds no passing thing, Till his dusts spread ankle deep the soil, And the lopt logs lay, like a noble spoil, Heaped round in half a ring, Ready to split and pile for a host Of worthy uses free, — For the week-day bake, and the Sunday roast, And to boil the kettle and brown the toast, When the ladies come for tea. It may be, too, when the snows come on, And the panes are feathered with cold, To crackle and glow on the gray hearthstone, Cheering the heart of the orphan one, Or the beggar, poor and old. 18 A. TRACY Little the Sawyer gets for his job, But he hath a conscience true; And the shilling he puts in his olden fob, He knoweth he did not filch nor rob, But earned as a Man may do. That little, too, it serveth his ends, And keepeth his state, and all ; For the Sawyer's worth among his friends Is based no whit on the money he spends, Or the lackeys at his call. And who so lordly at eventide, When he doth his good buck sling ! The crowd, I wot, before his stride, Though they may not bow, will their ranks divide, As soon as for a king ! His wife is glad when at last he comes, And the wee ones at his knees ; They're not so stuffed with cakes and plums As to sicken and fret — so he picks his crumbs, And smokes his pipe in peace. The Sawyer's saw ! There be others instead, From learned lips that fall ; But the plain old saw to earn his bread, And a roof provide to shelter his head, Is the noblest saw of all ! Buffalo, March, 1849. 19 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE THE LAUNCH OF THE GRIFFIN Within Cayuga's forest shade The stocks were set — the keel was laid — Wet with the nightly forest dew, The frame of that first vessel grew. Strange was the sight upon the brim Of the swift river, even to him, The builder of the bark, — To see its artifical lines Festooned with summer's sudden vines, Another New World's ark. As rounds to ripeness manhood's schemes Out of youth's fond, disjointed dreams, So ripened in her kindred wood That traveller of the untried flood And often as the evening sun Gleamed on the group, their labor done — The Indian prowling out of sight Of corded friar and belted knight — He smiled upon them as they smiled, The builders on the bark — their child ! The hour has come; upon the stocks The masted hull already rocks— 20 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE The mallet in the master's hand Is poised to launch her from the land. Beside him, partner of his quest For the great river of the West, Stands the adventurous Recollet, Whose page records that anxious day. To him the master would defer The final act — he will not bear That any else than him who planned Should launch the Griffin from the land. In courteous conflict they contend, The knight and priest, as friend with friend- In that strange, savage scene ; The swift blue river glides before, And still Niagara's awful roar Booms through the vistas green. And now the mallet falls, stroke — stroke — On prop of pine and wedge of oak ; The vessel feels her way ; The quick mechanics leap aside As, rushing downward to the tide, She dashes them with spray. The ready warp arrests her course And holds her for awhile perforce, While on her deck the merry crew Man every rope, loose every clew, And spread her canvas free. 21 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Away ! 'tis done ! the Griffin floats, First of Lake Erie's winged boats — Her flag, the Fleur-de-lis. Gun after gun proclaims the hour, As nature yields to human power; And now upon the deeper calm The Indian hears the holy psalm — Laudamus to the Lord of Hosts ! Whose name unknown on all their coasts, The inmost wilderness shall know, Wafted upon yon wings of snow That, sinking in the waters blue, Seem but some lake-bird lost in view. In old romance and fairy lays Its wondrous part the Griffin plays ; Grimly it guards the gloomy gate Sealed by the strong behest of Fate — Or, spreading its portentous wings, Wafts Virgil to the Court of Kings; And unto scenes as wonderous shall Thy Griffin bear thee, brave La Salle ! Thy winged steed shall stall where grows On Michigan the sweet wild rose ; Lost in the mazes of St. Clair, Shall give thee hope amid despair, And bear thee past those Isles of dread The Huron peoples with the dead, 22 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE Where foot of savage never trod Within the precinct of his god ; * And it may be thy lot to trace The footprints of the unknown race Graved on Superior's iron shore, Which knows their very name no more. Through scenes so vast and wondrous shall Thy Griffin bear thee, dear La Salle — True Wizard of the Wild ! whose art, — An eye of power, a knightly heart, A patient purpose silence-nursed, A high, enduring, saintly trust — Are mighty spells — we honor these, Columbus of the inland seas ! THE IRISH WIFE Earl Desmond's Apology. I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land ; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand ; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands or life— An outlaw — so I'm near her, To love till death my Irish wife. * The Manitoulin Isles, in Lake Huron, were supposed by the aborigines to be the special abode of the great Manitou, and were feared and reverenced accordingly. 23 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Oh, what would be this home of mine — A ruined, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines Upon its walls from Kathleen's face? What comfort is a mine of gold — What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife? I knew the law forbade the banns — I knew my king abhorred her race — Who never bent before their clans, Must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife — Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife. My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my star b}^ night, And twin-like, truth and fondness lie Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair- Apollo's harp had once such strings — Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings. 24 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land ; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand ; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life — In death I would lie near her, And rise beside my Irish wife. 25 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO GUY H. SALISBURY MY MEERSCHAUM We are friends together-, we, my pipe and I ; In the wintry weather, we, my pipe and I, By the happy fireside, as in days gone by, Still commune together, we, my pipe and I. In the sullen winter, when the snow is falling, When the skies are clouded and the winds are calling, We revive old pleasures— count our hidden treas- ures — As a miser counts his gold, count we o'er the days of old — Thus we count them over, we, my pipe and I. A quaint old meerschaum is it, the bowl is carved exquisite, A grim Turk's head 'tis wrought of, as grim as e'er was thought of — The mouth-piece rarest amber, and its perfume fills my chamber, Until with smoke 'tis murky, from fragrant weed of Turkey — And we are friends together, this queer old pipe and! The fragrant clouds are murky, the Turk seems talking Turkey, And thus talk we together, the rare old pipe and I. 20 GUY II. SALISBURY Dearest friends have left me, much has time bereft me, Bu1 si ill we keep together, we, my pipe and I. Cheerful firesides love we, as in days gone by. When our fori unes vanish, cares I hey often banish ! [f riches go we'll let them, we can soon torgel them, And scarcely shall regret them, we, my pipe and I. Care we less for treasures than for social pleasures Willi the Friends still left us, we, my pipe and I. When the smoke is curling, with its curious whirl- in < •* Trace 1, in the vapor, how our life's brief taper Dimly burns and pnleful, in t he darkness baleful — Burns ami dies like thee, my pipe, — like niv pipe and I! When tin- smoke is curling, mazy rings unfurling, Just like love it' seemeth, when the young heart dreameth. Is it thus love goeth, as its passion flowel h ? And thus to thin smoke turneth even while it burneth? Think we thus together, we, my pipe and I. "I BCARCE CAN DEEM IT TRUE Wiikne'ek I meet some graceful girl Whose mother once I knew, In years long gone, when we were young, I scarce can deem it true 27 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO That she has grown to womanhood, Her child a woman, too ! And when I see a prattling babe Upon its grandma's knee, Who was my little playmate once, Perhaps then loved by me, It seems a dream — I musing gaze, Half doubting, wonderingly! The busy years have fled so fast, I cannot deem them gone — Though youth's companions too have passed, While I have wandered on. Alas ! how oft their names are found Upon the graveyard stone ! I stand upon the sandy shore Where once I sought the wave, And loved to hear the billows roar That now my footsteps lave ; Where are my mates who sported there ? No answer gives the grave ! And still the years are crowding on, Each leaves some friend behind, Until my path is lonely now, And scarcely can I find Amid the throng that pass along One link with human kind ! The golden sun is still the same, Fair Nature's charms as new, 28 GUY H. SALISBURY The wild-flower wears as sweet a smile, The sky as bright a blue— But all things else so changed appear, I scarce can deem it true ! TO MOLLY Little Molly! sprightly elf, Frolicsome as mischief's self, Pure as moonlight, Glad as noonlight, May thy heart ne'er yield to folly, Charming, darling, little Molly ! In life's troubled times of sorrow, When I dread the sad to-morrow, Thy sweet presence gladness brings, And baffled Care takes sudden wiuers— For who would woo pale Melancholy When dances in dear, bright-eyed Molly? Only summers five have shed Girlish graces o'er thy head, Yet thou winnest love that never Seeks those maidens fair, who ever Flirt and flaunt— not Maud, nor Polly, Kate, nor Jane, can vie with Molly ! Sober age loves childhood's smile, That weary hours may well beguile ; Cheerily doth young heart's laughter Cheat of gloom the dark hereafter. 29 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO E'en a hermit would be jolly, For a day, with joyous Molly ! Little Molly ! Youth to thee Seems a constant holiday ; But life's griefs must come ere long, As storms will hush the wild bird's song- Yet heed not now, and dress thy " dolly," For swift flees girlhood, little Molly ! LINES WRITTEN ON THE BURNING OF THE AMERICAN HOTEL, JANUARY 25, 1865 * Oh, Fiend of Fire ! Has not old Death enough who wait Each step that enters at Life's gate — Bloodhounds held in the leash of Fate, Whose still feet never tire ? The Fiend of War- Bed Angel at Death's own right hand — Rolls he not o'er the trembling land, While troops behind, a myriad band, His blood-dyed, crushing car? The Fiend Disease, With fearful mystic Pestilence, Whose unseen stroke appals each sense, Sparing nor l T outh nor Innocence, Nor maid on bended knees. * The death of three young men of social prominence, James H. Sid way, William Henry Gillet, and George Henry Tifft, who were killed by a falling wall, while serving as volunteer firemen, caused this fire to be long remem- bered. 30 GUY H. SALISBURY The Fiend of Want, Who haunts the cabin of the Poor, And enters at its humble door, Filching away its scanty store, With fingers cold and gaunt. The Fiend of Crime, Who lures within his toils of Sin Each soul his hellish art can win — And lost each soul who enters in ! — Fatal the serpent's slime ! Oh, Foes of Man ! Doth not, alas ! such stern array Call dreadful thoughts, with pale dismay, In every heart of human clay? — Rests not a fateful ban On all who live ■ Within this world of saddest strife ? League not dire ills against our life, Fell woes with which all paths are rife, To hunt each fugitive? Why, Fiend of Fire ! Bring crimson minions of the flame Our chosen sons to fiercely claim — To bind dear ones, of cherished name, Upon thy funeral pyre ? Buffalo, Feb. 18, 1865. 31 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO BUFFALO By Erie's blue and sparkling sea The tangled forest grew, And red men o'er the silver waves Paddled the light canoe. No pale-face then had sought its shore, With rail, or steam, or venturous oar, To wake the echoes there ; The wild beast ranged the solemn wood To find in its dim solitude His rude and lonely lair. The white men came to make their homes Amid the wilderness, And back the savage tribes recede As on the intruders press. The forests sink — the plough's sharp edge Soon cleaves the virgin soil, And waving harvest-fields repay The thoughtful sower's toil. The village streets on every side Their lengthened lines extend, And dwellings rise, whose circling smoke From household hearths ascend. Fair Commerce comes and spreads the sail, Her engines vex the tide, And broad canals rich products bear To Ocean's distant side. Art comes and rears the stately pile — Temples of the Living God — 32 GUY H. SALISBURY And beauteous homes adorn the spot Where savage men abode. History her classic store outspreads. And Genius wakes the lyre, And workers shape their wondrous things By forge and furnace fire. A teeming city stands to-day Where once the hamlet stood, And lofty spires their shafts uprear Where waved the sylvan wood. No hoary seat of ancient lore Hath here scholastic bowers, But Learning yet hath many shrines In this dear home of ours. The people's sons, or rich or poor, Her priceless boon may share, And Wisdom's mines reward but toil And earnest del vers there. The future largest promise gives Of glories yet to come, And busy Toil shall fill our streets With traffic's ceaseless hum. "Excelsior" gleams upon the shield Borne by our Empire State, And its proud motto 'tis our aim To grandly emulate ! 33 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO MRS. H. E. G. AREY EXTRACT FROM A POEM ENTITLED "MYSELF I always knew how many boughs The latest tempest broke, And just how far the woodpecker Had girdled round the oak. I knew the tree where slept the crows, And, on the water's brim, I climbed among the hemlock boughs To watch the fishes swim. 1 knew, beside the swollen rill, What flowers to bloom would burst, And where, upon the south-sloped hill, The berries ripened first. Each violet tuft, each cowslip green, Each daisy on the lea, I counted one by one — for they Were kith and kin to me. I knew the moles that dared to claim The banished beavers' huts, And sat on mossy logs to watch The squirrels crack their nuts. And they winked slyly at me, too, But never fled away, For in their little hearts they knew That I was wild as they. 34 MRS. H. E. G. AREY And always in the winter, too, Before the breakfast time, I wandered o'er the crusted snow To hear the waters chime ; To see how thick the ice had grown, And where the hasty spray Its jewels o'er the shrubs had thrown In such a curious way; And in a little cavern where The waters trickled through, The shape of every icicle That gemmed its sides I knew ; For there were hermits' huts, and towers, And cities grand and gay, And Alpine peaks and tropic flowers, And fairer things than they ; For oft the sun came glinting through The chinks some ice lens spanned, And decked in many a rainbow hue Those scenes of fairy land. GENERAL RILEY They bear him forth, they bear him forth, And many a cheek is w r et, For throngs that mark a hero's worth Shall hoard his memory yet ; 35 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO And, linked with many a noble thought, The tide of song shall swell Aloft, the name of him who fought His country's battles well, And when the clash of war was o'er, The wreath of victory proudly wore. He sleeps at last, he sleeps at last ! On many a blood-stained plain The death-winged volleys o'er him passed, And from his brethren slain, And from the desert's burning track, And from the tropic sky, He bore his crown of glory back, Amid his friends to die. Fold well his mantle round his breast, And let the war-scarred hero rest. His kindling eye shall flash no more 'Mid hosts for battle met ; His ear shall heed no cannon roar — No bugle rouse him yet ; The heart that never quailed with fear Where fields are lost and won Hath met its own stern conqueror here ; The soldier's task is done. The sword that blazed yon hosts amid Lies sheathed upon his coffin lid. Aye, pour your martial music forth — Bring requiems for the dead, 36 MRS. H. E. G. AREY And weep that from yon lonely hearth A noble heart has fled. The wild-wood trees above his tomb Their victor-wreaths shall wave, And flowers shall waste their early bloom In fragrance round his grave. Fold well his mantle round his breast, And let the war-scarred hero rest. RING, ROYAL BELLS Ring royal bells — ring out great chime ! Thrill with your joy the glowing air! Make jubilant this blissful time — This hour of hours — this moment rare ! Ring royal bells ! peal wide your notes, O'er Richmond's town " Old Glory " floats ! Roar cannon ! bid the hills resound ! Let every flag its folds display ! Repeat the good news round and round ; The cause of Freedom wins to-day ! Aye, pour it from your brazen throats, O'er Richmond's walls " Old Glory " floats ! Ring bells ! roar cannon ! shout each tongue ! The chains have fallen ! the free land lives ! Wide be your notes of music flung ! The Lord of Hosts our victory gives. Peal on, nor let your clangor cease ! The victory that foreshadows Peace. 37 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Oh ! bid the welcome news God-speed, Through every vale and hamlet lone, On lightning wires, or foaming steed, For be our God's great mercy known, That to His name all praise may be Who giveth us the Victory. Their doom was sealed when Grant sat down, With his broad brows, and drooping head, Calmly before the Rebel town, And wove his web with shining thread, — The w T eb that all their armies spanned And palsied each rebellious hand. Like icebergs that the sun has kissed, With neither power to fight nor fly ; How have their hosts dissolved in mist, Exhaled before his lion eye, Till w T ild with joy the hills resound With conquest sure our arms are crowned. THANK GOD! THERE'S STILL A VANGUARD Thank God ! there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right ! Though the throng flock to rearward, Lifting, ashen white, Flags of truce to sin and error, Clasping hands, mute with terror, Thank God ! there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right. 38 MRS. H. E. G. AREY Through the wilderness advancing, Hewers of the way ; Forward far their spears are glancing, Flashing back the day. " Back !" the leaders cry, who fear them ; " Back !" from all the army near them ; They with steady tread advancing, Cleave their certain way. Slay them— from each drop that falleth Springs a hero armed ; Where the martyr's fire appalleth, Lo ! they pass unharmed ; Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression, How their spirits hold possession, How the dross-purged voice out-calleth, By the death-throes warmed. Thank God ! there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right ! Error's legions know their standard, Floating in the light. When the league of sin rejoices, Quick outsing their rallying voices, — Thank God ! there's still a vanguard Fighting for the right ! 39 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO i've met her I've met her many a day, With a soft child-like footstep hurrying by, And ever, like the summer's sunniest ray, That vision flits before my raptured eye. Morning's first beam Portrays the image to my wakening sight, And glorious still, in every changing dream, She flits before me like a thing of light. In color, like pale gold Are the soft locks that round her forehead twine And wreathe in many a bright and waving fold The breeze-blown roses from her cheeks that shine. A warm, pure smile she wears, And the clear brow of one whose steps have trod Along life's path, unwitting of its cares, Half-way from infancy to womanhood. And from her heaven-tinged eyes A glance of confidence and love looks forth, — The upward gushing of a fount that lies Deep-hid, and guileless of the taints of earth. The name she bears I have not learned, nor questioned ; 'tis enough To gaze upon a face like that she wears, And bear its memory on life's journey rough. It makes a glow In the sad, homeless heart, and bids it turn 40 MRS. H. E. G. AREY Back from the crowded page of human woe, And more of life's free, priceless blessings learn. Like a, kind word To the faint pilgrim, on his weary way, The warm heart-sunshine of her look hath stirred My heart's sweet waters into joyous play. What I have said — That she hath breathed the breeze on Erie's shore, And trod the walks that, day by day, I tread, And quaffed the light, —this know I, and no more. But there shall dwell, Ever, a grateful feeling in my heart, To those who trained that heaven-born soul so well And Him who could such matchless grace impart. For unto me It hath been like the gifts of light, or air, Or bursting flowers— more prized because I see The holy smile of Heaven reflected there. THE DEAD OFF CAPE EACE The blanching wave along Cape Race in terror shrieks and foams, While broods above the restless sea the Phan- tom of Despair ; 41 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO The waves have quenched the love-light that lit a hundred homes ; The music of a myriad hearts lies hushed for- ever there. And human sorrow o'er that spot full long shall watch and weep, And hear again its moan of Death — its trumpet- blast of woe, Though still the sun in beauty rides above that charnel deep — That ship that hath the waves above, and gallant hearts below. Calmly to that baptismal font of future life they went, For whom the welcome fires were lit by earthly hearthside fair. A rush of spirit wings proclaimed their flight far heavenward bent, And wherefore keeps that sullen sea its croak- ings of despair? Ah, swiftly closed Death's temple- vail, and Heaven hath shut them in, And to the fiery storm of grief the quivering heart lies bare ; While white with terror on Cape Race still foams the sounding main, The love-light of a hundred homes lies quenched forever there. 42 AGNES D. EMERSON AGNES D. EMERSON* I SIT ALONE • Rainy is the sky ! And the winds are blowing cool Over the splashing pool, The clayey ooze and the drowned grass, And lashing the lengths of rain, as they pass, Like scourges against my window glass, With many a sough and sigh. And here I sit alone, Though the world is a full, and a broad, and a deep With nothing but winds to help me moan, And nothing but rains to help me weep. My heart, like that strange druidical stone That is poised on a desolate cliff in Wales, In its native midnight, unseen and unknown, Is rocked by passionate gales. But of all my sorrows, it is most sad To keep sighing still, in this dreary tone: ' ' I once had friends —I had — I had !' ' Ah, heart ! to think that this dark old house Once echoed with voices and steps more glad Than those of the cricket and the mouse ! My eyes are tear-blinded, but full are my ears Of a melancholy sound of rain — Of rain upon the roof; * Probably an assumed name. The writer is unknown. 43 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Till I dream that all moments which filled the train Of many and many departed years, Are hurried back, at my soul's behoof — On airy bridges I hear them cross, Those numberless little trampling feet — Above me they go with a rapid beat, And my heart is o'erflo wed with a sudden sweet. Now — now to recover all its loss ! Now — now — and I almost think to meet The old-time glances of laughing eyes, Till the loud wind wakes, with its startling sighs, The thought that never dies : That here I sit alone, Though the world is a full, and a broad, and a deep, With nothing but winds to help me moan, And nothing but rains to help me weep. 44 RACHEL BUCHANAN GILDERSLEEVE RACHEL BUCHANAN GILDERSLEEVE Later Mrs. Gildersleeve Longstreet HOMESICK Homesick for the waves' low murmur by blue Erie's pebbled shore, Homesick for the vines that clamber lovingly about my door, Homesick for familiar faces that will smile on me no more. Homesick for the days now ended, passed from sunshine into gloom, Homesick in this stately palace, where a fettered child I roam ; Homesick in the frescoed grandeur for my dear old cottage home. Homesick for the silent voices — tones whose melody has ceased, Homesick in this worldly bondage, struggling to be released ; Homesick at this splendid banquet, longing for a simpler feast. Homesick for the dewy roses— roses are not fragrant here, Homesick for the stars above them — there they seem so very near, Bending downward in the twilight; now they glitter far and drear. 45 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO And the arras of the present lifts its foldings in my sleep, And the blossoms, stars and loved ones waft me benedictions deep, And the morning, nor the real, cannot clutch the kiss I keep. Necromancers, weird and pitying, take me back in dreams to dwell, Soothe my lonely, homesick spirit — string the lute and mend the shell ; And I sing, and sing, and listen, under memory's subtle spell. SUMMERS THAT WERE White ripples rose up with a low, sweet song, And music swept over my young heart's core; They chanted and laughed the green summer long, And they'll ripple and chant no more, no more! They petted the shells on the low, sloped shore, Those waves with a silvery, floating fringe ; And brought to them hues from coraline caves, To give to their lips a rosier tinge. How silent I sit in the spring's soft glow, And leashes of light, and violets stir, Bring back, with the deep sea's musical flow, Memory's mirage of summers that were. Weird minnesingers, whom nobody hears, Faces of angels whom nobody sees, 46 RACHEL BUCHANAN GXLDERSLEEVE Bring me the summers long buried with tears, And tell their clays over in moments like these. Blow, blow to me, south wind, bring my dreams back, With surging of ocean, and sea-shell's hum, Then manna shall drop on my desolate track, And out from the vanished years, happiness come. ripples, rise up with your low, soft song! Sweet music, sweep over my sad heart's core ! 'Twill seem like the tones of that jubilant throng, Who drifted from life, leaving me on the shore. Brooklyn, N. Y. MRS. LOFTY AND I Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage, So do I ; She has dappled greys to draw it, None have I ; With my blue-eyed, laughing baby Trundling by, I hide his face, lest she should see The cherub boy and envy me. Her fine husband has white fingers, Mine has not; He could give his bride a palace — Mine, a cot ; 47 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Her's comes home beneath the starlight — Ne'er cares she ; Mine comes in the purple twilight, Kisses me, And prays that He who turns life's sands, Will hold his loved ones in His hands. Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, So have I ; She wears her's upon her bosom — Inside, I ; She will leave her's at Death's portals, Bye and bye ; I shall bear my treasures with me When I die ; For I have love and she has gold — She counts her wealth — mine can't be told. She has those who love her, — station, None have I ; But I've one true heart beside me, — Glad am I ; I'd not change it for a Kingdom, No, not I ; God will weight it in His balance, Bye and bye ; And the difference define 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 48 REV. JOHN C. LORD, D.D. Rev. JOHN C. LORD, D.D. BUFFALO Queen of the Lakes, whose tributary seas Stretch from the frozen regions of the North To southern climates, where the wanton breeze O'er field and forest goes rejoicing forth, As Venice to the Adriatic vSea Was wedded in her brief, but glorious day, So broader, purer waters are for thee, To whom a thousand streams a dowry pay. What tho' the wild winds o'er thy waters sweep, Wliile lingering Winter howls along thy shore, And solemnly "deep calleth unto deep" While storm and cataract responsive roar. 'Tis music fitting for the brave and free, Where enterprise and commerce vex the waves ; The soft, voluptuous airs of Italy Breathe among ruins, and are woo'd by slaves. Thou art the sovereign city of the lakes, Crowned and acknowledged ; may thy fortunes be Vast as the domain which thine empire takes, And onward, as thy waters to the sea. 49 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO \K\Y CEMETERY NEAK BUFFALO Place for the dead— Not in the noisy city's crowd ami glare, By heated walls and dusty streets, but where The balmy breath of the free summer air Moves murmuring softly o'er the new-made grave, Hustling among the boughs which wave Above the dwellers there. Rest for the dead- Far, far from the turmoil and strife of trade, Let the broken house of the soul be laid, Where the violets blossom in the shade, And the voices of nature do softly fall O'er the silent sleepers ail- Where rural graves are made. Room for the dead— Away from the crowded and ghastly caves. Where the dead lie heaped and the thick-strewn graves Do jostle each other like following waves— In the place where earth's broad bosom yields, Room for the dead, in woods and fields, Which dying nature craves. Place for the dead— In the quiet glen where the wild vines creep, And the desolate mourner may wait and weep, In some silent place, o'er the loved who sleep ; 50 REV. JOHN C LORD, D.D. Nor sights, nor sounds profane, disturb their moan— Willi God and with the dead alone— " Deep calleth unto deep." Elest for I he dead — Away from all walls — where the wild bird sing And the hurrying cloud Lts shadow flin$ O'er streamlet and rock, where the ivy clings To the ancient oak— the dead should lie, Till on the ear of death the <-ry Of final judgment rings. Room for the dead— The living wait their doom, the guy. 1 he stri The beautiful— together soon musi 1 hrong The doors of deal h, and I hey who mourn, ere long Must lie with kindred dust, and soon or late, All pass the ever open gate — Room — room — Oh ! give them room! forward! march! Dedicated to the Union Continentals by their Chaplaia. Fob altars and for firesides, For the country and for God, For the State our fathers founded, For the soil on which they trod, For loyal brethren trembling Beneath a traitor's nod- Forward ! March! 51 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO From the rugged wilds of Maine, From New Hampshire's mountains gray, From Freedom's wave-washed cradle By Massachusetts Bay, From all New England's valleys And hilltops, far away — Forward! March! From the basin of the Hudson, From the cities on its shore, From the borders of the stormy Lakes Who wake Niagara's roar, From Pennsylvania's fields of coal And her beds of iron ore — Forward ! March ! From fair Ohio's loyal States, From all her fertile plains, From every flower-clad prairie Which the Mississippi drains, From California's rocky walls, Rich with their golden veins — Forward! March! From Treason's prostrate bulwarks, Where the vaunting foe was met, Where rebel standards fell before The avenging bayonet ; From Cumberland's ensanguined shore, With blood of Patriots wet — Forward ! March ! 52 REV. JOHN C. LORD, D.D. From the Potomac's guarded banks, From the shores of the Tennessee, From Hatteras to Hilton Head, From Pickens and Tybee ; From every point on every line From the mountains to the sea — Forward ! March ! For altars and for firesides, For the Country and for God, For the State our fathers founded, For the soil on which they trod, For loyal brethren trembling Beneath a traitor's nod — Forward! March! TO JAMES O. PUTNAM, ESQ. How often, James, thy thoughts do overleap The narrow boundary of our working life, Which seems to thee but an ignoble strife, Where none do walk upright, but only creep To their mean ends ; a harvest, w T hich to reap Demands a hardened heart and sharpened knife, A soul with petty, selfish interests rife. So gifted men repine ; yet in the deep And awful counsels of the Eternal King, Our daily life doth make our destiny ; For this world's labors no defilement bring 53 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO To him who, faithful in his passing day, Knows that its fleeting moments ever fling Their lasting shadows on Eternity. TO A FLOWER IN THE DESERT Suggested by an incident in the life of Mungo Park, the African Traveler. Sweet Flower, lone dweller in the Desert Wild ! Drinking the scanty dews, and cherished there By Him who made thee ; e'en the tainted air And driving sands did pass thee undefiled And blooming still ; a Traveler, beguiled By mocking Mirage, wandered feebly where Thy tiny blossoms blushed ; in dull despair He laid him down, and feeble as a child, Hungry and faint, he cast all hope away ; But God had planted thee his life to save ; For when he spied thee as he listless lay, His heart revived, he thought of Him who gave Life to the desert flower and rose to pray, And long years after found another grave. u EMILY BRYANT LORD EMILY BRYANT LORD HYMN FOR THE VOICELESS From "Hymns and Songs for the Voiceless." Maker of earth, and sea, and sky, Creation's Sovereign, Lord and King, Who hung the starry worlds on high, And formed alike the sparrow's wing, Bless the dumb creatures of Thy care, And listen to their voiceless prayer. For us they toil, for us they die, — These humbler creatures God has made; How shall we dare their rights deny On whom God's seal of love is laid ! Kindness to them is mercy's plea, So deal with them as God with thee. 55 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO DAVID WENTWORTH LAMENT OF THE GREEK SLAVE This chain ! this chain ! Why should I fettered be? I sigh — I pant in vain For liberty ! Across the sea's salt foam, To my own wild mountain home, They ruthless came ; And as I chased life's sunny hours away, With hopes as bright, And steps as light, As any woodland fay — They seized my trembling frame. I saw my brothers die ; I felt my mother's pains ; I saw my sire with bleeding veins Across the threshold lie ; And he who taught me first to love — Who claimed me for his bride — His valiant soul disdained to yield ; His trusty sword I saw him wield ; But all in vain — in vain he strove, And all in vain he died ! Could fate be more unkind ? My sisters, too, with arms entwined About my neck did vainly cling, 56 DAVID WENTWORTH As if to seize my parting breath. They too, they too, oh, God ! must feel this sting That's worse than death ! What am I now? what must I be? Like the keen dagger's piercing steel Within my breast I shuddering feel, And the dread future see. Was there no friendly blade, Which such sad havoc made 'Mong those I loved, reserved for me? My heart — my heart is desolate, And not one ray of sunshine lingers there; No hope — no sense, but that of misery, left. Of friends, of home, of love and Heaven bereft, Not even death will save me from despair ; Too well, alas ! too well, I know my fate. Could I but free these arms, I'd rend these hated charms From off my brow, Which Heaven so kindly gave — And he has praised so oft Who now By Moslem tongues so vilely scoffed, Lies in a bloody grave. But ah, this chain ! this chain ! It fetters life to me; I sigh — I pant in vain For liberty! 57 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO MATILDA H. STUART NOVEMBER Month of my birth, I bring to thee This tribute of my fond regret, And bind around thy solemn brow The few bright leaves that linger yet. Thou art the Anchorite of months, Thou turnest from their hope and bloom, And clad in mantle brown and gray, Art moving onward into gloom. The Springtime hath its fragrant buds, Its whispers from the birds and streams, And Summer blushes into life The April loves and May-day dreams ; September bears her wealth of grain ; October, nuts and leaves of gold — And even Winter, with its snow " Rings in the new, rings out the old." But thou, November, thou art left With few to sigh for all thy woes, None dare to kiss the Anchorite, Or e'en to bless him ere he goes. The cynic greets thee with a sneer, The sceptic draws his text from thee, And boasts that heart and soul alike, Shall share thy cheerless destiny. 58 MATILDA H. STUART But, dear old hermit, I will come And press my lips upon thy brow ; I care not, though a woman's love Should tempt thee to forget thy vow. For thou to me, like all things here, Hast gleams of Eden in thy face, And somewhere in thy brooding heart There must be still a sunny place. I find it in the few bright hours That warmly bear the Indian's name, And oft-times tremble through thy gloom, Like love-light o'er the brow of shame. Thy fallen leaves and withered boughs Forget to rustle and to sigh, And folded in a soft embrace, Seem grateful thus to dream and die. To me these parting looks of thine Seem like diviner rays that come To light the dying hours of those Whose weary feet are almost home ; Whose furrowed brows and silver hair Speak of life's spring and summer past,— Of golden fruit and garnered grain, And its November time at last. ! if upon my path must rest My birth-month's rain and gloom and chill, If dreary days and starless nights Are waiting for my footsteps still,— 59 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO I ask that, in my parting hours, The rays of faith and hope divine May come, like Indian Summer's glow, To warm and cheer this heart of mine. Then while my eyes will fondly rest On this dear world which God hath made So full of hopes, so full of loves, So warm with sun, so cool with shade — Yet will they greet the spirit-face Of one, my dearest, gone before, Who waits for her November child, To fold her to her heart once more. POEM Read at the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Buffalo Fine Arts Academy, December s;3, 1872. Tread lightly with unsandaled feet, The place is hallowed here, We come to consecrate our child In its decennial year. This hour hath breathings of its own, They come from every clime Where stone or canvass had portrayed The tender or sublime. Our Priestess, Art, is standing here With robes as pure and white As when we brought our artist child, Ten years ago to-night. 60 MATILDA H. STUART Baptismal vows were uttered then, And sponsors gave the name, And from the altar of our hearts, The fragrant incense came. And now the priestess gently smiles "And through her lips of air," She breathes them o'er and o'er again, Her blessing and her prayer. Her blessing on those kindly hands That through the darkest hours Wove garments for the trembling child, And crowned its brow with flowers. A prayer that still their faith and hope Will keep them weaving on, Till it can stand in broidered hems, Its robe of triumph done ; Till it can yield to faithful hearts The joy they thus have given, By tinging every form of earth With softer hues from heaven. ! Mystic Art, in thee doth blend The earth-born and Divine. W T e know not whence, or what thy power, Yet worship at thy shrine. We clothe thee in a woman's form ; We crown thee with her name ; And though the ages knew not why, They called and knelt the same. 61 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Till from Judea's vine-clad hills This heavenly answer stole, "From woman must be born to man The Saviour of the soul." Prophetic thought had thus enshrined The Mary of our race ; And moulded its divinest dreams In woman's form and face. Then tread we with unsandaled feet,— This time is holy now ; For see, the starry East grows bright, The herald angels bow. The Christmas anthem for our world Is trembling in the air. ! may it steal in every soul, And find an answer there. THE GOLDEN WEDDING 1834 — The Crown of Myrtle. I bear a message here to-night, From home, from hope, from youth, And I am laden with the breath Of tenderness and truth. My leaves and stems of fadeless green Are fresh with memories now, And I can feel them softly press Upon a youthful brow ; 62 MATILDA H. STUART While fifty years, their lights and shades, Have sailed a mystic way, And in their place Love's early hope Is blushing in the day — As bride and bridegroom's lips repeat Those "sweetly solemn words" That must forever stir or break The spirit's finest chords. And household forms press fondly near With blended smiles and tears, And breathe into that altar hour The garnered love of years. And o'er them all are viewless ones That bend their wings to bear Love's holy vow, its parting words, Its blessing and its prayer. 1859— The Silver Crown. A silver hue is on my leaves, A tender touch of time; I do not sigh for early glow Nor for a brighter clime. I only know the green has changed, I feel its freshness gone ; And yet my message here to-night Hath sweetness in its tone. For youth can never bind our joys Within its fleeting hours, Nor can it rob our shaded time Of fragrance or of flowers. 63 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO We lay one hope away to find Another in its room ; We love, we lose, and yet we keep Some brightness and some bloom. And so my silver leaves and stems Have language all their own ; They whisper to the "bride of years " That earliest dreams have flown ; And yet the bridegroom at her side Is nearer, dearer, now, Than when she wore the "myrtle crown" Upon her youthful brow. For both have seen young faces come To cheer their heart and hearth, And both have heard young voices call The sweetest names on earth ; And both together they have shared Their dear ones' hopes and fears, And felt love's arms draw closer still Through all the changeful years ; While o'er their homes were viewless ones, With bended wings, to bear A father's deep and tender thoughts, A mother's earnest prayer. 1884— The Golden Crown. Another tinge is on the leaves Our bride and bridegroom wear ; The green is now within their hearts, The silver on their hair. 64 MATILDA H. STUART From sunset hours, from garnered grain, Their golden hue was caught, And every leaf and every stem Is stirred by holiest thought. For "fifty years" — though silent guests — Have still a magic power; They breathe on each, they breathe on all ; They sanctify the hour. We stand with bridegroom and with bride, And with this household band ; We feel the glow that o'er them falls, We touch each welcome hand ; And from our hearts and from our lips, Come words of love and cheer, To bless the past, and crown with hope This golden wedding year. And o'er us still are viewless ones Who bend their wings to bear The love of earth and love of heaven In blessing and in prayer. 65 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO ANSON G. CHESTER THE TAPESTRY WEAVERS I Let us take to our hearts a lesson — no lesson can braver be — From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea. Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care, The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there. They tell this curious thing besides of the patient plodding weaver : He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever. It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, That he sees his real handiwork, that his marvelous skill is learned. Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost ! No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost. Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well, And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his own can tell. 66 ANSON G. CHESTER ii The years of man are the looms of God, let clown from the place of the sun, Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done. Weaving blindly, but weaving surely, each for himself his fate — We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait. But looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath need to fear, Only let him look clear into Heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there. If he keeps the face of The Saviour forever and always in sight His toil shall be sweeter than honev, his weaving; is sure to be right. And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown, He shall hear the voice of The Master, it shall say unto him, " Well done ! " And the white-winged angels of Heaven, to bear him thence, shall come down ; And God shall give him gold for his hire — not coin, but a glowing crown ! 67 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO SOMETIME 0, the glorious, golden Sometime of our dreams, and hopes, and prayers — What a rosy hue invests it, what a smile of peace it wears ! It is stored with balms and odors, it is full of song and shine, It shall gladden us like music, it shall comfort us like wine. 0, the happy, happy Sometime that is coming with the years ! It shall ease our hearts of trouble, it shall keep our eyes from tears ; There will be no place for sorrow, there will be no time to sigh, In the shining, songful Sometime that is coming by and by. In the rosy, radiant Sometime there will be a won- drous rest — We shall lie and drink in gladness, as an infant sucks the breast ; No more the heart shall be disturbed by any woe or wile, The earth shall wear a heavenlier look, the heav- ens themselves shall smile. Hope will fruit upon its branches as the orange rounds and glows; There will be no strife and tumult, only concord and repose ; 68 ANSON G. CHESTER Every joy will be discarded that another may not share, And the ills of life will soften into something sweet and fair. In the gracious, golden Sometime we shall love and never tire — Keep the sweet emotion glowing, as the vestal kept the fire ; There will be a sturdier trusting and a sympathy sublime — The heart shall be in league with peace and peace in league with time. We shall lay aside our burdens, we shall be dis- robed of care, Cease our stifling low-land living, rise and breathe the mountain air ; We shall feel ourselves uplifted over meanness, spite and wrong — Firmly then will throb our pulses and our heart- beats will be strong. In the braver, better Sometime life will broaden and expand, Every impulse will be noble, every purpose will be grand, Speech shall put on loftier meanings, thought to higher plains ascend, And the action prove the motive and the motive show the end. 69 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO We shall dream, but we shall labor; we shall labor, but shall sing,. As the skylark pipes its carols while it plies its patient wing ; We shall work with eager fingers, we shall run with willing feet, And the rest that crowns our striving will be something heavenly sweet. There will be a sense of freedom that will make our pulses leap, And a sweeter sense of safety, that will hush our hearts to sleep ; All our doubts will leave us ever, all our fears will be at rest — Life will then be less like being than like being always blest! 0, my brother in the struggle, 0, my comrade in the strife ! Keep thy courage and thy patience, fill thy sta- tion, live thy life ; Twine thy hopes about the Sometime, trust it ever, hold it fast — Though it tarry, wait thou for it; it will surely come at last ! 70 ANSON G. CHESTER A LOVE SONG She who sleeps upon my heart Was the first to win it ; She who dreams upon my breast Ever reigns within it ; She who kisses oft my lips Wakes their warmest blessing ; She who rests within mine arms Feels their closest pressing. Other days than these shall come, Days that may be dreary ; Other hours shall greet us yet, Hours that may be weary ; Still that heart shall be my home, Still that breast my pillow ; Still those lips meet thine as oft Billow meeteth billow. Sleep, then, on my happy heart, Since thy love hath won it — Dream, then, on my loyal breast — None but thou hast done it ; And when age our bloom shall change With its wintry weather, May we in the self-same grave, Sleep and dream together. 71 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO AT NIAGARA In the Maytime, at Niagara, As a Sabbath morning broke, Full of glory, peace and beauty, From his dreams the sleeper woke. All was quiet, save the thunder That forever there prevails — That, throughout the gathering ages, Never pauses, never fails. But the thunder of the torrent Of a sudden died away, Just as if a spell of silence On the rampant waters lay. For a robin, at the casement, trilled Its carols sweet and strong. And he heard the roar no longer — It was vanquished by the song ! On thine ear the roar and tumult Of the noisy world must fall, But a little song of love and trust Will overcome it all. LIGHTS GONE OUT High on a bold and overhanging cliff That mocks the sea and frowns upon the sands — A ghostly presence in a lonely place — The crumbling lighthouse stands. 72 ANSON G. CHESTEK No hand swings back the battered oaken door, No footfall sounds upon the winding stair, But for the swallows, not a sign of life Invests it anywdiere. And, as the darkness falls, its lamp no more Vies with the stars to cheer the gloomy main, And guide the eager vessel as she hastes Back to the port again. So from a life that once was wondrous bright — Like the Italian heavens, unceasing fair — The light that blessed it has forever fled And all is darkness there. The ray less beacon may be trimmed again And burn as brightly as it burned before; But who shall ever to the dark, dark life The olden flame restore. HYMN For the Dedication of New Forest Lawn, September 26, 1866. These quiet acres, with this solemn grove, These slopes, where many a blossom lifts its head, These nooks, where pipes the thrush and moans the dove — We give them to the dead. 73 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Here shall respose the matron and the maid, The infant and the father, side by side, And here in holy faith and trust be laid The grandsire and the bride. Here shall the heart its choicest incense burn, And here the fairest, rarest flowers shall bloom — For Memory loves to twine the funeral urn And beautify the tomb. 0, when in such a heavenly spot as this Our wearied bodies, undisturbed, may lie, ' Death holds for us the jeweled cup of bliss And it is good to die. In thy Great Name this place we consecrate, God triune— the Father, Spirit, Word; Sweet be their sleep who here shall calmly wait The summons of the Lord ! KED JACKET It is half an age since he passed away, The Chief we honored that autumn day. The day was bright, but what of the deed ? Ah ! that depends on the make of the creed. It is well that his bones find rest at last, But what of the wrongs of the silent past ? 74 ANSON G. CHESTER To judge from the Law brought down from the Mount, It will need much more to square the account. He spoke for his people, great and small, But our ears were closed to his plaintive call. He sued for justice, he sought for right, But died, as he lived, without the sight. We gave no heed to his living tones, But what of that? — we buried his bones ! He pled for his own and we heard him not, But see the monument he has got! The story returns from the ages gone : He asked for bread, they gave him a stone ! Buffalo, October 9, 1884. THE FIELD DAISY I reached my hand for a fallen star, But only a daisy found it — A little tawny and fretted disk With a snowy halo round it. It seemed to have dropped from the spangled sky- A heavenly thing made lowly ; I gazed and mused till the simple flower Grew strangely sweet and holy. 75 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO If things so humble and things so high May blend in the thoughts of the spirit, Then angel graces may live and thrive In the midst of man's demerit. Ah, we are the fallen stars of God ! But, firm in the way of duty, Our lives will carry a heavenly glow And the bloom of a heavenly beauty. WELCOME, TWENTY-FIRST ! From the fields of strife and slaughter, Fields where blood was poured like water, Where, in swaths, the rebel foemen Fell before our northern yeomen ; From a war most just and holy, Though its gold is coined but slowly — Welcome, Twenty-first ! With your frames all bruised and battered; With your ranks all thin and shattered ; With your torn and shot-scarred banner, Witness to your dauntless manner ; With a name and fame and glory Which shall live in song and story — Welcome, Twenty-first. To the friends who smile to meet you ; To the homes which wait to greet you ; 76 ANSON G. CHESTER To the arms which long to press you ; To the hearts which love and bless you ; To your fathers, children, brothers, To your sweethearts, wives and mothers — Welcome, Twenty-first. Tears are moistening many faces As they see the vacant places In the worn and wasted column — Ah ! but war is sad and solemn ! Yet why weep for those who perished In the cause they loved and cherished? They who choose the stoutest burdens Win the best and proudest guerdons. From a war most just and holy, Though its gold is coined but slowly ; With your frames all bruised and battered, And your ranks all thin and shattered ; To the friends who smile to meet you, And the homes which wait to greet you — Welcome, Twenty-first. 77 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO J. HARRISON MILLS THE FLAG OF THE TWENTY-FIKST An Extract. But oli ! you can't know then, how dear a thing a tattered color can be To men who have suffered, and fought, and bled, as under this one, did we. Perhaps you'll remember, four years gone by, In that wonderful spring-time of Sixty-one, While the country was ringing with the cry That answered old Sumter's larum gun, That — wait; I'll be precise to a day, 'Twas, I think, just about the fourth of May, And Sumter fell on the thirteenth day Of the month before — yes; and that was the way We came to be standing, that day at noon, — A raw, unarmed and undisciplined crew, But flushed with high purpose, — upon the Square Down there, in front of the Central School. 'Twas a silken wonder; all blue and gold Where a bit of starry sky was set, And a broken rainbow's red and white Marked the promise ne'er broken yet. And proudly upon its topmost height, 78 J. HARRISON MILLS Poised above rainbow and sky and star,. With his wings and head outstretched for flight, As to meet the coming foe, afar, Was a golden image of Freedom's bird, The bird with the flaming eye, Whose wing o'ershadows the battle-field And whose song is a battle-cry. White as a fairy's, the hands that made That flag ; while, perchance, there were beauti- ful eyes Drooping, to hide tears that wouldn't be stayed. Rough hands, and brown, received the prize, And proudly we bore it, that parting day, A gift from the girls of the Central School To the boys who were marching away On that beautiful day in May. Two years after that, — to a day, almost, Buffalo welcomed back her boys — Two or three handfuls of the host That had marched so proudly away On that beautiful day in May. Well, up Main Street, 'twas a beautiful sight To us hardened old fellows to see, Look up or look down, to the left or the right, Every place jammed as tight as could be With welcoming faces ; and was there a place That would not admit of another small face, There a hand waved in welcoming glee. 79 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO And if von should ask me (the truth to say) What was the saddest, to me, that day, Of all the sights that might have been seen In the little column that marched up Main, Whether the thin and wasted ranks, Or the two platoons of crippled men, Or the many faces you couldn't see And knew you would never see again, Or the hardened and weary, yet hopeful look, In others that went away, } r oung and fair, As though they were trying, but couldn't forget The awful touch of the battle air, Or the weeping ones, who looked in vain And knew it, yet looked, and looked again Along the lines where they might not see Some dear one who marched away On that beautiful day in May Why friend — this is what I should say : — These were all sad enough sights to see, But the saddest— yet proudest of all — to me, Was that bit of discolored red and blue, And grayish white, with a dingy hue, Blurred too with spots of a darker stain — Tell-tale spots — where its folds have lain Sometimes, for a moment, where mingled blood Of friends and of foemen fed the sod ; With its stars and its tassels of tarnished gold, And ragged rendings in every fold, And its tattered fringes, about half way Where its edge was once — on that tearful day, 80 J. HARRISON MILLS That day two years ago in May, When we all so proudly marched away — Why, that was the saddest sight, I say. And when we halted, upon the Square In front of the Arsenal, and there Gave it back to the hands that on that day Placed it in ours when we marched away ; Why, that remnant of silk, so ragged and old, Was dearer to us than moneys of gold, And a kingdom couldn't have bought a fold, Nay ! a tatter ! a thread ! had been wealth untold. Yes, sooner than sever one sacred shred, Not a man in that line but had willingly bled. For its staff never felt a foeman's hand ; And many a grave we know Scattered across that sunny land Where its bearers sleep so low,— Since, a blood-red crest on a billow's breast, Where the tide of death ran strong. It swept the cloud, with a bearing proud, Keeping time to the battle song — And their fitting knell was the battle bell That boomed with a tongue of flame And the Minie hail, with its fearful wail Scattering its track with slain. But on ! still on ! 'till the goal was won, Bending to rise again, While swiftly and true our bullets flew, That eagle o'er-swept the plain — 81 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Till one dark day when the tide set back, Leaving ten thousand slain. All at once he was gone, and by sunset or dawn He never came back again. And whether he still went sailing on, Scorning the coming foe, Or whether he fell ; I cannot tell, But he never came back, I know ; And his image yet, is firmly set In hearts that have turned to clay. And there it shall be till the reveille Arouses the sleepers, by river and sea, On that last great muster day. BOOTHS 1866. Smiling, — wiling, — brain beguiling, — Pleading sweetly, — reconciling All our protests to complying, while our pockets lighter grow ; Beaming, — gleaming, — never seeming Half so fair as when they're scheming, Half unfairly, to despoil us of a double X or so ; Oh! most blissful 'tis, of blisses, Thus, surrounded by the misses, Sweetly to disgorge the "pieces," as from hand to hand you go ! 82 J. HARRISON MILLS " Buy a doll, sir? — Have a shawl, sir? Please do walk up to our stall, sir." And so "lamb-like" to the slaughter, gamble- ing you're sure to go, Winning smiles worth more than "greenbacks" as you ramble through the show. Ah ! but past me, grim and ghastly, Glide the shades that once compassed me, When the fate of Battle cast me 'mid the dying and the dead ; Where the gleanings all were lying, Husk and kernel, dead and dying In the wards of pain and sighing, sinking heart and drooping head ; In the line of cots, unbroken, Lying there a sign and token Of the horrors never spoken, of the field with car- nage red ; Lips that moan in every tone in which racked Nature's prayers are said, Eyes that, seeming fixed, are dreaming some sad vision of the dead. "Buy? of course! who wouldn't buy, Miss; Don't each dollar ease a sigh, Miss; Lighten up some grateful eye, Miss, where your bounty shall be shed ? And I know that His own blessing rests upon you, Who once said To a needy, suffering mortal, 'Friend, arise: take up thy bed.'" 83 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO JEROME B. STILLSON AGNES When the bleak autumnal weather, moaning over moor and heather, Reveled with the giant shadows where the barren mountains loom, When the winds were weirdly raving, and the forests grimly waving All the night's dim terrors braving, forth 1 wan- dered, in the gloom, — Wandered through the whispering darkness of the dismal midnight gloom, To a mossed and lonesome tomb. All around was dead and lonely; — wind, and cloud and darkness only ; And the coldly -slumbering landscape wore a chill and ghostly air ; And a mournful thrill came o'er me, gazing on the mound before me, And a voice seemed to implore me— "Linger not in sadness there, — Linger not in hopeless longing ; naught but ashes slumber there, Neither beautiful nor fair. "Gone the dark eye's heavenly luster, gone the light that used to cluster Round her brows' transparent whiteness in a spiritual flood; — 84 .1 EROME B. STILLSON Never more beside the river, where the glancing moonbeams shiver, Shall her sweet lips softly quiver, murmuring of Faith and God. Thou art crouching in the midnight by a damp and sunken clod, — By a nameless burial sod ! " Then the voice my spirit haunting with its melan- choly chanting, Sounded all the depths of memory, rent the shroud of buried years, While I stood in silence weeping, o'er the dead my vigil keeping, O'er a loved one softly sleeping, undisturbed by wrongs or fears ; And a flood of disappointment, and a cloud of bitter fears Fell upon the mound in tears. 0, that memory undying! 0, that voice, that, sadly sighing, Surged its tale of desolation through my bosom like a wave! Still its gloom my heart o'ershadows, and I look out on the meadows, On the cold and dreary meadows which the snows of winter pave, And, so gazing, 0, lost Agnes, on thy white and distant grave, Slumber there is all I crave. 85 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO CHARLES D. MARSHALL IN MEMORY OF THE LATE LIEUTENANT CHARLES S. FARNHAM Not in the lowering smoke, Robing the battlefield, Not by a saber stroke Were life's strong fetters broke And Heaven's last seal unsealed. No glory-shrouded death, Bright with Fame's magic smiles And crowned with Honor's wreath On Victory's bloody heath, His pain-wrapped thought beguiles. But skeletoned and grim, Death came without disguise, The far-off battle-hymn Lighting the eye grown dim — Floated in distant skies. And on a bed of pain, Stricken, yet not cast down, He struggled — but in vain. Our sorrow is his gain, Our loss gives him a crown. 86 CHARLES D. MARSHALL THE PARTING Let not another's rude kiss stain The lips that I caress ; Let not another's touch profane The hand I fondly press. But let this last kiss linger long, And keep this white hand free, And like a joyous morning song My sunny life shall be. If clouded moments intervene Ere we again shall kiss, The clouds will catch a silvery sheen From this remembered bliss. Then let no other rude touch stain Those lips that I caress, And let no other clasp profane This hand I fondly press. THE POETS THOUGHT The poet roams through flower-strewn meads And plucks a bright bouquet ; He binds it with a thread of thought ; It lives its little day. But soon the chilling breath of Time Shall strew the leaves around ; The cold world with its iron heel Will crush them in the ground. 87 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO But let this truth his sad heart cheer And soothe in hour of need ; Beneath the calyx of each flower Lies hidden precious seed, Which borne upon the changing wind, Wafted by every air, Will find rich soil in some fond heart, Take root, and blossom there. KIND WORDS Sparkling, through the foam-heads That tip the ocean waves, Chasing the rolling billows, Searching their deep, dark graves, Down come the silvery moonbeams, Silently into the night, Shedding afar, through a dreaming world, A wavy, tremulous light. So, dropping from some loved lips, Soothing some wave-worn soul — Gilding the troubled waters That ceaselessly over it roll — Sweetly fall words of kindness, To those who, mourning, grope. Lighting eyes, filled to blindness, With rays of quiet hope. 88 CHARLES 1). MARSHALL STORM CLOUDS Quietly, quietly Rolls the deep sea, Under the moonlight, Under the starlight. Lovingly, lovingly. Grandly, oh! grandly Rolls the blue sea ; Rising in billows, Heaving to mountains, Tipped by the moonlight, Decked by the starlight; Grandly, so grandly Rolls the blue sea. Solemnly, solemnly Rolls the dark sea ; Dimmed is the moonlight, Dimmed is the starlight, Shining through storm-clouds, Solemnly. Fearfully, fearfully Leaps the wild sea; Foaming— its billows Breaking in foam-caps, Chasing each other, Dashing together, Rolling and tumbling Fearfully ! 89 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Gently, oh! gently Rolls the green sea, Bearing up corpses, Floating so calmly Under the moonlight, Under the starlight, Gently, so gently ! Quietly, quietly Rolls the deep sea ; Sunken the corpses, Vanished the moonlight, Paling the starlight, While the bright sunlight Steals o'er the ocean Quietly. glen mis Where the seven-hued arch spans the beautiful river, By spray-shadowed phantoms upraised ; Where the waves on the brink of the precipice quiver, Shrink backward, affrighted, amazed, — Delay for a moment the mad plunge before them, Then leap into song 'neath the bow bending o'er them ; — 90 CHARLES I). MARSHALL There, afar from the clamor of town, and the shadow That rests under smoke-tainted skies, In the lap of green hills, mapped with forest and meadow, Glen Iris, the beautiful, lies; A lawn, a cool wood, a clear lake and a fountain, The wild stream before, and behind, the low mountain. There earliest spring gives her full breast to nature, And buds break in bountiful bloom ; The trees on the hills crown with sweets their full stature And load the moist air with perfume; Like a maiden new risen to meet her adorning, The valley is fresh with the incense of morning. There music is born of the wind-shaken willows That fringe the lake's margin around ; It floats from the Genesee's miniature billows, And rises, low-voiced, from the ground ; In the full tide of life all the fair glen rejoices, And valley and stream blend their rhythmical voices. Oh, the charm of the spell of that beautiful valley ! Oh, siren-like song of its Fall ! We would fain in life's voyage there linger and dally Amid the bright scenes of its thrall ; 91 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO 'Mid carols of birds and rare odors of flowers, Days lapse into moments and moments hold hours. When the days shall be told and the moments all reckoned That life has held bitter or sweet ; When the timorous soul to the unknown is beckoned, And faith and reality meet, E'en death w T ould be sweet by the murmuring river, And rest 'neath the sign of the Promise, forever. 92 AMANDA T. JONES AMANDA T. JONES COMING HOME A six-years' child, I climbed the gate All round the world to see ; "Oh, why does mother stay so late? Where can she, can she be?" I saw the pond as gray as lead, Blue iris near the brink, The rough-railed pasture, sorrel-red, The meadow, clover-pink. I saw the yellow sands where lay My periwinkles brown. Silver Cayuga wind away, And purple mists fall down. I saw the flume, the waterfall, The white and flying foam, Yet missed the dearest sight of all. — My mother coming home. It surely, surely would be night ; The lady four-o'clocks Unwound their silky ribbons bright, Shook out their party frocks. The miller-moth went high and higher, Went round and round about, The sun's broad face was red as fire, He was so tired out. 93 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO So down he sank behind the brush,— I thought lie dropped a spark, Right after such a. crimson blush Ran kindling through the dark. A spark, a blush, a smoky blaze Began to creep and turn, To catch and cling, — a, hundred ways To burn and burn and burn ! " Oh, is it truly fire? " I thought, "Or people of the air, With mantles from the sunset caught And fiery floating hair? " My heart beat hard with fancy fright ; "Should mother come that way, And should they snatch her, hold her tight, What would we, would we say? "Their shiny cloaks, how far they blow ! They'll wind her round and round. She'll never think, she'll never know, She'll never hear a sound, "Not even should we call and call, They'll take her up on high ; They'll hide her, wrap her, burn her all 'Way through the burning sky." Out gushed my tears — the silly child! Such bitter grief I had. First thing I knew, there mother smiled ! And all my world was glad. 94 AMANDA T. JONES 0, mother, mother! thought is swift, But who would count the hours Since lightly blew that snowy drift, Right in among the flowers ? Ah, not so long ago, not long, You passed the lowly gate, I know your love is sweet and strong, Why will y ou stay so late ? What use to me the gray and blue, The rosy and the white, The silks of summer, fair of hue ? — It surely will be night. You, you I w r ant, I call your name, All round the world I see, So whirled away in holy flame — Where can you, can you be? Hush, foolish one, heart-struck with fear ! The sorry thought let go. You look so far, she comes so near, Soft-smiling, still and slow. Not rushing fires that skyward fling, Though wide they be and wild, Not Life, nor Death, nor any thing, Will keep her from her child. Turn round and face the heavenly sight ; Spring to the loving breast ; Oh, sweet surprise ! Oh, dear delight ! All kissed away to rest ! 95 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER Awake, little daughter, awake ! The sad moon is weaving her shroud ; The pale, drooping lily-bells quake ; The river is sobbing aloud. I want your sweet face in my sight, While I open my room to the night ; The torn clouds are flying, the lupine is sighing, The whip-poor-will wails in affright. There's a shadow just marked on the floor — Now soaring and breaking its bond ; 'Tis the woodbine, perhaps, by the door, Or the blooming acacia beyond. Oh, pitiful weakness of grief! Oh, trouble, of troubles the chief ! When shades can assail us, and terrors impale us, At sight of a quivering leaf. I weep, little daughter, I weep ; But chide me not, love, for I heard. Three times in the depth of my sleep. The clang of a terrible word. "Your Harry is dying," it cried ; "Is dying" and "dying," it sighed; As bells that, in tolling, set echoes to rolling, Till fainting sound ebbs like the tide. Then the walls of my room fell away ; My eye pierced the distance afar, Where, by the plowed field of the fray. The camp-fire shone out like a star. 96 AMANDA T. JONES And southward, unhindered, I fled, By the instinct of motherhood led ; The night-wind was blowing, the red blood was flowing, And Harry was dying — was dead ! I dreamed, little daughter, I dreamed — Look ! the window is lit by a face. It is not? Well, how life-like it seemed ! Go, draw down the curtains of lace. It may be 'twas only a flower ; For fancy has wonderful power. The loud wind is whirring — hark! something is stirring — 'Tis midnight — the clock knells the hour. The horseman had ridden all night; His garments were spotted with gore ; His foot crushed the lily-bells white — He entered the vine-covered door. " Your Harry is dying," he said : The mother just lifted her head, And answered un weeping, like one who is sleeping, "Not dying, good soldier, but dead! " AT FIRST If I should fall asleep one day — All over-worn, And should my spirit from the clay Go dreaming out the Heavenward way Or thence be softly borne, 97 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO I pray you, angels, do not first Assail mine ear With that blest anthem oft rehearsed : "Behold, the bonds of Death are burst ! " — Lest I should faint with fear. But let some happy bird at hand The silence break ! So shall I dimly understand That dawn has touched a blossoming land And sigh myself awake ! From that deep rest emerging so, To lift the head And see the bath-flower's bell of snow, The pink arbutus and the low Spring-beauty, streaked with red, Will all suffice ! No otherwhere Impelled to roam Till some blithe wanderer, passing fair, Will smiling pause — of me aware — And murm nr : " Welcome Home ! " So sweetly greeted, I shall rise To kiss her cheek ; Then lightly soar, in lovely guise, As one familiar with the skies Who finds and need not seek. * • ' 98 AMANDA T. JONES FOOD SEEKERS A wide-winged butterfly Upon the white flowers of a bitter weed Settled to satisfy his noon-day need. Through sunshine far and high His kindred wavered, but he took no heed ; Pretty it was to watch his dainty greed. ii. A wondrous beetle came — All emerald-green, save that upon his back There blazed a mimic sun ; and in his track Lured by the dazzling flame, A lace-wing fluttered — purple, gold and black. Of pleasure for them all there was no lack. in. Down dropped a bird that flies Near to the clouds, yet perches for his seed, And sings and sings God's little choir to lead ! I lifted up my eyes ; "Dear Lord, Thy fragile creatures richly feed ; Content me, also, with Thy bitter weed ! " From The Youth's Companion. 99 I. of 6. POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO AT GLEN IRIS The moon came up that eve, full-orbed and fair — That sovereign Cleopatra, — ruling Night, And dropping ever in his loving sight Her threaded pearls adown the wine-like air: Half undissolved they sank through shadows gray. Embroidered Mo-no-sha-sha's robe of spray, And caught in Deh-ga-ya-soh's silver snare. All night we heard the river-cataracts pour: Their ceaseless timbrels smote the ear of sleep ; Till all our dreams, like waves that landward sweep, Were wild and voluble with naiad-lore : And we were reft of rest, and seemed to be Kuhleborns and Undines, dripping with the sea, Or knights and ladies drenched upon the shore. Surely the water-witches tricked us well ! When the carved cuckoo made the morning hours Finish their rounds with song, 'mid falling showers, And rain- weighed rose-vines; scarcely might we tell Whether we had not lost our souls in dreams Of that past night, and were but sprites of streams, Oreads of hills, or elfs of knoll and dell. 100 AMANDA T. JONES Upon the grass-fringed lakelet, fountain-fed With cooling rills, just drained from hillside Avells, Where, to the tinkle of sweet water-bells, Aerial jets were waltzing overhead, By sirens lured, how daintily we rode! Till, drawn too near their crystalline abode, What showers the fickle creatures o'er us shed? SHIPWRECKED We two waited on the deck — All around us rolled the sea ; Helpless, on our reeling wreck, Silent, wan, and worn were we. Where the little boat went down, Where the sun had plunged from sight, Hope and light alike did drown — O'er us, dark as Fate, w T as night. Face to face we stood alone, Dreary, still, and sad were we ; Smitten by that wild cyclone, All around us beat the sea, . Rose the sea, rushed the sea, Roared the wrathful sea ! Cloudy shapes like hooded ghouls, Flitted past our shuddering prow ; Death was reaching for our souls, Chill his breath upon the brow : 101 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Then, oh then were we aware, Through all war, below, above, Of a face sublimely fair — Was it Death unveiled, or Love ? Heart to heart we stood alone, Smiling and serene were we ; Tortured by that wild cyclone, All around us strove the sea, Wailed the sea, mourned the sea, Sobbed the toiling sea. While we watched, a seething tide O'er our sinking vessel crossed ; Out among the waters wide, Smiling still, we two were tossed ; Tossed and drifted, overcome In a crowd of surges dread, Bruised and beaten, blind and dumb, So we sank among the dead. my love, and mine alone, Sweet it was to die with thee ! Far beneath that dread cyclone, All around us rocked the sea, Crept the sea., sank the sea, Slept the silent sea. Through our slumber sweet and deep, Stole the growing light of dawn ; Heart and brain its warmth did steep, Out of death our souls were drawn. 102 AMANDA T. JONES So we breathed, awoke, arose, — Heart to heart and lip to lip ; Where Love's golden ocean flows, Ever sails our snowy ship. Never sun so softly shone ; Fair, in saintly robes are we ! O'er us shrieks no mad cyclone, All around us sings the sea, Gleams the sea, glides the sea, Laughs the lovely sea ! FATHER I plucked the bird-foot violets, Long-lobed, white-hearted, azure-pale, And odorous as heliotropes. I said : "The sun in heaven begets No fairer flower to scent the gale That fans the angel-haunted slopes : I would beneath his eyes they grew Who loved me when my years were few." Oh, he was gentle, generous, true! He loved his home, he loved his church, He pitied sinners everywhere ; The virtues of his friends he knew, But was not used their faults to search, Nor found them — if they were not there. Whoever else is sick or sad, I have no doubt his life is glad. 103 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Ah me ! if but the flowers he had ! That leaning down from where he sings (Up-floated from the Heavenly plains With that ineffable glory clad), He might behold the pallid things All newly washed in silver rains, And pleased, reminded, murmur low: " The earth bore violets long ago ; " My little daughter watched them grow : She traveled all the fields and dales, Crept under zig-zag fences rude, Waded through shallow waters slow, Went shoulder-deep in meadow-swales, And, charmed with woodland solitude Sank down at last, where weighed with dew, The pretty, pretty blossoms grew. "But these are holier of hue, Are lovelier far, more sweet of breath, More altogether of the skies. And can it be that world I knew Is reeling out from darks of Death ? And would my children all arise And welcome me, if I should bend My flight their way and so descend, — "Hand holding hand as friend with friend ? " And I believe that he would yield His crown, and in the guise that hid His soul before the journey's end, 104 AMANDA T. JONES Would in the doorway stand revealed ; Would catch my hands as once he did ; Would lift me, kiss me, hold me high, And bid me gaze into the sky. Then I should see the stars go by ; And I should see — nor die to see — Far-off, far-off, and very faint, As through a glass, not eye to eye, Those who were bond but now are free, The well-beloved of that blest saint : The two fair babes whose haste to go Half broke his heart, he loved them so ; The pure young lad who yearned to know Some far, imagined, perfect land, Some rose-illumined Sharon's vale, And hasted on through wind and snow With leaping foot and reaching hand As Galahad to find the Grail, — Till passed some burning charioteer And snatched him ; white with holy fear; And that proud patriot-boy, all dear To God and us ; no tongue can tell How deep the hurt when he went down ; And, over all, those gray eyes, clear As some unfathomable Avell Wherein all doubts and sorrows drown — The mother sighing: ''Long I wait; These are but four, and those are eight." 105 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Then I should see the light abate ; Should lose and lose the vision fair ; Should sink and sink, more closely pressed, — Upon my lids a flowery weight, A scent of violets in the air ; Till he would lift me from his breast All swooning — love me, lay me down, Pass out, and so resume his crown. 106 ELIZABETH KELLAR ELIZABETH KELLAR OUR NESTS In yon soft nest, Bird babies rest ; The calm wind rocks the maple tree ; While to my breast, So tightly pressed, I rock my baby on my knee. The mother-bird Knows not a word Of what I tell my birdy boy. Fond one, my song, So quaint and long, Is of that nest, thy pride, thy joy. Glad mothers we, You, bird, andnie — And truly each by Heaven blessed ; Thy wing, my arm, Alike from harm, So softly shields each tender nest. With thee, I raise My song of praise ; I scorn not, bird, to join thy prayer, For well I know, Each strain so low, Must thank God for his love and care. 107 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Then softly sway, At close of day, In thy arms, oh, maple-tree, That precious nest, — While to my breast My fond arms fold my bird to me. 108 JAMES KENDALL HOSMEIi JAMES KENDALL HOSMER THE LIGHT THAT LIGHTETH EVERY MAN Written for the 25th Anniversary of Dr. George W. Hosmer's Pastorate in the First Unitarian Church, Buffalo, 18(51. In Israel's temple Aaron old In glowing mitre sought the shrine ; His mantle's broad empurpled fold With cunning work embroidered fine. In vest of fine twined-linen dressed, Besprent with golden clasp and gem ! And censer swung and fumed ; and rung The bells of gold that fringed the hem. But chief, above his heart was bound The jewelled breast-plate, folded square ; And oft, or so the tale, 'twas found The Elohim descended there. For beryl bright and crysolite And sardius flushed like dawn, oft poured With fiery ray ; and Aaron aye Bore judgment thus before the Lord. Thee, Man of now, no hand hath graced With Aaron's gorget, God-controlled; But on thy heart is judgment placed Not less than on the priest of old. 109 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO From emerald's lip and sapphire's deep, No tinted gush of God-sent might ! But to thy soul for aye doth roll Such holv force and fall of light! To thine — to all ! the bigot's hedge, When God would have unbroken meads, Hath parcelled off. With thorough edge We cut the pale that parts the creeds. Each pagan scheme, sweet Truth, we deem Some lisp of thee ; not folly's lie, — A plot o'erlaid too thick with shade Whose healthful crop came scant thereby. Wild sybils 'mid your grottoes dim In panting rhapsody who speak ! Ye Cymric bards who pour the hymn Before your lichened altars bleak ! And Gueber saint whose soul doth faint While Sirius bands his troop of stars ; And priest who turns from brimming urns Libation pure to Jove or Mars — God's crude and green-hewn torches ye ! That foul the flame with drift of smoke,— That show his ray but glimmeringly ; Yet nought avails the light to choke. Your frenzied chants and mystic dance, And saga screamed through wintry wood By Odin's child — all worship wild! All broken homage of the good, no JAMES KENDALL HOSME;R 0, stream, for whose so plenteous tide Old Aaron's gems poor conduits are, Most sweet, indeed, thy bounty wide, Sent full through zones and cycles far, Doth Druid bless, and Pythoness, And prophet hoar, and all, — but thou The holier rush, and mellower gush Hast in thy heart, 0, Man of now ! ill POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO J. V. W. ANNAN IN CLOVER As through a lane I chanced to pass, I saw a primrose in the grass Divide a laddie and a lass, — A primrose daunts no lover. Her blushes I could plainly see ; The stain of grass upon his knee The story clearly told to me That he had been in clover. Birds, too, were singing in the air Betrothal songs so sweet and rare, The lover listened as if prayer Were taking wings above her. Her head was drooped demurely down, 1 think the daisies round her gown Quite trembled 'neath the sudden frown That sought her joy to cover. If lanes are narrow, who can miss The air's reporting of a kiss, Or shun the circle of the bliss, Which flowers and birds discover? 112 GRANT P. ROBINSON GRANT P. ROBINSON "i FIGHTS MIT SIGEL" When I met him at first he was trudging along, His knapsack with chickens was swelling ; He'd "Blenkered" these dainties and thought it no wrong, From some secessionist's dwelling. ' ' What regiment's yours ? and under whose flag Do you fight?" said I, touching his shoulder ; Turning slowly around he smilingly said, For the thought made him stronger and bolder : "I fights mitSigel! ,, The next time I saw him his knapsack was gone, His cap and canteen were missing ; Shell, shrapnel, and grape, and the swift rifle ball Around him and o'er him were hissing. ' ' H ow are you, my friend, and where have you been ? In whose corps and brigade are you fighting?" He said, as a shell from the enemy's gun Sent his arm and his musket a "kiting" : " I fights mitSigel!" And once more I saw him and knelt by his side ; His life-blood was rapidly flowing; I whispered of home, wife, children, and friends, The bright land to which he was going ; 113 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO " And have you no word for the dear one at home; The ' wee one,' the father, or mother? " "Yes! yes!" said he, "tell them, Oh! tell them I fights— " Poor fellow ! he thought of no other — "I fights mitSigel!" We scraped out a grave, and he dreamlessly sleeps On the banks of the Shenandoah River ; His home or his kindred are alike unknown, His reward in the hands of the Giver. We placed a rough board at the head of his grave, "And we left him alone in his glory," Rut on it was marked, ere we turned from the spot, The little we knew of his story — " I fights mitSisel!" 114 REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL TIIAXATOS He plucks the pain from youthful breast, And stills the groan of burdened age ; He lays the suffering down to rest, And drives the cruel from the stage. He takes no bribe, he fears no threat, But walks the land, and sweeps the sea, Throws back the doors whose hinges fret, And sets the godlike spirit free. He raps the door of rich and poor, Goes through the earth with noiseless feet ; He shakes his glass at prince and boor, Then winds them in his icy sheet. He's strange and cold, breaks bolts and bars, Dethrones the King, unbinds the slave ; He veils the sun and hides the stars, And lays a nation in its grave. THE OLD HARPER Welcome all the aged harper, As he comes with shrivelled hands ; Listen to his rapturous playing, And his songs of glorious lands. 115 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Mark the rising of his spirit, As he picks melodious strings; See the heaving of his bosom, When song lifts her startling wings. Music comes in joyous measure, Hanging smiles on cherry lips ; It o'erflows the swelling bosom ; From the heart it sweetly drips. It has power to conquer passion, Thaw the frozen stream of love, Clothe the soul in reverent beauty, Ope the starry gates above. It can stop the tear of sorrow, Smooth the sullen frown of scorn ; It can smite the night of anguish, Pitch the saffron tents of morn. Gone now is the aged harper, Wandering through a world of wrong, To unlock the iron bosom With the golden key of song. THE DROUTH IN JUNE The sun shot forth his fiery rays On restless seas and burning sand ; No showers swept through our heated days To cheer and beautify the land. 116 REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL The earth was parched, the springs were dry, And withered were the grass and corn ; The shining crescent lit the sky, A grainless sickle, till the morn. The roads were filled with dust and heat ; The streams all weakened in their flow, And dews refused to touch the feet Of flocks that fed in fields below. The plough was followed in the field ; The hoe was buried in the soil ; But thirsty furrows could not yield Their hidden wealth to earnest toil. The farmer scanned his field so bare, And sighed that mercy was no more ; While Famine whined, he thought, in air, And crouched around the open door. A frowning cloud came muttering in, And spread above the suffering plain ; The thunder rolled with crashing din, And earth drank in the gladdening rain. THE COMING OF EASTER Now ring the bells in lonely towers, Where years shake dust from tireless wing, And startle from their sleep the hours Which, pillowed on Night's bosom, bring 117 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Glad news to man, to king and slave, That Christ is risen from the Grave. And make the tongue, embrowned with rust, Inspire all ranks, both small and great, The soul is not a speck of dust, Thrown blindly from the wheel of fate ; For Christ has seized Death's iron crown, And trodden his dominion down. See ! Nature feels the pulse of life, Now throbbing in her swelling veins, As out she comes from Winter's strife ' Neath gladsome light and cheering rains ; And from the grave of silent gloom, The flowers come smiling into bloom. The Nations break from binding chains, Leave Care and Strife in narrow cells, And bowing to the Love that reigns, They worship ' neath the swing of bells ; And with the rose of faith in bloom, They rise with Christ above the tomb. Now Sorrow from her turbid stream, Climbs rugged banks, and looks away With hope beyond the marble gleam, Where Morning in his mantle gray, Puts on his crown and from his throne, Sends Easter to the Master's own. 118 REV. J. HAZARD HARTZELL 0, Church of Christ with faith profound. With windows rich with martyr-stain, And altars grand, with symbols round, Lift high the voice in thankful strain, And let the organ's mighty peal Bespeak the joy the People feel ! 119 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO JABEZ LOTON Willie's grave Earth holds for us one hallowed spot, So dear, that all beside Might fade from memory's page forgot, Yet this would e'er abide. To it on precious pilgrimage Our thoughts are daily bound, Whatever cares our hearts engage, Whatever scenes surround. By day, the sunlight's golden bars Its guard securely keep ; By night, the sympathizing stars Watch o'er it while we sleep. The light winds kiss it as they pass, The birds beside it sing ; And o'er it in the dewy grass, The little wild-flowers spring. We love the flowers, but not for this Hold we the spot so dear ; We love the birds, but not for this Our hearts are centered here ; Nor that the sweet breeze o'er it sweeps And plume-like branches wave : This spot a sacred treasure keeps, — This spot is Willie's grave. 120 JABEZ LOTON JESUS OF GETHSEMANE Jesus of Gethsemane, — Victim of the ruthless tree, Soul of tenderest sympathy, Pity me, pity me. Tossing all the sultry night On the restless bed of pain, Longing for the morning light, Seeking ease, alas, in vain ; Slake the thirst that burns my tongue, Cool, cool, my feverish brow, Chase the wildering thoughts that throng O'er my brain, — clear them now. On Thy potent name I call, Weary, helpless, and distressed, Bless the faith that looks through all, Send me rest, send me rest. SPEING There's a brighter blush of beauty on the moun- tains, There's a richer gleam of sunshine on the sea, There's a. sweeter sound of waters at the fountains, There's a fresher Hush of verdure on the lea. 121 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO And the woods are putting on their gay adorning, And the flowers are peeping skyward from the sod, And the birds are singing songs unto the morning, And the mist ascends as incense unto God. And the breeze goes wandering by with charmed sweetness, Won by toying with the perfume-laden trees ; Oh! the hours are winged with far too much of fleetness, We would fain delighted dwell with scenes like these. For the worn heart feels again a thrill of pleasure, And the wan face wears again the smile of cheer, And the tongue of sadness takes up music's measure, To tell its gladness, Spring, since thou art here. THE FALLING SNOW How gently falls the snow ! The air is calm and still, The whispering winds have ceased to blow O'er wintr} 7 plain and hill, And now from all the o'ershadowed skies All noiselessly and slow, — As sent on tenderest ministries, So falls the feathery snow. 122 JABEZ LOTON How rudely falls the snow ! When o'er the frost-bound earth The angry storm- winds fiercely blow From the far icy north ; On, on, before the furious blast, Till whirled in drifts below, The myriad flakes go hurling past,— So falls the arrowy snow. How lightly falls the snow ! To those where fortune smiles, How gay the wintry moments go Where festal mirth beguiles ; 'Tis but the call to wilder joy Than milder seasons know, And sport and dance the hours employ — So merrily falls the snow. How heavily falls the snow ! To those— the suffering poor — How cold the hearths where want and woe Have opened wide the door ; 0, long and lone they count the hours, And heart and hope sink low ; For o'er their lot a grim fate lowers,— So drearily falls the snow. THE THUNDER STORM 'Tis noon, and as entranced, creation sleeps, The sultry sun hangs in a brazen sky, 123 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO No shadow o'er the blue ethereal sweeps, No vagrant breeze goes idly wandering by. Portentous silence reigns, as if in fear The dumb earth felt the storm approaching near. For lo ! slow gathering in the deepening west, A murky monitory cloud is seen, And now it elevates its towering crest With threatening brow, and darkens all the scene. Anon, with muttering and mysterious sound The thunder rolls o'er all the dense profound. Then, as if shot from the impending sky, A few drops strike the earth, a vivid flash, And the terrific peal with quick reply Deafens the ear with sharp tumultuous crash ; While with impulsive and impetuous roar, As from a cataract, the torrents pour. But soon the elemental war is past, The scattered clouds disclose a fairer blue, On the retreating storm heaven's bow is cast, All nature smiles that peace is made anew ; Sweet music thrills again the leafy shades, And charming freshness all the air pervades. 124 MARY E. MIXER MARY E. MIXER BERNARD OF CLUNY sainted monk of Cluny, didst thou dream Thy whispered prayers sent forth in holy song, ( Which born in heaven, to all the world belong) Should bind the ages by their mystic theme? That from that lonely cell a rainbow gleam Should span the cycles with its radiant flame, Beneath whose arch both saint and sinner claim Communion sweet with the Great Heart Supreme? Thy words of comfort are the golden stairs, God's prophet saw suspended from the sky ; Clinging to earth we grovel with our cares, While angel visitants their missions ply ; They soothe our sorrows, upward bear our tears, Till eager hearts see the "sweet country " nigh. THE WEAVER With wondrous skill, in the crowded mill, The spinner her shuttle plies, And watches the web with fear and dread, As it forms beneath her eyes ; For well she knows that one worthless thread, Inwove in those even bands, Will be traced through the fabric far or near As the work of her careless hands. 125 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO In the mill of life, full of noise and strife, We each have a weaver's part, And the web of each day, by the passions' play, Is woven with curious art ; But if false to ourselves, and our Master's name, We fashion the fabric thin, And with its tissue blend faulty threads Of slothfulness and sin, To our own account will the mischief come, And take from each joy its hoarded sum. CONCORD TOWN In Memory of a Happy Day. 0, famous town ! thy sweet elm-shaded ways And sparkling stream, which tell the patriot's story, Seem to have more than rightful share of glory, When we recall those golden later days Where flint and fire by genius struck ablaze, Wakened anew each legend stern and hoary, Making thy landmarks a Memento Mori That brought the world upon thy shrine to gaze. Here the deep shades of " Sleepy Hollow " guard Him of the mountain, wood and sylvan stream, And calmly rests the stern and fiery bard Whose magic touch unveiled the things that seem ; Here, too, the granite boulder seamed and scarred, In truth eternal tell the sage's dream. 126 CLARA A. HADLEY CLARA A. HADLEY HOME FROM THE WAR Home from the war he comes, he comes ! 0, how can a mother wait? Holding her heart from her boy apart, Till he leaps the garden gate. Home from the war, all battle stained,— He is young to be so blest, Raising his hand for his fatherland, And now they must let him rest. Ended at last the haunting dreams, With terrible grim array Of phantom fears that more than the years, Have frighten'd my locks to gray. He comes ! he comes ! I catch a gleam From the hills where he must pass ; But my boy's glad bound is not that sound That rolls through the meadow grass. Why hear I not some sweet salute, But only this doling drum ? O, mother ! mother ! is this the way That thy warrior boy should come? Home from the war, they bring a bier To mock my expectant sight ; Was it for this with such eager hands That I draped his room in white? 127 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Home from the war ! my soldier passed Through the crimson field of the slain ; And no mother's cry, nor bugle blast May summon him back again. THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILD Little child, is an angel nigh, Glassing its glory in thine eye? Or wears it light the spirit bore Out of the infinite before ? Little child, is an angel nigh, Making my soul within me die, That thus my shadowed spirit lies, Afraid beneath thy questioning eyes ? Sweet life that art, and know'st not why, In which such powers unconscious lie ; Thou comest to be taught of me. While I must pray to be like thee. Thou comest to be taught of me, Because of all that is to be. Folding thy little joys away, To be a child of God to-day. What worldly wisdom can I give To teach this little one to live? 0, Holy Spirit, draw through mine, This precious soul and make it Thine. 128 CLARA A. HADLEY NOCTURNE Dark and still, dark and still, I see no light from the distant hill ; I hear no sound from the great world sea, God and my heart are all that be ! Low it lies, low it lies, My heart beneath His searching eyes ; With all its sacred chambers seen, Nor sight, nor sound, nor space between. In the dust, heart of hearts ! What is it that quickens all thy parts ; Through every fibre flashing fires, Purging away all low desires ? Is it life, is it death, Thus catching away my spirit's breath, Surging it over like a sea, Crushing it with humility? Can it be, can it be That the awful presence filleth me — That nothing lives in earth or air? But God and my soul are everywhere ! 129 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO AUGUSTUS RADCLIFFE GROTE THE MARGUERITE Pretty flower that June remembers, Blossom that July forgets, While my hand thy cup dismembers Pity me and my regrets ; For of all thy wreathed glory But one ray remains to fall, And that petal tells the story That I am not loved at all. A LAST WORD Hold thy heart within thy hand Where the fools around thee stand, So that when they torture thee Thou canst crush it and be free. They will show their brutal strength, They will have their way at length ; This at least they shall not say, They have touched my heart to-day. 130 MARY NORTON THOMPSON MARY NORTON THOMPSON IN MEMORY OF THE PILGRIMS Can we forget our Pilgrim sires Who dared the stormy main, Who left their dear old English homes, Freedom and Truth to gain ? Chorus — Then sing to-day in praise Of that brave band, "In God we trust," should ever be The watchword of our land. The moaning pines sad welcome gave, The days fell dark and drear, But in their hearts the living flame Of Truth shone bright and clear. When Spring the hillsides spread with green, They counted not the graves Of those they loved — with steadfast faith They looked to Him who saves. Two hundred years have rolled away, The Pilgrim's work well done, The seed of Truth hath grown a tree And Freedom's noblv won. 131 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO MRS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED TRAILING ARBUTUS Behind the bars, self-drawn, of springtime care, Pining and sick for healing of the woods Made grand and tender by their solitudes, Sudden as answer to a swift-sent prayer Came rosy fragrance cradled soft in moss, — Sweet April darlings prattling of the rain, Their mantles braided with a fairy floss, Rose-tinted as a shell or daisy chain, Spring's spicy sweetness on their parted lips A-thrill with robin's carol and refrain. pretty waifs ! already am I glad, Who dared to say the winter was too drear, Since, folded in his bosom, he hath had This ecstasy that fills the poet's year. GLEN IRIS Sw-eet sylvan Solitude ! thy genius came ! Long ages waited for the tryst to be, And in a poet's dream of ecstasy, All smiles and tears, he spake thy fond, new name, Glen Iris ! and the voice of mountain rills With low, melodious thunder woke the hills In answering echo ; and the swaying vines Made leafy canopies, fair forest shrines 132 MRS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED For silent worship. Fairy troops of ferns Bent in a mute obeisance as they passed, Where velvet mosses had their mantles cast, Leading the way to nectar-brimming urns ; And over all the softly veiling mist, Now rose, now changing pearl and lovely amethyst ! RESURGEMUS Away from the old farm-gate it wound, The slow, sad funeral-train ; For the reaper, Death, a sheaf had bound Of the ripe and bearded grain. Past the fold where the shuddering flocks Wait for the whistle shrill ; Past the barn where the swallow mocks The whirr of the winnowing mill ; Along where the orchard slants to the sun, And the fruits ungarnered fall ; Away where the fields, half-plowed and dun, Follow the moss-grown wall. Across the stream where the drowsy herds Rest from the noontide heat ; Through the grove where the brooding birds Coo to their nestlings sweet ; Up the hill where the church spire gleams, And the church bell deals its dole ; On to the grave where the sunlight streams That shall quicken a living soul. 133 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO THE ROBIN'S TAUNT Hush, robin sweet! The winter is here ; Oh, winter so drear With its snow and its sleet ! Why should you sing? The brooks are all still, And the springs are a-chill, Where you moistened your wing. To my window you come ; You're a pauper at best, In your little red vest ; Shall I give you a crumb ? What! gone, robin sweet? Did I drive you away, Who sang all the day In the snow and the sleet? SONNET To BIrs. George B. Mathews, On the Death of her Father, Welton M. Modisette, long blind. "Oh, love! oh, light! dear one, lift up thy head!" 'Tis thus thy father bids thee grieve no more: Behold the brightness of that new-found shore To which, through darkened days, his footsteps led, 134 MRS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED The lamb of God its very soul of light ! What rapture of the heavenly dream fulfilled ! The anguish and the struggle softly stilled, Fair morning breaking through the starless night ! Oh, love, her waiting angels through the years Wrought in his heart a patience sweet, divine ; He lived as kneeling at Faith's hol} r shrine, The comforter of sorrow's untold tears. Wilt thou not listen to his tender voice? "Oh, love ! oh, light ! daughter mine, rejoice ! " 135 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO MARY A. RIPLEY ON GUARD Do you see that strange, old picture, With its stretches of broken wall ? The leaning and prostrate columns Where the sunshine seems to fall? And the skeleton shapes all scattered, Looking so grim and hard ? But this one — this is a hero, A Roman who fell on guard. This is an ancient picture — I've seen it for many a year, Hanging just where you see it, Over the mantel here ; I'll tell you why I have liked it If you'll hear the simple rhyme, I'll paint you a different picture, I'll show you a fairer time. Yonder rises the mountain, And yonder tosses the sea, And you look over valley and water, To the pleasant hills of Capri ; The sky is so blue above us, And the air is so balmy and still, That we doubt the terrible story That makes our pulses thrill. 136 MARY A. RIPLEY A hundred years had not vanished, Since Christ walked on the earth, Pompeii's gardens and vineyards Were ringing with festival mirth. Above, the Vesuvian forests Spread grandly their branches of green, And the hillsides shone out in their beauty, A land of enchantment, I ween. This is the picture I show you — Palace, and villa, and fount, Temple, and tower, and terrace, Under a vine-covered mount, All this glory was buried — Sealed by that ashen rain ; Statue, and altar, and column, Sepulchre, forum, and fane. Centuries heaped upon centuries Work out their wonderful deeds ; Truth has grown strong with the ages, Crushing down soul-killing creeds. Man has stood firm for his birthright, Freedom is throned in the West, Onward the march, and still onward, Nevermore sinking to rest. But what of the deep-buried city Under the fire-smitten hill ? What of the maidens and matrons, Lying there hidden and still ? 137 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Off with their ashen covering ! Bring them out into the light ! Let the old halls of Pompeii Break on the world's waiting sight ! Stalwart hands were outstretched then, And the sunlight crept along, Following the dusky toiler, Working with jest and song; Suddenly, all was silent, The swarthy face grew white ; There lay a noble lady Decked in her jewels bright. There was her little daughter, And there was her princely boy ; The tempest came down upon them, In their festal hour of joy. And under an arch of triumph, A slave with his master lay ; They had perished beside an altar As they lingered there to pray. So the toilers slowly lifted The shroud from off the past ; Statue, and tomb, and temple, Stood out in the day at last. But the grandest thing they found there, His fame by time unmarred, Was the valiant Roman soldier, Who had fallen while on guard. 138 MARY A. RIPLEY Do you see what a radiant glory Rests on his regal head ? Is it the summer sunshine On his brave, broad forehead shed ? Is it a mystic token That valor forever lives? Or is it my soul that crowns him For the lesson that he gives ? For in that terrible ruin. Men fleeing in pallid fear, Some grasping their gold and jewels, He found his duty here. The temple might open its portals, The palace unbar its gate, But the soldier on guard was unheeding, He must bravely watch and wait. What are mosaics and marbles? What are bright jewels and gold ? What are the antique treasures, Out of the gray dust rolled ? Nothing, beside the master — Lord of a royal heart — Whom frenzy nor wild disaster Could drive from his task apart. So in life's tumult and tempest, Let us stand firm for the right, Whether we toil with the weakest Or under the banner of might. 139 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO Then when the dead world is summoned, When the dark tomb is unbarred, God's blessed angels shall find us, Fallen while standing on guard. DEH-GA-YA-SOH From "Voices of the Glen. v Creeping adown the gray old wall, Comes Deh-ga-ya-soh, the waterfall. Looking through twilight to catch the sight We see the shimmer of raiment white. The moonshine lies on her silver hair, It crowns with brightness her brow so rare ; While silently down the mossy wall, She creeps like a phantom waterfall. As low she leaps to the starlit glen, Her beauty steals to my feet again ; And I reach my hand as she hurries by Where the leaves and the purple flowerets lie. I reach my hand for the maiden's kiss, Ere she wanders away through the deep abyss. A splash of water o'er ragged stone, And I am left in the dark alone. But ever she comes and ever she goes, And over the spot her magic throws, Till a nameless mystery wraps the shade, Where naught but the leaves and waters played; 140 MARY A. RIPLEY And a mystical chant thrills all the air, As we linger and list to the voices there; And we see a spirit in saintly white, Where Deh-ga-ya-soh falls down in light. oh, poet! sing an autumn song! Oh, poet! sing an autumn song! The forest shows a burning crown, Our birds to southern isles have flown : Oh, Poet! sing an autumn song! The hurrying brook moans cheerlessly Between its faded, flowerless banks ; The willows stand in drooping ranks Where summer walked so peerlessly. Against the cold October sky, I see bright crimson banners hang ; And where the nestled birdling sang, The faded, ashen streamers fly. And autumn's flaming leaves fall fast On tiny mounds and lengthened graves ; The church-yard shows its phosphor waves, Seared foot-prints of a fiery past. Oh, Poet ! sing an autumn song ! The day is drear, and life is low, The vernal tides have backward flow, And winter hours are dark and long. October, 1859. 141 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO FLORIDA FLOWERS Ye make me dream, ye simple things, Of warmer, bluer skies, Of twittering birds, and scented woods Where summer fountains rise. I see the white waves wash the shore, As on that Easter Day, AVhen bright before the Spanish ships The flowery landscape lay. I read upon your fading leaves Old Ponce de Leon's fame, And marvel not your balmy breath Should give the land its name. So like a grand cathedral looked The strange, wild forest scene ; Gray columns twined with mossy wreath, And blossomed aisles between, That "Pascus Florida," they said, " Here Christ shall be adored ! " And so they named it "Florida," In honor of our Lord. FOR THEE The last poem written by Mary A. Ripley. I weary, for the way is hard and long ; I have forgot my early morning song; Footsore and faint, upon the ground, I lie Out of the dust, I only send a cry For Thee. 142 MARY A. RIPLEY I hunger, for my food is bitter bread, Mingled with falling tears which I have shed ; Out of the arms of death, or ere I die, My suffering soul lifts up her pleading cry For Thee. I thirst ; the cooling springs no more o'erflow, The summer drought has touched their sources so ; My spirit fails beneath a fervid sky, Yet my hot lips still tremble with a cry For Thee. 0, Way of Life ! draw in my weary feet ! 0, Bread of Life ! of Thee I fain would eat ! 0, Living Water ! fill my chalice high ! 0, Blessed Christ! now hear my suppliant cry For Thee. 143 POETS AND POETEY OF BUFFALO JAMES N. JOHNSTON ABRAHAM LINCOLN April, 1865. Bear him to his Western home, Whence he came four years ago ; Not beneath some Eastern dome, But where Freedom's airs may come, Where the prairie grasses grow, To the friends who loved him so. Take him to his quiet rest; Toll the bell and fire the gun ; He who served his Country best, He whom millions loved and bless'd, Noav has fame immortal won ; Rack of brain and heart is done. Shed thy tears, ! April rain, O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps ! Wash away the bloody stain ! Drape the skies in grief, 0, rain ! Lo ! a nation with thee weeps, Grieving o'er her martyred slain. To the people whence he came, Bear him gently back again. Greater his than victor's fame ; His is now a sainted name; Never ruler had such gain — Never people had such pain. 144 JAMES N. JOHNSTON IN VAIN, O MAN! CONTENDING From the German. In vain, man! contending; Thou mak'st but care and pain A life-repose intending Thou never canst attain. O'ertakes the king and peasant Alike, death's fearful smart, Be silent for the present, And patient, m} r heart ! Not ever bloom the roses, A storm and they must fall ; Yet mother-earth discloses A grave prepared for all ; The day that has no morrow — When that last day appears, Then ended is all sorrow And wept are all our tears. From woes no man can number We're borne at last to rest ; Close-to, in endless slumber, Are weary eyelids pressed ; Death's arrow is unfailing To quiet every smart ; A few more days of ailing, Be patient, my heart ! 145 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO A MEMORY Bright summer dream of white cascade, Of lake, and wood, and river! The vision from the eye may fade, — The heart keeps it forever. There beauty dwells In rarest dells, — There every leaf rejoices; By cliff and steep, By crag and deep, You hear their pleasant voices. From forest flower and meadow bloom, The soft wind passing over, Brings the wild roses' fresh perfume, The sweet breath of the clover ; And odors rare, Pulse through the air, In waves of pleasure flowing, — We dream away The passing day, Regardless of its going. Through leafy boughs the sunlight glows, The skies are blue above us, The happy laugh that comes and goes Is from the friends who love us. Oh ! bliss combined Of sense and mind, 146 JAMES N. JOHNSTON Rare boon to mortals given, Before onr eyes Is Paradise, Above the blue is heaven ! Take, Memory, to thy choicest shrine, And guard as sacred treasure, The hours of ecstacy divine, The days of untold pleasure ; Though many a scene May come between, In way of future duty, We still shall deem Our summer dream As peerless in its beauty. SAINT AUGUSTINE I silently sit by the Spanish Fort, And watch the ensign fall ; The white-sailed boats are seeking the port, Or lie by the low sea-wall. And darkness spreads o'er the eastern sky, Save the "flash-light" by the shore, I hear the Matanzas ebbing by, And the ocean's distant roar. Stilled is the beat of the sea-birds' wings, And borne on the evening breeze There comes the calm that the twilight brings From gardens of tropical trees. 147 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO And odors of sweetness fill the air, As the shadows fall on the deep ; And lost are time, and space, and care, And whether I wake or sleep. For thoughts are mine, which no one tells, — Of what life has brought to me ; They came from the old cathedral bells, And are gone on an endless sea. REST Nature rewards a friendly eye — Reveals herself to sympathy, But coldly meets the passer-by. And he who'd win her peerless grace, Or scan the fairness of her face, Must seek her in her dwelling-place. The rifted clouds are snowy-fleeced, The gorgeous sun ascends the East, A fiery-vestured Orient priest. The pine-tops glisten in his glow, The brooks are burnished in their flow, A brightness rests on all below : On leaf-roofed nook and wooded ridge, On cataract and lofty bridge, Down to the kindly water's edge. 148 JAMES N. JOHNSTON Away from narrow, selfish schemes ; Where cheerful sunshine ever beams, In hallowed rest my spirit dreams. From human strife and wordy brawls, I list to Nature's pleasant calls, And drink the joy of waterfalls. A halo rests on rock and tree, A glory flits across the lea — God's work in beauty robed I see. While upward mounts the smoking spray, Soft airs about my temples play, And breezes kiss the heat away. Beyond the river's graceful leap, Where white-lipped segments seek the deep, The shining waters downward creep. The sl