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MASTERPIECES 
 OF THE 
 
 SOUTHERN POETS 
 
en 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
MASTERPIECES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SOUTHERN POETS 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER NEALE 
 
 Author of "The Sovereignty of the States," "The Betrayal," 
 written in collaboration with Elizabeth H. Hancock, etc. 
 Editor of Neale's Monthly^ NeaWi Essay Magaxine, Neale's 
 ^arterly Series of the ff^orWs Great Short Stories^ etc , 
 and President of The Neale Publishing Company 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1912 
 
-j'bss^ 
 
 Mv 
 
 Copyright, 1912, by 
 The Neale Publishing Company 
 
 \ 
 
 CU330446 
 
NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT 
 
 The poems of all living authors that are contained in 
 this volume, and all the other poems in which copy- 
 right exists, are here published under proper authority, 
 conferred by the author, or by the original publisher, or 
 uj some other holder of the copyright, and all rights in 
 such poems are reserved to the person or persons, firms 
 or corporations, that have so kindly permitted their use 
 in this work. Special notices of copyright, credits, of 
 acknowledgments follow. The " author " to whom ref- 
 erence is made in this notice of copyright is the author 
 of the poem or poems here mentioned. 
 Boner, John Henry. — From " Poems," by John Henry 
 Boner; illustrated by A. G. Heaton. New York: 
 The Neale Publishing Company. Copyright, 1903, 
 by Lottie A. Boner. 
 Bruce, Philip Alexander. — First published in the Rich- 
 mond Times-Dispatch, and used here by permission 
 of the author. 
 Cawein, Madison Julius. — " Attributes," from " New 
 Poems," by Madison Cawein. London : Grant Rich- 
 ards. All rights reserved. " Beautiful-Bosomed, O 
 Night " and " Hymn to Spiritual Desire," from 
 " Poems," by Madison Cawein. New York: The Mac- 
 millan Company. Copyright, 191 1, by The Macmil- 
 lan Company, and published here by special permis- 
 sion of the publishers and of the author. 
 Crockett, Ingram. — From " The Magic of the Woods and 
 Other Poems," by Ingram Crockett. Copyright, 1908, 
 by Ingram Crockett. 
 
6 NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT 
 
 Dandridge, Danske. — From "Joy, and Other Poems," 
 by Danske Dandridge. Copyright, 1909, by Danske 
 Dandridge. 
 
 Fenollosa, Mary McNeil. — From various sources. Special 
 permission to publish in this volume conferred by 
 the author. 
 
 Gordon, Armistead Churchill. — From " The Ivory Gate," 
 by Armistead Churchill Gordon. New York: Th^^- 
 Neale Publishing Company. Copyright, 1907, by The 
 Neale Publishing Company. 
 
 Gordon, James Lindsay. — From " Ballads of the Sunlit 
 Years," by James Lindsay Gordon. By permission 
 of Armistead Churchill Gordon, the late James Lind- 
 say Gordon's brother, and the representative of his 
 estate. 
 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton. — From various sources, approved 
 by William Hamilton Hayne, who has permitted the 
 use of his late father's poems in this volume. 
 
 Hayne, William Hamilton. — From various sources, from 
 copy approved by the author, who has permitted the 
 publication in this volume of his poems here given. 
 
 Hope, James Barron. — From " A Wreath of Virginia 
 Bay Leaves; Poems by James Barron Hope," selected 
 and edited by his daughter, Janey Hope Marr. Copy- 
 right, 1895, by Janey Hope Marr. 
 
 Hubner, Charles W. — From " Poems," by Charles W. 
 Hubner. New York : The Neale Publishing Company. 
 Copyright, 1906, by The Neale Publishing Company. 
 
 Lanier, Sidney. — " A Ballad of Trees and the Master," 
 from the Independent; " An Evening Song," from 
 Lippincott's Magazine; " Song of the Chattahoochee," 
 Scott's Magazine; " Sunrise," from the Independent; 
 " The Marshes of Glynn," from " The Masque of 
 
NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT 
 
 Poets," and all these poems are contained in " The 
 Poems of Sidney Lanier," compiled by Mary D. 
 Lanier. Copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, 
 and published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. 
 
 McNeill, John Charles. — From " Songs, Merry and Sad," 
 by John Charles McNeill. Copyright, 1906, by John 
 Charles McNeill. 
 
 Malone, Walter. — " October in Tennessee," from '' Poems," 
 by Walter Malone. Copyright, 1904, by Walter Ma- 
 lone; " Opportunity," from " Songs of East and West," 
 by Walter Malone. Copyright, 1906, by Walter Ma- 
 lone. 
 
 Morris, Ida Goldsmith. — " Adrift," from Scribner's Maga- 
 zine; "Childless," from copy supplied by the author; 
 " That Little Chap of Mine," from the Atlanta Con- 
 stitution; "Israel," from copy supplied by the author; 
 " Remembrance," from the National Magazine. 
 
 Peck, Samuel Minturn. — From "Cap and Bells," by Sam- 
 uel Minturn Peck. Copyright, 1886, by White, Stokes 
 & Allen. 
 
 Spalding, John Lancaster. — From " God and the Soul," by 
 John Lancaster Spalding, in whom the copyright is 
 vested, and by whose permission his poems published 
 in this volume are here given. 
 
 Stockard, Henry Jerome. — From "Fugitive Lines," by 
 Henry Jerome Stockard. Copyright, 1897, by Henry 
 Jerome Stockard. 
 
 Tabb, John Banister. — From " Poems," by John Banister 
 Tabb. Copyright, 1894, by Copeland & Day, and now 
 published by Small, Maynard & Company, Boston. 
 
 Ticknor, Francis Orray. — " The Poems of Francis Orray 
 Ticknor," edited and collated by his granddaughter, 
 Michelle Cutliff Ticknor. New York: The Neale 
 
8 NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT 
 
 Publishing Company. Copyright, 191 1, by The Neale 
 Publishing Company. 
 
 Troubetzkoy, Amelie Rives. — " A Mood," copyright, 1887, 
 by Harper & Brothers ; " Before the Rain " and " A 
 Sonnet," copyright, 1887, by Harper & Brothers. 
 These poems were originally published in the Harper 
 magazines. 
 
 Tucker, Beverley Dandridge. — From "My Three Loves," 
 by Beverley Dandridge Tucker. New York: The 
 Neale Publishing Company. Copyright, 1910, by The 
 Neale Publishing Company. 
 
 Wallis, Severn Teackle. — From " The Writings of Severn 
 Teackle Wallis; Memorial Edition; Vol. I, Addresses 
 and Poems." 
 
 Weeden, Howard. — From " Bandanna Ballads," by How- 
 ard Weeden. New York: Doubleday Page & Com- 
 pany. By permission of Miss Kate Weeden, the late 
 Miss Howard Weeden's sister. 
 
 Wyeth, John Allan. — " My Sweetheart's Face," from 
 Harper's Magazine ; "To My Mother," from the Cen- 
 tury Magazine, and later published in " My Sweet- 
 heart's Face and Other Poems," by John Allan Wyeth. 
 
 Young, Martha. — From the Century Magazine. 
 
 The Neale Publishing Company. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 This volume is not meant to be a comprehensive an- 
 thology of Southern verse. Literary milestones, which 
 mark the progress of Southern poetry along the highway 
 that leads to the kingdoms where Poe, Lanier, and their 
 worthy successors are enthroned, properly belong to the 
 Southern anthologies that are museums of history. This 
 work is meant to comprise mainly selections from those 
 lyric masterpieces of the Southern poets that are a part 
 of the living literature of the world. 
 
 Southerners began to write poetry soon after they 
 reached the Land of Song. Captain John Smith brought 
 several persons that were destined to be Southern poets 
 along with him to Virginia. Indeed, his own verse was 
 excellent, and even admirable, for the period, and shows 
 that extraordinary man to have been a student of prosody. 
 The poems of these earlier poets are given in various 
 histories of literature. 
 
 While preparing this volume I read the greater part 
 of the verse of more than one thousand Southern writers. 
 That no great poem might be overlooked, I wrote to all 
 the editors and to all the booksellers of the South, and 
 to many Southern authors, asking them to give to me 
 the names of all the Southern poets of whom they had 
 ever heard. This they nearly all did. Consequently there 
 are poems in this compilation that are to be found in no 
 
 9 
 
10 PREFACE 
 
 other anthology, and great poets, inadequately represented 
 in other works, if at all, are here given considerable space. 
 
 Let him who would take me to task for affirming that 
 Poe and Lanier were succeeded by poets worthy of them 
 have a care. While it is true that Poe was greater than 
 any of the Southern poets of the two centuries that im- 
 mediately preceded him, he was followed by Lanier, who 
 was Poe's inferior at no point. If the days allotted to 
 ordinary mortals had been vouchsafed Lanier he would 
 still be alive. To his generation belong other great 
 Southern poets, — John Banister Tabb, Will Henry Thomp- 
 son, and John Lancaster Spalding, for example, — while 
 Henry Timrod, Theodore O'Hara, and Paul Hamilton 
 Hayne were among the older poets of the period. Now 
 there is a new generation of Southern poets, several of 
 whom bid fair to be Lanier's worthy successors, — nay, 
 even now they are very great poets, and in their day may 
 scale the loftiest peak of Parnassus. The poems of the 
 late John Charles McNeill, who died a few years ago at 
 the unripe age of thirty-three, are destined to live so long 
 as American literature shall endure. Another North 
 Carolinian, the late John Henry Boner, after many years 
 of suffering, was cut off in his prime a few years ago. 
 But his poems will live. 
 
 Among the living Southern poets are several that I feel 
 impelled to single out for particular mention. From them 
 the world may expect great riches. I refer to Amelie 
 Rives Troubetzkoy, Samuel Minturn Peck, Mary McNeil 
 Fenollosa, Danske Dandridge, Madison Julius Cawein, 
 Ingram Crockett, and Ida Goldsmith Morris. There is 
 
PREFACE 11 
 
 still another great young Southern poet, Olive Tilford 
 Dargan, who is entitled to a place among the world's great 
 poets. As her masterpieces are dramas, which are too 
 long for use in this volume, in which poems are given 
 only as a whole, no selection from her works is to be 
 found here. But her dramas, which are published as 
 books, are easily obtainable. There are other living 
 Southern poets that I might especially mention, — such as 
 Armistead Churchill Gordon, Beverley Dandridge Tucker, 
 William Hamilton Hayne, and others, — but I shall let 
 their own fine poems speak for them. 
 
 Although Lanier has been dead more than thirty years, 
 and no copyright has ever existed in many of his poems, 
 his poetical works were collated by his widow a few years 
 ago, then published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, 
 from which house she receives a royalty. Therefore, 
 while this volume contains all the greater poems of Poe, 
 as there seems to be no one to claim any royalty on the 
 publication of his works, in which no copyright now exists, 
 Lanier is not so well represented. But I have been sorely 
 tempted to publish in this work by far the greater part of 
 gentle Sidney's superb creations. 
 
 Here, for the first time, so far as I am aware, the poems 
 of Thomas Jefferson are given a place in any anthology. 
 Yet he wrote poetry that lives and that is widely read in 
 our day. He also wrote " a really admirable treatise on 
 the subject," says Paul Leland Haworth, in The Book- 
 man for August, 1910, the treatise being entitled 
 "Thoughts on English Prosody: An Essay on the Art of 
 Poesy," in which " he took the now accepted view that 
 
.12 PREFACE 
 
 accent is the basis of English verse, and vigorously com- 
 bated Dr. Johnson and others who * have taken quantity 
 for their basis and have mounted English poetry on 
 Greek and Latin feet.' " 
 
 Continuing, Haworth says that Jefferson doubtless had 
 written " Lovely Peggy " at the time. " Of this poem, 
 strange to say, very little is known. Just when, why, or 
 about whom it was written, is uncertain." He then says 
 that the poem is not given in either Washington's or 
 Ford's edition of Jefferson's writings, and that he had 
 been unable to find it mentioned in any life of the Sage. 
 " Neither William E. Curtis nor Thomas Watson, his most 
 recent biographers, had ever heard of it until I called 
 their attention to it. The latter was inclined to question 
 its authenticity until I sent him a facsimile of the original, 
 which is now in the Dreer Collection in the library of 
 the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. Possibly Jeffer- 
 son may have merely copied the poem, as Worthington C. 
 Ford, the court of last appeals in such matters, suggests; 
 but if he did, who was the author? " 
 
 But Paul Leicester Ford evidently knew a great deal 
 about " Lovely Peggy," — so much, in fact, that I do not 
 wonder that Worthington C. Ford should have suggested 
 to Haworth that Jefferson " may have merely copied the 
 poem," — for Haworth goes on to say, " Evidently Paul 
 Leicester Ford, editor of the best edition of Jefferson's 
 writings, recognized its merits, for I feel sure that while 
 writing ' Janice Meredith ' he took it as his model for 
 * Concerning Thalia.' Not only are the meter and most 
 of the rhymes identical, but Ford incorporated some of 
 
PREFACE 13 
 
 Jefferson's lines almost entire. Take, for example, Ford's 
 stanza : 
 
 "'To gaze on her is sweet delight; 
 ** ' 'Tis heaven whene'er she's in my sight, 
 " ' But when she's gone, 'tis endless night — 
 " * All's dark without my Thalia.' 
 
 " Compare this with the fifth stanza of ' Lovely Peggy ' 
 and all doubt vanishes. We must not, however, accuse 
 Ford of plagiarism. Rather, we should praise his poetic 
 and historical discrimination. He wished to put a poem 
 in the mouth of his hero, and what could be better than 
 to model such a poem after one written by an actual per- 
 sonage in the period in which the romance falls?" 
 
 I am unable to see how Haworth could have thus 
 justified Ford's use of Jefferson's masterpiece, without 
 credit to Jefferson, in a footnote, or elsewhere. 
 
 Various conflicting statements with regard to the au- 
 thorship of the poem have been published. Some of these, 
 I found on investigation, were rashly made by " near " 
 authorities. I have no reason to doubt that " Lovely 
 Peggy " was written by Thomas Jefferson. 
 
 Walter Neale. 
 New York, October 8, 19 12. 
 
4 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BoNER^ John Henry (North Carolina: 184^-igos) 23 
 
 Gather Leaves and Grasses 2^^ 
 
 Remembrance 24 
 
 The Moon-Loved Land 25 
 
 The Sweet Little Fool 26 
 
 Bradenbaugii, Charles (Maryland: 18 ) . . 28 
 
 The Cavalier's Serenade 28 
 
 Bruce, Philip Alexander (Virginia: i8§6 ) . 30 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe 30 
 
 Cawein, Madison Julius (Kentucky: 1865 ) . 31 
 
 Attributes 31 
 
 Beautiful-Bosomed, Night 32 
 
 Hymn to Spiritual Desire 34 
 
 Crockett, Ingram (Kentucky: 18^6 ) .... 37 
 
 Orion - • 37 
 
 The Gossips 38 
 
 The Wind 41 
 
 Worship 41 
 
 Dandridge, Danske (Virginia: 18 ) ... 43 
 
 The Dead Moon 43 
 
 The Fairy Camp 46 
 
 The Last Night 46 
 
 Twilight in the Woods 48 
 
 Fenollosa, Mary McNeil (Alabama: 18 ) . 51 
 
 A Drifting Petal 51 
 
 An Old Photograph 51 
 
 Miyoko San 52 
 
 Sunrise in the Hills of Satsuma 53 
 
 15 
 
16 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Finch, Julia Neely (Alabama: i8 ) ... 55 
 
 The Unborn 55 
 
 Gordon, Armistead Churchill (Virginia: 1855 ) 58 
 
 "Ah, Si Jeunesse Savait!" 58 
 
 Enise 60 
 
 Four Feet on a Fender 62 
 
 Gordon, James Lindsay (Virginia: 1860-1^04) . . 65 
 
 Lorraine 65 
 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton (South Carolina: 18^0- 
 
 1886) 68 
 
 A Comparison 68 
 
 A Little While I Fain Would Linger Yet . . 68 
 
 By the Grave of Henry Timrod 70 
 
 Sonnet 73 
 
 My Study 74 
 
 The Mocking-Bird 74 
 
 Hayne, William Hamilton (South Carolina: 
 
 1856 ) 7^ 
 
 At Anchor 76 
 
 A Cyclone at Sea 76 
 
 An Autumn Breeze yy 
 
 Exiles yy 
 
 On a Bust of Mendelssohn 78 
 
 Poem, for the unveiling of the bust of Sidney 
 
 Lanier, at Macon, Ga., October ly, i8po . . 78 
 
 Scandal 80 
 
 Hope, James Barron (Virginia: 1827 - i88y) ... 82 
 
 Three Summer Studies 82 
 
 Howland, Edward (South Carolina: 18^2 -i8po) . 86 
 
 The Condemned 86 
 
 HuBNER, Charles W. (Georgia: 18^5 ) ... 88 
 
 Fm Growing Old 88 
 
CONTENTS 17 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Quatrains — 89 
 
 The World 89 
 
 Duty 89 
 
 Fame 90 
 
 When We Were Twenty-one 90 
 
 Jefferson, Thomas (Virginia: 1/4^ - 1826) ... 92 
 
 Lovely Peggy 92 
 
 Key, Francis Scott (Maryland: 1/80-1843) . . 94 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner 94 
 
 Lanier, Sidney (Georgia: 1842 - 1881) .... 96 
 
 A Ballad of Trees and The Master .... 96 
 
 An Evening Song 97 
 
 Song of the Chattahoochee 97 
 
 Sunrise 99 
 
 The Marshes of Glynn 108 
 
 Legare, James Matthews (South Carolina: 1823- 
 
 1S59) 114 
 
 To a Lily 114 
 
 McNeill, John Charles (North Carolina: 18/4- 
 
 1907) 116 
 
 A Christmas Hymn 116 
 
 A Few Days Off 117 
 
 Dawn 118 
 
 The Bride 119 
 
 The Rattlesnake 120 
 
 The Wife 121 
 
 Trifles 122 
 
 Valentine 123 
 
 Two Pictures 124 
 
 Malone, Walter (Mississippi: 1866 ) . . . 126 
 
 October in Tennessee 126 
 
 Opportunity 127 
 
18 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Miles, George Henry (Maryland: 1824-18/1) . . 129 
 
 Said the Rose 129 
 
 Morris, Ida Goldsmith (Kentucky: 18 -) . . 133 
 
 Adrift 133 
 
 Childless 133 
 
 That Little Chap of Mine 135 
 
 Israel 136 
 
 Remembrance 137 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore (Kentucky: 1820-186/) . . . 138 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 138 
 
 Page, H. F. (North Carolina: 18/ j ) .... 142 
 
 The Last Night at Appomattox 142 
 
 Palmer, John Williamson (Maryland: 182^-18^6) 143 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way 143 
 
 Peck, Samuel Minturn (Alabama: 18^4 ) . . 146 
 
 Bessie Brown, M. D 146 
 
 Dollie 148 
 
 Lillian's Fan 149 
 
 The Grapevine Szving 151 
 
 Piatt, Sarah Morgan Bryan (Kentucky: 18 ) 154 
 
 The Witch in the Glass 154 
 
 Pinkney, Edward Coate (Maryland: 1802- 1828) 155 
 
 A Health 155 
 
 The Serenade 157 
 
 PoE, Edgar Allan (Virginia: i8op-i84p) . . . 158 
 
 A Dream Within a Dream 158 
 
 Annabel Lee 159 
 
 Bridal Ballad 161 
 
 For Annie 162 
 
 Israfel 166 
 
 Lenore 168 
 
 The Bells 170 
 
CONTENTS 19 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The City in the Sea 175 
 
 The Conqueror Worm 177 
 
 The Haunted Palace 178 
 
 The Raven 180 
 
 The Sleeper 188 
 
 The Valley of Unrest 191 
 
 To Helen 192 
 
 To One in Paradise 192 
 
 Ulalume 193 
 
 Prentice, George Denison (Kentucky: 1802-18/0) 198 
 The Closing Year 198 
 
 Preston, Margaret Junkin (Virginia: 1820- i8gy) 202 
 
 Flood-Tide 202 
 
 The Angel Unazvare 202 
 
 JVe Two 204 
 
 Randall, James Ryder (Maryland: i8^Q-igo8) . 205 
 My Maryland 205 
 
 Russell, Irwin (Mississippi : 18 j^ - i8'/g) . . . 209 
 The Origin of the Banjo 209 
 
 Ryan, Abram Joseph (Virginia: 18^9-1886) . . 212 
 
 The Conquered Banner 212 
 
 The Sword of Robert Lee 214 
 
 Sass, George Herbert (South Carolina: 184^- ipo8) 216 
 In a King-Cambyses Vein 216 
 
 Spalding, John Lancaster (Kentucky: 1840 ) . 219 
 
 At the Ninth Hour 219 
 
 Death's Grand Avenue 220 
 
 The Praise of Men 220 
 
 The Spirit of Morning 221 
 
 The Starry Host 222 
 
 Stanton, Frank Lebby (South Carolina: 18^/ ) 223 
 
 Little Elaine 223 
 
m CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Stockard, Henry Jerome (North Carolina: 1858 ) 224 
 
 Shakespeare 224 
 
 As Some Mysterious Wanderer of the Skies . . 224 
 
 Tabb, John Banister (Virginia: 1845- igog) . . 226 
 
 A Cradle-Song 226 
 
 Fern Song 227 
 
 Keats 227 
 
 Magdalen 228 
 
 O'erspent 229 
 
 On the Forthcoming Volume of Sidney Lanier's 
 
 Poems 229 
 
 Solitude 229 
 
 The Bubble 230 
 
 The Druid 230 
 
 The Plaint of the Rose 231 
 
 Thompson, Will Henry (Georgia: 1848 ) . . 232 
 
 The High Tide at Gettysburg 232 
 
 Ticknor, Francis Orray (Georgia: 1822- 18/4) . 2^6 
 
 Little Giffen 236 
 
 The Sword in the Sea 237 
 
 Timrod, Henry (South Carolina: i82p - 186/) . . 239 
 
 At Magnolia Cemetery 239 
 
 Hymn [Sung at the consecration of Magnolia 
 
 Cemetery, Charleston, S. C] 240 
 
 Sonnets 241 
 
 Troubetzkoy, Amelie Rives (Virginia: i86j ) . 244 
 
 A Mood 244 
 
 Before the Rain 245 
 
 A Sonnet 247 
 
 Tucker, Beverley Dandridge (Virginia: 1846 ) -248 
 
 The Rhone and the Arve 248 
 
CONTENTS 21 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wallis, Severn Teackle (Maryland: 1816-18Q4) 257 
 
 Dejection 257 
 
 The Curfew 259 
 
 Weeden, Howard (Alabama: 18 ) .... 260 
 
 Mammy's Lullaby 260 
 
 The Old Boatman 260 
 
 Two Lovers and Lizette 261 
 
 Welby, Amelia Coppuck (Maryland: 181Q-1852) . 263 
 Twilight at Sea 263 
 
 Wyeth, John Allan (Alabama: 1845 ) . , . 264 
 
 My Sweetheart's Face 264 
 
 To My Mother 265 
 
 Young, Martha (Alabama: 18 ) .... 266 
 
 God's Li'l' Jewelry 266 
 
 Index of Titles 271 
 
 Index of First Lines 274 
 
JOHN HENRY BONER 
 
 JOHN HENRY BONER 
 
 (North Carolina: 1845-1903) 
 
 GATHER LEAVES AND GRASSES 
 
 Gather leaves and grasses, 
 
 Love, to-day. 
 For the autumn passes 
 
 Soon away. 
 Chilly winds are blowing. 
 It will soon be snowing. 
 
 Fill the vacant places 
 
 With them, dear. 
 And the empty vases. 
 
 Brown and sere 
 Sprays and leaves yet hold 
 Glints of summer's gold. 
 
 In the drear December 
 
 When it snows. 
 And the dying ember 
 
 Faintly glows. 
 Leaf and spray may bring 
 Thoughts of rosy spring. 
 
24 JOHN HENRY BONER 
 
 Ah, we fondly cherish 
 
 Faded things 
 That had better perish. 
 
 Memory clings 
 To each leaf it saves. 
 Chilly winds are blowing, 
 It will soon be snowing 
 
 On our graves. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 I THINK that we retain of our dead friends 
 And absent ones no general portraiture; 
 That perfect memory does not long endure. 
 But fades and fades until our own life ends. 
 Unconsciously, forgetfulness attends 
 That grief for which there is no other cure. 
 But leaves of each lost one some record sure, — 
 A look, an act, a tone, — something that lends 
 Relief and consolation, not regret. 
 Even that poor mother mourning her dead child. 
 Whose agonizing eyes with tears are wet, 
 Whose bleeding heart can not be reconciled 
 Unto the grave's embrace, — even she shall yet 
 Remember only when her babe first smiled. 
 
JOHN HENRY BONER £5 
 
 THE MOON-LOVED LAND 
 
 No lovelier song was ever heard 
 Than the notes of the Southern Mocking-Bird 
 When leaf and blossom are wet with dew 
 And the wind breathes low the long night through. 
 O music for grief ! It comes like a song 
 From a voice in the stars; and all night long 
 The notes flow. But you must live in the South, 
 Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth 
 The land she loves, in the secret of night, 
 To hear such music, — the soul-delight 
 Of the Moon-Loved Land. 
 
 When gentle twilight softly closes 
 The door of day, and the sun-fed roses 
 Lavishly sweeten the air, you will hear 
 That wonderful song — now low — now clear — 
 Till the silvery moon flushed red goes down 
 On silent country and sleeping town. 
 O the lovers are fond in the groves of the South 
 When the large moon kisses with grand sweet mouth 
 The land she loves; and love has romance 
 And is more than vow and wedding and dance 
 In the Moon-Loved Land. 
 
26 JOHN HENRY BONER 
 
 THE SWEET LITTLE FOOL 
 (The Lament) 
 
 I WAS a fool ! 
 When he looked at me I hung my head 
 
 And caught at a blossoming weed. 
 When he spoke I felt my face turn red 
 
 As if it would bleed, 
 And when I dared look up again 
 He had turned the bend in the lane. 
 
 I was a fool — 
 For I waited there by the field of clover 
 
 Trying my love with a daisy, 
 And softly saying over and over 
 
 "Surely he must be crazy — 
 Not to see that I love him ! " Why 
 Did I let him pass ! O, because I — 
 I was a fool — that's why ! 
 Blow sweet wind, he will come again — 
 And I will be walking in the lane. 
 
 I was a fool ! 
 O shame, shame — I burn with shame ! 
 
 Why was I so silly? 
 Again I waited, and he came 
 
 Riding his cream-white filly 
 
JOHN HENRY BONER 27 
 
 And whistling, and when he tipt his hat 
 
 I laughed and said " Oh, how glossy and fat 
 
 Is your pretty filly ! " 
 He only blushed. No wonder — for me, 
 That a country girl so forward should be. 
 
 (The Sequel) 
 
 Last night when the moon hung low 
 
 Across the field of clover. 
 She whispered, " I love you so 
 
 It is sweet to say it over 
 And over again, close to your face, — 
 But I have neither beauty nor grace. 
 I can't believe that you love me ! I — 
 But if you do, now, tell me why ! " 
 
 He answers, as he gently draws 
 
 Her lips to his . . . *' I love you because 
 
 You're a sweet little fool." 
 
CHARLES BRADENBAUGH 
 
 CHARLES BRADENBAUGH 
 
 (Maryland: i8 ) 
 
 THE CAVALIER'S SERENADE 
 
 [From the papers of the late Charles Bradenbaugh, 
 and published in The Southern Literary Messenger, April, 
 1864.] 
 
 Yon silent star his flashing shield 
 
 Hangs on the welkin steep, 
 While he and I alone afield 
 
 Watch o'er my darling's sleep. 
 
 Of the South wind dreams the lily-bell. 
 
 And the woodbine of the bee — 
 O faithful star, look in and tell, 
 
 Does my rose-bud dream of me? 
 
 Beneath that bosom's sweet unrest. 
 
 What dainty fancies bide, — 
 As folded in a flowret's breast 
 
 The prisoned odors hide. 
 
 Yet at my voice these phantoms pass 
 
 And melt in tender fear, 
 Like fairies on the moon-lit grass 
 
 A distant step who hear. 
 
CHARLES BRADENBAUGH 29 
 
 O fettered bird ! O startled fawn ! 
 
 Thee wait I to behold, 
 As happy clouds await the dawn 
 
 That turns their locks to gold. 
 
 Awake, blithe nature's playmate fair ! — • 
 
 All darkness she beguiles, 
 Who scatters on the longing air 
 
 The largess of such smiles ! 
 
 Almost I feel as if it might 
 
 Thy timid beauty wrong 
 To weave — O chaplet of delight! — 
 
 Thy graces into song. 
 
 The chant of brooks in forest dark, 
 
 The night song of the sea. 
 The airy lyric of the lark. 
 
 Thy minstrelsy should be ! 
 
30 PHILIP ALEXANDER BRUCE 
 
 PHILIP ALEXANDER BRUCE 
 
 (Virginia: 1856 ) 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Time weighs the destinies that men befall, 
 
 Bestows new laurels, turns the green to sere. 
 
 Too oft no honors soothe the poet here : 
 
 But when his Shade has passed into the Hall 
 
 Of Death we hear Fame's trumpet sound through all 
 
 The avenues of this terrestrial sphere, — 
 
 A blare that stirs no more the withered ear, 
 
 But makes men pause to list the lofty call 
 
 To pay full homage to a slighted name, 
 
 And genius long o'erlooked with fire acclaim. 
 
 Thus, melancholy, taciturn, forlorn, 
 
 Poe went his way through thorns and rocks and sand 
 
 Lo ! Fortune gave him then her empty hand. 
 
 But for him dead she pours her amplest horn. 
 
MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 31 
 
 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 
 
 (Kentucky: 1865 ) 
 
 ATTRIBUTES 
 
 I SAW the daughters of the Dawn come dancing o'er the 
 hills: 
 The wind of Morn danced with them, oh, and all the 
 elves of air: 
 I saw their ribboned roses blow, their gowns of daffodils, 
 As over eyes of sapphire tossed the wild gold of their 
 hair. 
 
 I saw the summer of their feet imprint the earth with 
 dew, 
 And all the wildflowers open eyes in joy and wonder- 
 ment: 
 I saw the sunlight of their hands waved at each bird that 
 flew. 
 And all the birds, as with one voice, to their wild love 
 gave vent. 
 
 " And, oh ! " I said, " how fair you are ! how fair ! how 
 very fair ! — 
 Oh, leap, my heart ! and laugh, my heart ! as laughs 
 and leaps the Dawn ! — 
 
32 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 
 
 Mount with the* lark and sing with him and cast away 
 your care ! 
 For love and life are come again and night and sor- 
 
 row gone 
 
 I saw the acolytes of Eve, the mystic sons of Night, 
 Come pacing through the ancient wood in hoods of 
 hodden-gray 
 Their somber cloaks were pinned with stars, and each 
 one bore a light, 
 A moony lanthorn, and a staff to help him on his way. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED, O NIGHT 
 
 I 
 
 Beautiful-Bosomed, O Night, in thy noon 
 Move with majesty onward! soaring, as lightly 
 As a singer may soar the notes of an exquisite tune, 
 The stars and the moon 
 
 Through the clerestories high of the heaven, the firma- 
 ment's halls : 
 Under whose sapphirine walls, 
 June, hesperian June, 
 
 Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightly 
 The turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star, 
 The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are. 
 
MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 33 
 
 Fill the land with languorous light and perfume. — 
 
 Is it the melody mute of burgeoning leaf and of bloom? 
 
 The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloom 
 
 Immaterial hosts 
 
 Of spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep, 
 
 Whom I hear, whom I hear? 
 
 With their sighs of silver and pearl? 
 
 Invisible ghosts, — 
 
 Each sigh a shadowy girl, — 
 
 Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hover 
 
 In color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the 
 
 deep 
 World-soul of the mother, 
 Nature; who over and over, — 
 Both sweetheart and lover, — 
 Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the 
 
 other. 
 
 II 
 
 Lo ! 'tis her songs that appear, appear, 
 In forest and field, on hill-land and lea, 
 As visible harmony, 
 Materialized melody. 
 
 Crystallized beauty, that out of the atmosphere 
 Utters itself, in wonder and mystery. 
 Peopling with glimmering essence the hyaline far and 
 the near. . . . 
 
34 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 
 
 III 
 
 Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blossoms from 
 
 flower and tree ! 
 In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist, 
 In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst, 
 Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster, 
 Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical mas- 
 ter.— 
 O music of Earth ! O God, who the music inspired ! 
 Let me breathe of the life of thy breath ! 
 And so be fulfilled and attired 
 In resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death ! 
 
 HYMN TO SPIRITUAL DESIRE 
 I 
 
 Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers 
 
 Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers. 
 
 Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow, 
 
 Thou comest mysterious. 
 
 In beauty imperious. 
 
 Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we 
 
 know: 
 Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken. 
 Helplessly shaken and tossed, 
 And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken, 
 My lips, unsatisfied, thirst; 
 Mine eyes are accurst 
 
MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 35 
 
 With longings for visions that far in the night are for- 
 saken ; 
 And mine ears, in listening lost, 
 Yearn, waiting the note of a chord that will never awaken. 
 
 II 
 
 Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and 
 
 far,— 
 Resonant bar upon bar, — 
 The vibrating lyre 
 
 Of the spirit responds with melodious fire. 
 As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake. 
 With laughter and ache, 
 
 The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung, 
 Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded of mire. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire ! 
 Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of 
 
 Love! 
 Make of my heart an Israfel burning above, 
 A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, 
 
 but stammer ! 
 Smite every rapturous wire 
 
 With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor. 
 Crying — " Awake ! awake ! " 
 Too long hast thou slumbered ! too far from the regions 
 
 of glamour 
 
36 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 
 
 With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the 
 
 spar-sprung. 
 Hast thou wandered away, O Heart ! 
 Come, oh, come and partake 
 Of necromance banquets of Beauty; and slake 
 Thy thirst in the waters of Art, 
 That are drawn from the streams 
 Of love and of dreams. 
 
 IV 
 
 '* Come, oh, come ! 
 No longer shall language be dumb ! 
 Thy vision shall grasp — 
 As one doth the glittering hasp 
 
 Of a sword made splendid with gems and with gold — 
 The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate 
 
 of it merely. 
 And out of the stark 
 Eternity, awful and dark, 
 Immensity silent and cold, — 
 
 Universe-shaking as trumpets, or cymbaling metals, 
 Imperious; yet pensive and pearly 
 And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals, 
 Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early, — 
 The majestic music of God, where He plays 
 On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days." 
 
INGRAM CROCKETT 37 
 
 INGRAM CROCKETT 
 
 (Kentucky: 1856 ) 
 
 ORION 
 
 The splendor of Silence, — of snow- jeweled hills and of 
 
 ice, 
 And the shield of Auriza aflame with its starry device, 
 And Sirius fair with a beauty and youth as of one 
 Untiring and eager, and swift for the race to be run. 
 
 The mystical reaches of space and the cosmical cries 
 Of a star that is born, of a star that all desolate dies — 
 And ever the follow and cry and the echoes that keep. 
 For the dreamer of dreams, the voices of deep unto deep. 
 
 At the call of the Hunter, bright-belted and King of them 
 
 all. 
 Who scatters the aeons, as dewdrops, unheeding their fall. 
 The soul of the watcher upsprings to follow, follow the 
 
 chase 
 To the striving and death of far worlds in the fiery race. 
 
38 INGRAM CROCKETT 
 
 To the fields of an infinite whirling of flakes of new fire, 
 
 That scatter and ceaselessly come with a quenchless de- 
 sire 
 
 To be shaped, to be on where the mightier ones are 
 away — 
 
 Far flaming through deathless night in the glory of death- 
 less day. 
 
 Till he come to the purpose of all, till the Hunter is dead, 
 And his ashes are lost, and another cries hollo ! instead, — 
 Till he come to the Place of the Purpose, and, dauntlessly 
 
 free. 
 He taketh his quarry of Light, of Truth, and of Beauty to 
 
 Be. 
 
 THE GOSSIPS 
 
 In Death's dark wood two cedars stood; 
 
 Each nodded o'er a grave, 
 The wind blew shrill, the snow fell chill 
 
 Before the wintry wave. 
 
 " When I was young," said one, whose tongue 
 
 Was like a sobbing sigh, 
 " The way was new, the dead were few — 
 
 This was the first to die. 
 
INGRAM CROCKETT 39 
 
 " And here by her, in April's blur 
 Of misty green and red, 
 They planted me — that I might be 
 Companion to the dead. 
 
 "By night, by day, so still she lay; 
 She was a little thing: 
 Yet oft I thought she must have caught 
 My lonely whispering. 
 
 " Then one by one, in cloud and sun, 
 With mourning and with tears, 
 The small and great in solemn state 
 Came with the passing years. 
 
 " The wood grew trim, and passing prim 
 The formal pathways ran — 
 And many a shaft was epitaphed 
 With pride and prayers of man." 
 
 The other torn by storms and worn, 
 Wailed in a laughter wild: 
 " Ere you," he said, " an older dead 
 In heaps lay here defiled. 
 
 " The tainted dust, a yellow crust. 
 Was thick on every leaf; 
 By plague laid waste, they came in haste — 
 There was no time for grief. 
 
40 INGRAM CROCKETT 
 
 " Oft in the night, or dawn's wan Hght, 
 Or in the sickening heat, 
 They came, they came — the land was flame, 
 The Hving scarce did eat. 
 
 "To priest or creed they paid small heed; 
 The quickly hollowed ground — 
 The trampled sod, the falling clod. 
 The raw unsightly mound. 
 
 " At twilight dim they came with him 
 Whose dust beneath me lies, 
 Hid none too soon — a ghastly moon 
 Was in the sullen skies. 
 
 " That midnight drear a form drew near, 
 A stricken, slender shape, 
 With moaning sound and clasped the mound - 
 The sunken graves did gape. 
 
 " And once again, unseen of men. 
 She came and weeping made 
 A place for me in memory 
 Of him who had betrayed. 
 
 "And then one day when earth was gay. 
 And flowers bestrewed this spot, — 
 They brought her in, a thing of sin. 
 Her grave is long forgot." 
 
INGRAM CROCKETT 41 
 
 THE WIND 
 
 The way of the wind is a strange, wild way, 
 
 As over the clover he goes; 
 Listen, and you shall hear him play 
 
 Quaint ditties he only knows, — 
 Melodies waking the clover to sway 
 
 And dimpling the pink wild-rose. 
 
 For the wind is mad with the old, old spell 
 
 That was cast in the morn of Time; 
 That poets have ever been fain to tell 
 
 In the ripple and flow of rhyme. 
 List, to the long sweet lisping swell, 
 
 And the sudden silvery chime. 
 
 And the wind has listened to Merlin there. 
 
 In his mystic place by the sea, 
 And the wild-rose, blushing, would better take care, 
 
 For the wind is a lover free — 
 And when he sings softly beware, beware 
 
 The song and the witchery. 
 
 WORSHIP 
 
 Not where men congregate to talk of God, 
 And thunder forth their dogmas in His name, 
 
 But here, my heart, where silken bluebells nod 
 And rosy redbuds flame. 
 
42 INGRAM CROCKETT 
 
 Here where the wind, His spirit, prayeth low, 
 And Spring each word of ministry fulfills 
 
 In bud and bloom, with green-and-golden glow 
 Crowning the prophet hills. 
 
 Where root, and twig, and bough obey His will, 
 And every leaf has its appointed place, — 
 
 And all the trees are waiting, reverent, still; 
 His never-faiHng grace. 
 
DANSKE DANDRIDGE 43 
 
 DANSKE DANDRIDGE 
 
 (Virginia: i8 ) 
 
 THE DEAD MOON 
 
 We are ghost-ridden : 
 
 Through the deep night 
 Wanders a spirit, 
 Noiseless and white. 
 Loiters not, lingers not, knoweth not rest; 
 Ceaselessly haunting the East and the West. 
 
 She, whose undoing the ages have wrought. 
 Moves on to the time of God's rhythmical thought. 
 In the dark, swinging sea. 
 
 As she speedeth through space, 
 She reads her pale image; 
 
 The wounds are agape on her face, 
 She sees her grim nakedness 
 
 Pierced by the eyes 
 Of the Spirits of God 
 
 In their flight through the skies. 
 (Her wounds they are many and hollow.) 
 
 The Earth turns and wheels as she flies. 
 And this Specter, this Ancient, must follow. 
 
U DANSKE DANDRIDGE 
 
 When, in the aeons, 
 
 Had she beginning? 
 What is her story? 
 
 What was her sinning? 
 Do the ranks of the Holy Ones 
 
 Know of her crime? 
 Does it loom in the mists 
 
 Of the birthplace of Time? 
 The stars, do they speak of her 
 
 Under their breath, 
 "Will this Wraith be forever 
 
 Thus restless in death?" 
 On, through immensity, 
 
 Sliding and stealing, 
 On, through infinity, 
 
 Nothing revealing. 
 
 I see the fond lovers; 
 They walk in her light; 
 
 They charge the " soft maiden " 
 To bless their love-plight. 
 
 Does she laugh in her place, 
 
 As she glideth through space? 
 Does she laugh in her orbit with never a sound? 
 
 That to her, a dead body, 
 With nothing but rents in her round — 
 
 Blighted and marred. 
 
 Wrinkled and scarred, 
 
DANSKE DANDRIDGE 45 
 
 Barren and cold, 
 
 Wizened and old — 
 
 That to her should be told, 
 That to her should be sung 
 The yearning and burning of them that are young? 
 
 Our Earth that is young, 
 
 That is throbbing with life, 
 Has fiery upheavals, 
 
 Has boisterous strife; 
 But she that is dead has no stir, breathes no air; 
 She is calm, she is voiceless, in lonely despair. 
 We dart through the void; 
 
 We have cries, we have laughter; 
 The phantom that haunts us 
 
 Comes silently after. 
 This Ghost-lady follows. 
 
 Though none hear her tread; 
 On, on, we are flying, 
 
 Still tracked by our Dead — 
 By this white, awful Mystery,' 
 
 Haggard and dead. 
 
4f6 DANSKE DANDRIDGE 
 
 THE FAIRY CAMP 
 
 What did I see in the woods to-day ? 
 
 I saw a fairies' gipsy camp. 
 The tents were toadstools, brown and gray, 
 
 Among the bracken, soiled and damp. 
 I called on a cowslip 'mid the green, 
 
 And borrowed a bit of fairy gold. 
 And then I found the Gipsy Queen, 
 
 And so I had my fortune told. 
 
 Ah, yes, she told me a secret true, 
 
 That wild-eyed gipsy, brown and red; 
 But I may not tell it out to you, 
 
 For that would break the charm, she said. 
 And if you seek them by yourself 
 
 You will not find that strolling band; 
 They have pilfered the wild bees' hoarded pelf. 
 
 And flitted away to another land. 
 
 THE LAST NIGHT 
 
 Ah ! how she trembles when the night is long. 
 And, sitting idle in her old armchair. 
 
 She hears the rude wind shout his drunken song, 
 While thoughts that sleep in light and only dare 
 
 To walk, like ghosts, on wildest nights forlorn. 
 
 Hold ghostly counsel till the breaking morn. 
 
DANSKE DANDRIDGE 4^ 
 
 Thus, like the clangor of alarum-bells 
 
 When on a sleeping town the rabble springs, 
 
 A ringing in her pulses sinks and swells. 
 
 And times the song the Bacchant Tempest sings: 
 
 Thus beats the hurried tocsin in her brain. 
 
 And all her soul is sacked by Fear again. 
 
 " Wild night ! wild fear ! strong love, and stronger sin ! 
 
 Ah! recompense too just for me to bear! 
 The casement shudders back, It flutters in: 
 
 The trembling shadow of my guilt is there; 
 In from the sleet, the night, the uproar wild; 
 My shame and my despair — my child, my child ! 
 
 " O little form that I may never fold ! 
 
 Beyond my empty arms my baby stands. 
 It sobs, it cries, it shivers with the cold: 
 
 Its eyes are his: it wrings its tiny hands. 
 Ah God, my baby, that may never rest 
 In dewy slumber on my guilty breast ! 
 
 " It was not I, thou little ghost, not I : 
 
 I slept as one who would not wake again: 
 
 They stole thee in my sleep. I could not die. 
 But woke to loss and emptiness and pain. 
 
 O heinous crime to save an honored name, 
 
 That none might point a finger at my shame. 
 
48 DANSKE DANDRIDGE 
 
 " Here in my bosom burns a fiery tide 
 No velvet baby lips will suck away. 
 
 cruel hurt of love! O hellish pride! 
 
 O murdered baby, take your eyes away ! 
 Thou weary child no mother-love can warm, 
 Flit out into the night, the sleet, the storm. 
 
 " The wind is wilder. Ah, Christ, let me die ! 
 
 O Tempest, blow away my feeble breath ! 
 In some hid cavern with my child to lie — 
 
 O sudden hope that gives me strength for death ! 
 
 She leaves the chair ; she wanders far from home : 
 " I come, my little lonely one, I come ! 
 
 1 reach the river: Oh, 'tis cold; but thou 
 Art colder still, and I am with thee now ! " 
 
 TWILIGHT IN THE WOODS 
 
 The hour for praise has come again, 
 Within these arches, tall and dim, 
 
 And all the forest is a fane 
 
 Where Nature sings her vesper hymn, 
 
 With birds and insects and the breeze 
 
 To voice her glad solemnities. 
 
 Here, at the ending of the day, 
 The Locust folds her leaves to pray; 
 
DANSKE DANDRIDGE 49 
 
 The bees that cheered her all along 
 Fly homeward with an even-song: 
 The Oak is at his orisons : 
 The stream with whispered chanting runs: 
 
 The Lady Birch and Alder trees 
 Do tell their beads like veiled nuns, 
 
 With hanging vines for rosaries: 
 The flowers with meek petition rise 
 And lift to Heaven appealing eyes; 
 Sweet eyes, all dimmed with holy tears 
 
 To-morrow's sun will kiss away: 
 Thus the sad spirit, worn with fears, 
 
 When darkness shrouds the glimmering day, 
 Succumbs to weariness and pain. 
 To smile when sunlight comes again. 
 Now stirs the blast, and from each tree 
 Responds a murmured litany: 
 Then — silence: till the reverent hush 
 Is broken by the tranquil thrush, — 
 Fit preacher for these solitudes, 
 Benignant hermit of the woods. 
 
 " Peace ! " speaks the lofty bird. " Be still. 
 Learn loving, and the Maker's will." 
 His pulpit is an ancient tree. 
 Draped with large creepers decently; 
 From which he cries his parting word: 
 " O holy, holy, holy Lord ! " 
 
50 DANSKE DANDRIDGE 
 
 Follows with tones of yearning love, 
 The benediction of the dove: 
 After, — the service comes to end, 
 And on my homeward way I wend 
 As one who walks within the Veil, 
 Or sees, bright-orbed, the Holy Grail, 
 And feels, as 't were, an aureole 
 Of chastened rapture crown his soul. 
 
MARY McNEIL FENOLLOSA 51 
 
 MARY McNEIL FENOLLOSA 
 
 (Alabama: i8 ) 
 
 A DRIFTING PETAL 
 
 If I, athirst by a stream, should kneel 
 With never a blossom or bud in sight, 
 Till down on the theme of its liquid night 
 The moon-white tip of a sudden keel, 
 
 A fairy boat. 
 Should dawn and float 
 To my hand, as only the Gods deserve, 
 The cloud-like curve, 
 The loosened sheaf. 
 The ineffable pink of a lotus leaf, — 
 I should know, I should feel, that far away 
 On the dimpled rim of a brighter day 
 A thought had blossomed, and shaken free 
 One sheath of its innermost soul for me. 
 
 AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH 
 
 Out from its casket of pungent calf. 
 Out from the strata of yellowing leaves 
 
 I startled a picture, — a photograph 
 
 Hid like a fern, in the old world's sleeves. 
 
52 MARY McNeil fenollosa 
 
 I caught it, and stared with my heart at bay 
 
 Sweet eyes ! Sweet lips ! And a smile like light ! 
 
 The face, as a rose, in its dew-dream lay, 
 How could she know of the coming night? 
 
 Why should I shrink from her unknown fears? 
 
 I am a woman, and proud and cold. 
 I'm done with shrinking, and done with tears. 
 
 Who weeps on the pictured face I hold? 
 
 Why should I rise, with a sudden start, 
 Seeking a mirror; with eyes flashed keen 
 
 From one to the other? Oh! withered heart! 
 And the row of grimacing ghosts between ! 
 
 MIYOKO SAN 
 
 Snare me the soul of a dragon-fly, 
 The jeweled heart of a dew-tipped spray, 
 
 A star's quick eye. 
 
 Or the scarlet cry 
 Of a lonely wing on a dawn-lit bay. 
 
 Then add the gleam of a golden fan, 
 
 And I will paint you Miyoko San. 
 
 Find me the thought of a rose, at sight 
 Of her own pale face in a fawning stream, 
 
 The polished night 
 
 Of a crow's slow flight. 
 
MARY McNEIL FENOLLOSA 53 
 
 And the long, sweet grace of a willow's dream. 
 Then add the droop of a golden fan, 
 And I will paint you Miyoko San. 
 
 Lure me a lay from a sunbeam's throat, 
 The chant of bees in a perfumed lair, 
 Or a single note 
 Gone mad to float 
 To its own sweet death in the upper air. 
 Then add the click of a golden fan, 
 And I have painted Miyoko San. 
 
 SUNRISE IN THE HILLS OF SATSUMA 
 
 The day unfolds Hke a lotus bloom. 
 
 Pink at the tip and gold at the core, 
 Rising up swiftly through waters of gloom 
 That lave night's shore. 
 
 Down bamboo-stalks the sunbeams slide. 
 
 Darting like glittering elves at play, 
 To the thin arched grass where crickets hide 
 And sing all day. 
 
 The old crows caw from the camphor boughs. 
 
 They have builded there for a thousand years; 
 Their nestlings stir in a huddled drowse 
 To pipe shrill fears. 
 
54 MARY McNeil fenollosa 
 
 A white fox creeps to his home in the hill, 
 
 A small gray ape peers up at the sun; 
 Crickets and sunbeams are quarreling still; 
 Day has begun. 
 
JULIA NEELY FINCH 55 
 
 JULIA NEELY FINCH 
 
 (Alabama: i8— ) 
 
 THE UNBORN 
 
 Thou art my very own, 
 
 A part of me, 
 
 Bone of my bone 
 
 And flesh of my flesh. 
 
 And thou shalt be 
 
 Heart of my heart 
 
 And brain of brain — 
 
 In years that are to come to me and thee. 
 
 Before thou wast a being, made 
 
 Of spirit, as of flesh, 
 
 Thou didst sleep beneath the beats 
 
 Of my tumultuous heart, and drink, 
 
 With little aimless lips 
 
 And blind, unseeing eyes. 
 
 From every bursting vein 
 
 Replete with life's abundant flood. 
 
 Ay ! even of my very breath, 
 
 And from my blood 
 
 Thou didst imbibe the fresh 
 
56 JULIA NEELY FINCH 
 
 And glorious air, that holds the sweets 
 Of nature's sure and slow eclipse; 
 That ceaseless round of life and death 
 Which are the close entwined braid 
 Of all the seasons' subtle mesh 
 And endless chain. 
 
 In a soft and silken chamber set apart — 
 
 Here, just beneath my happy heart, — 
 
 Thou didst lie at dreamy ease 
 
 While all my being paid 
 
 Its tribute unto thee. 
 
 What happy hours for thee and me ! 
 
 As when a bird 
 
 Broods on its downy nest — 
 
 So would I sit 
 
 And watch the flit 
 
 Of idle shadows to and fro, 
 
 And brood upon my treasure hid 
 
 Within my willing flesh. 
 
 And when there stirred 
 
 A little limb, — a tiny hand ! — 
 
 What rapturous thrills of ecstasy 
 
 Shook all my being to its inmost citadel ! 
 
 Ah ! none but she who has borne 
 
 A child beneath her breast may know 
 
 What wondrous thrill and subtle spell 
 
 Comes from this wondrous woven band 
 
JULIA NEELY FINCH 57 
 
 That binds a mother to her unborn child 
 Within her womb. 
 As in the earth — 
 That fragrant tomb 
 Of all that lives, or man or beast — 
 Soft blossoms bud and bloom and swell, 
 So didst thou from my body gain 
 Sweet sustenance and royal feast. 
 
 Then through the gates of priceless pain 
 
 Thou camest to me — fair, so fair. 
 
 And so complete 
 
 From rose-tipped feet 
 
 To silken hair ! 
 
 And there beneath each pearly lid, 
 
 There glowed a jewel — passing rare! 
 
 It moves and breathes ! It slakes its thirst 
 
 At my all-abundant breast ! 
 
 Oh, moment born of life — of love! 
 
 Oh, rapture of all earth's high, high above! 
 
 Three lives in one — 
 
 By loving won ! 
 
 My own — and thine — 
 
 Oh, bond divine ! 
 
 Our little child! Our little child! 
 
58 ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 
 
 ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 
 
 (Virginia : 1855 ) 
 
 "AH, SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT!" 
 
 Had Youth but known some years ago, 
 That freckled-faced small girls would grow, 
 
 In most astounding way. 
 To lovely women in whose eyes 
 The light a man most longs for lies — 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
 Had Youth but known — my youth, I mean, 
 That you would walk as regnant queen 
 
 Of hearts in this new day — 
 That elfin locks could change to curls 
 Softer than any other girl's — 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
 Had youth but known the time would come 
 When I should stand, abashed and dumb, 
 
 With not one word to say, 
 Before you, whom in days gone by 
 I'd tease until you could but cry — 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 59 
 
 I little dreamed in those old days 
 Of undeveloped, winning ways 
 
 To wile men's hearts away — 
 When wading in the brook with you 
 I splashed your best frock through and through. 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
 Your pretty nose — ah, there's the rub, — 
 I used to laugh at once as " snub " 
 
 Is now nes retrousse; 
 Upon the one-time brown, bare feet 
 You wear French kids now, trim and neat, — 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
 The brief kilt-skirt, the legs all bare, 
 The freckled face, the tangled hair, 
 
 These things are passed away: 
 You are a woman now full grown, 
 With lovers of your very own — 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
 You'd plead to be my comrade then, 
 With tearful big, brown eyes. — Ah, when, 
 
 My winning, winsome May, 
 Will words like those your lips a-tween, 
 Come back again? No more, I ween! 
 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait! 
 
60 ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 
 
 Time turns the tables. It is meet, 
 Doubtless, that I here at your feet 
 
 Should feel your scepter's sway — 
 Should know you hold me 'neath your heel, — 
 Should love you — and should — well, should feel : 
 
 Ahj si jeunesse savait! 
 
 ENISE 
 
 Very fair you are, Enise, 
 
 For you hold 
 
 In your eyes 
 All the blue of summer skies. 
 In your tresses all the shimmer 
 
 Of red gold. 
 
 And your cheeks are pink, Enise, 
 
 As a rose; 
 
 And your mouth 
 A sweet blossom of the South; 
 And tip-tilted like its petal 
 
 Is your nose! 
 
 And that form of yours, Enise, 
 
 Lacks no grace 
 
 Lilies wear; 
 And your bosom's swelling heave 
 Tells of sprites imprisoned there, 
 
 I believe. 
 
ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 61 
 
 That would fain be free, Enise, 
 
 For awhile. — 
 
 Yet your charms, — 
 Eyes .and hair and throat and arms, — 
 None of these, Enise, bewitch me 
 
 Like your smile. 
 
 Did you ever know, Enise, 
 
 Of that creed 
 
 Which the old 
 Rabbins of the Talmud hold 
 Of all spirits? Should I tell you, 
 
 Would you heed? 
 
 You have lived alway, Enise, — 
 
 Thus they say, — 
 
 At the birth 
 Of your body on the earth, 
 Passed your ever-living soul 
 
 Into this clay. 
 
 And your guardian angel came, 
 
 Spread white wings 
 
 O'er you there, — 
 Touched his finger to your lips 
 
 With a prayer, — 
 And you knew no longer ante-natal things. 
 
62 ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 
 
 As the Rabbins, I, Enise, 
 
 Hold it too: — 
 
 When those wings 
 For a moment are uplifted 
 
 Memory brings 
 Visions of a happier life 
 
 Back to you. 
 
 Do you marvel thoughts like these 
 
 Should beguile 
 
 Minds like mine? 
 I can nothing else divine 
 That could lend such holy sweetness 
 
 To your smile. 
 
 FOUR FEET ON A FENDER 
 
 It is anthracite coal, and the fender is low, 
 
 Steel-barred is the grate, and the tiles 
 Hand-painted in figures; the one at the top 
 
 Is a Japanese lady, who smiles. 
 There's an or-molit clock on the mantel ; above, 
 
 A masterpiece : fecit Gerome; 
 On the fender four feet — my young wife's feet and 
 mine, 
 
 Trimly shod, in a row and — at home. 
 
ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 63 
 
 My slippers are broidered of velvet and silk, 
 
 The work of her fingers before 
 We stood at the altar. To have them made up 
 
 Cost me just a round five dollars more 
 Than a new pair had cost at my bootmaker's shop; 
 
 But each stitch was a token of love — 
 And she never shall know. Ah, how easy they are 
 
 On their perch the steel fender above. 
 
 Words fail me to tell of her own. There's a chest 
 
 In her father's old garret; and there 
 'Mid a thousand strange things of a century past 
 
 She discovered this ravishing pair. 
 They are small, trim and natty; their color is red; 
 
 And they each have the funniest heel. 
 White balbriggan stockings, high-clocked, underneath 
 
 These decollete slippers reveal. 
 
 Ah, many a time in my grandfather's day 
 
 They led the old fellow a dance. 
 They were bought with Virginia tobacco, and came, 
 
 Who would guess it? — imported from France. 
 How odd that yon stern-faced ancestor of mine 
 
 In the earlier days of his life 
 Should have loved her who tripped in these red slippers 
 then, — 
 
 The young grandmamma of my wife ! 
 
64 ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL GORDON 
 
 The course of some true loves, at least, runs not 
 smooth, — 
 
 And Fm glad that it's so, when I see 
 The trim, dainty feet in the red slippers there 
 
 Which belong to my lady — and me ! 
 Two short months ago in this snug little room 
 
 I sat in this soft-cushioned seat; 
 No companion was near save my pipe. Now, behold 
 
 On the polished steel fender four feet ! 
 
 Let them prate of the happiness Paradise yields 
 
 To the Moslem, — the raptures that thrill 
 The soul of the Hindu whom Juggernaut takes, — 
 
 The bliss of Gan-Eden; — and still 
 I'll believe that no gladness which man has conceived 
 
 Can compare with the tranquillized state 
 That springs from two small feet alongside one's own, 
 
 On the fender in front of his grate. 
 
 L'Envoi 
 
 In vain the illusion. The trim feet are gone. 
 
 They trip by my door every day; — 
 Yet they stop not nor tarry; but swiftly pass on. 
 
 Nor can I persuade them to stay. 
 And a bachelor's dreams are but dreams at the best, 
 
 Be they never, so fond or so sweet. 
 The anthracite blaze has burned low; and behold 
 
 On the fender tzvo lonesome old feet ! 
 
JAMES LINDSAY GORDON 65 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON 
 
 (Virginia: 1860-1904) 
 
 LORRAINE 
 
 Bonny Lorraine, have you forgot 
 
 The time we walked o'er the morning lea? 
 I still keep the blue forget-me-not 
 
 That you took from your hair and gave to me. 
 Would you like to walk those ways again 
 
 With me at your side in the morning time? 
 
 Do you ever think of your youth's sweet prime, 
 And your young boy-lover, Bonny Lorraine? 
 
 Ah, v^^ell I remember the time we stood 
 By the glancing river when day was done. 
 
 And the whispering trees in the dim old wood 
 Turned crimson and gold in the setting sun : 
 
 When your heart and your lips and your arms were fain 
 To cling to me there as your life's one love 
 While the stars came out the skies above, — ■■ 
 
 Do you remember it. Bonny Lorraine? 
 
66 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON 
 
 Surely your heart could not forget 
 The night when I bade you a last farewell; 
 
 Your long, dark lashes with tears were wet, 
 And your anguish more than your lips could tell ; 
 
 How you kissed me there as I stood in the rain, 
 And held me fast while you bade me go, — 
 With your desolate, golden head bowed low, 
 
 I know you remember. Bonny Lorraine. 
 
 Across the street where the music swells 
 
 You glide through the throng in the shadowy dance. 
 
 In your ears the sound of your marriage bells 
 In your heart the dream of the old romance; 
 
 I see you glimmer across the pane — 
 
 The jewels ablaze in your shining hair, — 
 And the form of another beside you there, 
 
 But I do not envy him now, Lorraine. 
 
 Let him bow down low at your royal feet, — 
 Let him sing love's song if it brings him joy; 
 
 I sang it once and I found it sweet 
 
 In the days when you charmed me — a foolish boy ; 
 
 But I never shall waken the old refrain, 
 Its beautiful music is almost hushed: 
 My heart was bruised but it was not crushed. 
 
 And it loves you no longer. Bonny Lorraine. 
 
JAMES LINDSAY GORDON 67 
 
 Dance on while the music throbs and beats: 
 
 Drink memory to death in your wedding wine; 
 He knows not your life whose quick glance meets 
 
 The false, sweet light in your eyes divine. 
 I can look on you now with no more pain, — 
 
 On your fair proud face, in your splendid eyes, — 
 
 Then looking up to yon starlit skies 
 Thank God that I lost you. Bonny Lorraine. 
 
68 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 (South Carolina: 1830-1886) 
 
 A COMPARISON 
 
 I THINK, ofttimes, that lives of men may be 
 Likened to wandering winds that come and go, 
 Not knowing whence they rise, whither they blow 
 O'er the vast globe, voiceful of grief or glee. 
 Some lives are buoyant zephyrs sporting free 
 In tropic sunshine; some, long winds of woe 
 That shun the day, wailing with murmurs low, 
 Through haunted twilights, by the unresting sea; 
 Others are ruthless, stormful, drunk with might, 
 Born with deep passion or malign desire: 
 They rave 'mid thunder-peals and clouds of fire. 
 Wild, reckless all, save that some power unknown 
 Guides each blind force till life be overblown. 
 Lost in vague hollows of the fathomless night. 
 
 A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER 
 
 YET 
 A LITTLE while (my life is almost set!) 
 
 I fain would pause along the downward way, 
 Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray. 
 While, Sweet ! our eyes with tender tears are wet : 
 A little hour I fain would linger yet. 
 
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 69 
 
 A little while I fain would linger yet, 
 
 All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; 
 Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, 
 
 And hope has faded to a vague regret, 
 
 A little while I fain would linger yet. 
 
 A little while I fain would linger here: 
 
 Behold ! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 
 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? 
 
 Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: 
 
 A little while I still would linger here. 
 
 A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, 
 Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; 
 (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!") 
 So ere the darkness fall, the light be past, 
 A little while I fain would hold thee fast. 
 
 A little while, when light and twilight meet, — 
 Behind, our broken years; before, the deep 
 Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep, — 
 A little while I still would clasp thee. Sweet, 
 A little while, when night and twilight meet. 
 
 A little while I fain would linger here; 
 Behold ! who knows what soul-dividing bars 
 Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars? 
 
 Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: 
 
 A little while I still would linger here. 
 
72 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 Death gave thee wings, and lo ! thou hast soared above 
 
 All human utterance and all finite thought; 
 Pain may not hound thee through that realm of love, 
 
 Nor grief, wherewith thy mortal days were fraught. 
 Load thee again — nor vulture want, that fed 
 Even on thy heart's blood, wound thee; idle, then. 
 
 Our bitter sorrowing; what though bleak and wild 
 Rests thine uncrowned head? 
 Known art thou now to angels and to men — 
 
 Heaven's saint, and earth's brave singer undefiled. 
 
 Even as I spake in broken under-breath 
 
 The winds drooped lifeless; faintly struggling through 
 The heaven-bound pall, which seemed a pall of death. 
 
 One cordial sunbeam cleft the opening blue; 
 Swiftly it glanced, and settling, softly shone 
 O'er the grave's head; in that same instant came 
 
 From the near copse a bird-song half divine; 
 " Heart," said I, " Hush thy moan, 
 List the bird's singing, mark the heaven-born flame,. 
 
 God-given are these — an omen and a sign ! " 
 
 In the bird's song an omen his must live ! 
 
 In the warm glittering of that golden beam, 
 A sign his soul's majestic hopes survive. 
 
 Raised to fruition o'er life's weary dream. 
 So now I leave him, low, yet restful here; 
 
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 73 
 
 So now I leave him, high-exalted, far 
 
 Beyond all memory of earth's guilt or guile; 
 Hark ! 'tis his voice of cheer, 
 
 Dropping, methinks, from some mysterious star; 
 His face I see, and on his face — a smile! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 As one who, strays from out some shadowy glade. 
 Fronting a lurid noontide, stern, yet bright, 
 O'er mart and tower, and castellated height. 
 Shrinks slowly backward, dazed and half afraid — 
 So I, whose household gods their stand have made 
 Far from the populous city's life and light, 
 Its roar of traffic and its stormy might. 
 Shrink as I pass beyond my woodland shade. 
 
 The wordy conflict, the tempestuous din 
 
 Of these vast capitals, on ear and brain 
 
 Beat with the loud, reiterated swell 
 
 Of one fierce strain of passion and of sin, 
 
 Strange as in nightmare dreams the mad refrain 
 
 Of some wild chorus of the vaults of Hell. 
 
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 Death gave thee wings, and lo ! thou hast soared above 
 
 All human utterance and all finite thought; 
 Pain may not hound thee through that realm of love, 
 
 Nor grief, wherewith thy mortal days were fraught, 
 Load thee again — nor vulture want, that fed 
 Even on thy heart's blood, wound thee; idle, then, 
 
 Our bitter sorrowing; what though bleak and wild 
 Rests thine uncrowned head? 
 Known art thou now to angels and to men — 
 
 Heaven's saint, and earth's brave singer undefiled. 
 
 Even as I spake in broken under-breath 
 
 The winds drooped lifeless; faintly struggling through 
 The heaven-bound pall, which seemed a pall of death. 
 
 One cordial sunbeam cleft the opening blue; 
 Swiftly it glanced, and settling, softly shone 
 O'er the grave's head; in that same instant came 
 
 From the near copse a bird-song half divine; 
 " Heart," said I, " Hush thy moan. 
 List the bird's singing, mark the heaven-born flame,. 
 
 God-given are these — an omen and a sign ! " 
 
 In the bird's song an omen his must live ! 
 
 In the warm glittering of that golden beam, 
 A sign his soul's majestic hopes survive, 
 
 Raised to fruition o'er life's weary dream. 
 So now I leave him, low, yet restful here; 
 
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 73 
 
 So now I leave him, high-exalted, far 
 Beyond all memory of earth's guilt or guile; 
 Hark ! 'tis his voice of cheer, 
 
 Dropping, methinks, from some mysterious star; 
 His face I see, and on his face — a smile! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 As one who, strays from out some shadowy glade. 
 Fronting a lurid noontide, stern, yet bright, 
 O'er mart and tower, and castellated height, 
 Shrinks slowly backward, dazed and half afraid — 
 So I, whose household gods their stand have made 
 Far from the populous city's life and light, 
 Its roar of traffic and its stormy might, 
 Shrink as I pass beyond my woodland shade. 
 
 The wordy conflict, the tempestuous din 
 
 Of these vast capitals, on ear and brain 
 
 Beat with the loud, reiterated swell 
 
 Of one fierce strain of passion and of sin, 
 
 Strange as in nightmare dreams the mad refrain 
 
 Of some wild chorus of the vaults of Hell. 
 
74 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 MY STUDY 
 
 This is my world! within these narrow walls, 
 
 I own a princely service. The hot care 
 
 And tumult of our frenzied life are here 
 
 But as a ghost and echo; what befalls 
 
 In the far mart to me is less than naught; 
 
 I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies, 
 
 And wander by the brink of hoary seas, 
 
 Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought; 
 
 Or if a livelier humor should enhance 
 
 The slow-time pulse, 'tis not for present strife, 
 
 The sordid zeal with which our age is rife, 
 
 Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance, 
 
 But gleamings of the lost, heroic life. 
 
 Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance. 
 
 •THE MOCKING-BIRD 
 
 At Night 
 A GOLDEN pallor of voluptuous light 
 Filled the warm southern night: 
 The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene 
 Moved like a stately queen. 
 So rife with conscious beauty all the while 
 What could shr do but smile 
 At her own perfect loveliness below, 
 Glassed in the tranquil flow 
 
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 75 
 
 Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams? 
 
 Half lost in waking dreams, 
 
 As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed, 
 
 Lo ! from a neighboring glade. 
 
 Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came 
 
 A fairy shape of flame. 
 
 It rose in dazzling spirals overhead. 
 
 Whence to wild sweetness wed. 
 
 Poured marvelous melodies, silvery trill on trill; 
 
 The very leaves grew still 
 
 On the charmed trees to hearken; while for me. 
 
 Heart-thrilled to ecstasy, 
 
 I followed — followed the bright shape that flew, 
 
 Still circling up the blue, 
 
 Till as a fountain that has reached its height. 
 
 Falls back in sprays of light 
 
 Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay, 
 
 Divinely melts away 
 
 Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist. 
 
 Soon by the fitful breeze 
 
 How gently kissed 
 Into remote and tender silences. 
 
76 WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 (South Carolina: 1856 ) 
 
 AT ANCHOR 
 
 From " Sylvan Lyrics " 
 My love was like a buoyant boat, 
 
 O'er sunny waves at sea; 
 And, in the voyage of my heart. 
 
 She sailed away from me. 
 
 I followed in her flying wake; 
 
 The waves grew strong and fleet; 
 I passed by shoals of circumstance. 
 
 And quicksands of defeat. 
 
 But little winds of coquetry 
 
 Still kept our lives apart, 
 'Till, in my cruise of love, I reached 
 
 The harbor of her heart. 
 
 A CYCLONE AT SEA 
 
 A THROAT of thunder, a tameless heart, 
 
 And a passion malign and free; 
 He is no sheik of the desert sand. 
 
 But an Arab of the sea. 
 
WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 77 
 
 He sprang from the womb of some wild cloud, 
 
 And was born to smite and slay ; 
 To soar like a million hawks set free, 
 
 And swoop on his ocean prey. 
 
 He has scourged the Sea, 'till her mighty breast 
 
 Responds to his heart's fierce beat; 
 And has torn brave souls from their bodies frail 
 
 To fling them at Allah's feet. 
 
 Possessed by a demon's lust of life, 
 
 He revels o'er wrecks and graves; 
 And hurtles onward in curbless speed, — 
 
 Dark Bedouin of the waves. 
 
 AN AUTUMN BREEZE 
 
 This gentle and half melancholy breeze 
 Is but a wandering Hamlet of the trees, 
 Who finds a tongue in every lingering leaf 
 To voice some subtlety of sylvan grief. 
 
 EXILES 
 
 Hopes grimly banished from the heart 
 Are the sad exiles that depart 
 To melancholy's rayless goal, — 
 A bleak Siberia of the soul. 
 
78 WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 ON A BUST OF MENDELSSOHN 
 
 His high-arched brow and quiet eyeHds seem 
 Brushed by the wings of some celestial dream, — 
 A bird of passage whose melodious breath 
 Dispersed in music the wan mist of Death. 
 
 POEM 
 
 For the unveiling of the bust of Sidney Lanier, at Macon, 
 
 Ga., Oct. 17, 1890. 
 Unveil the noble brow, the deep-souled eyes, 
 Wherein melodious unities 
 Of music and of poetry were born. 
 For, undeterred by care's half sluggish thorn — 
 Barbed oft with suffering — he bravely brought 
 To song's full bloom his lyric buds of thought. 
 
 Here Love and Homage shall alike proclaim 
 The undying whiteness of our poet's fame. 
 Wed to the marble, yet exempt from cold, 
 As winter's clouds blest by the sun's warm gold. 
 
 And now I hear, 
 Far off yet clear, 
 Two voices that are one; 
 For, drawing close to music's feet, 
 'Tis thus her lyric sister sweet 
 Sings of their cherished son: 
 
WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 79 
 
 Strong-winged and free, each word of me 
 
 Thrilled through his heart and brain ; 
 His soul was lit by lights that flit 
 
 Across the waving grain ! 
 
 The marshes drear he made a prayer, 
 
 With words whose wondrous flight 
 Bore thoughts that reach, through rhythmic speech, 
 
 To sun-lands of sight ! 
 
 He let no seed from Doubt's dark weed 
 
 Fall in the holy shrine 
 Where Song was bred, by Music led 
 
 To beckoning heights divine; 
 
 And seldom mute, his silver flute 
 
 Invoked with matchless art. 
 Each wave of sound by Silence bound 
 
 Within her vestal heart. 
 
 Death's arctic fear — " a cordial rare " 
 
 To his enraptured dream — 
 Came from the blue his spirit knew. 
 
 Of Love and Faith supreme. 
 
 His " Sunrise Song," with rapture strong, 
 
 Rose like a lark in light, 
 Who feels the sway of sovereign Day 
 
 Reign o'er the mists of Night ! 
 
 He loved the flow of winds that blow 
 To " odor-currents " set, — 
 
80 WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 The gem-like hue of fleeting dew, 
 Frail rose and violet, — 
 
 The soul in trees whose litanies 
 
 His reverent spirit heard; 
 The corn-blades rife with vernal life, 
 
 The rune of bee or bird ! 
 
 Strong-winged and free, each word of me 
 Thrilled through his heart and brain, 
 
 His soul was lit by lights that flit 
 Across the waving grain. 
 
 The marshes drear he made a prayer 
 
 With words, whose wondrous flight 
 Bore thoughts, that reach, through rhythmic speech 
 
 To sun-lands out of sight ! 
 
 SCANDAL 
 
 Far blacker than a raven's wings. 
 It croaks and feeds on unclean things, 
 Nor lets the shadow of a doubt 
 Soften the lie it burrows out. 
 
 With tongue-blades keener than a knife. 
 It probes the bleeding wounds of life, — 
 Lays bare the motive and the deed. 
 And carrion makes from flower-seed. 
 
WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE 81 
 
 It mangles love, and smears with lust 
 Lilies of purity and trust, — 
 Battens on sins of king or slave, 
 And fouls with slime a new-made grave. 
 
JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 (Virginia: 1827-1887) 
 
 THREE SUMMER STUDIES 
 I 
 
 The cock hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd; 
 
 Down to the moss-grown porch my way I take, 
 And hear, beside the well within the yard, 
 
 Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake, 
 And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen — all 
 Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. 
 
 The dew Is thick upon the velvet grass — 
 The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, 
 
 And as the cattle from th' enclosure pass. 
 Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops 
 
 The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load. 
 
 Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road. 
 
 A lustrous polish is on all the leaves — 
 
 The birds flit in and out with varied notes — 
 
 The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves — 
 A partridge whistle through the garden floats, 
 
JAMES BARRON HOPE 83 
 
 While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, 
 As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. 
 
 Up comes the sun: through the dense leaves a spot 
 Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze 
 
 Which late made leafy music dies; the day grows hot, 
 And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees; 
 
 The burnished river like a sword blade shines. 
 
 Save where 'tis shadowed by the solemn pines. 
 
 II 
 
 Over the farm is brooding silence now, — 
 No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, 
 
 No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow. 
 
 No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh, 
 
 No bragging cock from littered farmyard crows, — 
 
 The scene is steeped in silence and repose. 
 
 A trembling haze hangs over all the fields, — 
 The panting cattle in the river stand. 
 
 Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields. 
 It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land: 
 
 So hushed is all beneath the Summer's spell, 
 
 I pause and listen for some faint church bell. 
 
 The leaves are motionless, the song bird's mute — 
 
 The very air seems somnolent and sick: 
 The spreading branches with o'erripened fruit 
 
84 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, 
 While now and then a mellow apple falls 
 With a dull sound within the orchard's walls. 
 
 The sky has but one solitary cloud, 
 Like a dark island in a sea of light; 
 
 The parching furrows 'twixt the corn rows plowed 
 Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight. 
 
 While over yonder road a dusty haze 
 
 Grows reddish purple in the sultry blaze. 
 
 Ill 
 
 That solitary cloud grows dark and wide. 
 While distant thunder rumbles in the air, 
 
 A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide — 
 The lazy cattle are no longer there, 
 
 But homeward come in long procession slow. 
 
 With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. 
 
 Darker and wider spreading o'er the west 
 Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form. 
 
 And mirrored turrets on the river's breast 
 Tell in advance the coming of a storm — 
 
 Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash. 
 
 And louder, nearer, sounds the thunder's crash. 
 
 The air of evening is intensely hot. 
 
 The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows; 
 
JAMES BARRON HOPE 85 
 
 Now sullen raindrops patter down like shot, 
 
 Strike in the grass, or rattle 'mid the boughs. 
 A sultry lull, and then a gust again. 
 And now I see the thick-advancing rain. 
 
 It fairly hisses as it comes along, 
 
 And where it strikes bounds up again in spray 
 As if 'twere dancing to the fitful song 
 
 Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway 
 In contest with the wind which rises fast 
 Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. 
 
 And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled, 
 The clouds lie pil'd up in the splendid west. 
 
 In massive shadow tipp'd with purplish red. 
 Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest; 
 
 And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 
 
 I see the crescent of the pallid moon. 
 
86 EDWARD ROWLAND 
 
 EDWARD ROWLAND 
 
 (South Carolina: 1832-1890) 
 
 THE CONDEMNED 
 
 Read me no moral, priest, upon my life, — 
 
 Reserve that for your flock. 
 A few short hours will end my mortal strife, 
 
 Upon the gallows block. 
 
 Before the gaping crowd, who come to see 
 
 A fellow mortal die. 
 Preach if you choose, and take your text from me,- 
 
 To them I cannot lie. 
 
 And still the less can I, a finite man. 
 
 Pretend to cheat my God : 
 By him the workings of his mighty plan 
 
 Are clearly understood. 
 
 Conceived in lust, brought up in sordid sin. 
 
 How could I hope to be 
 Aught but the outcast I have ever been, 
 
 Fruit for the gallows tree? 
 
EDWARD ROWLAND 87 
 
 Go teach the children swarming through the town, 
 
 To-day exposed to all 
 The poverty and vice that drew me down,— 
 
 Save them before they fall. 
 
 But as for me, I die as I have lived. 
 
 As all men must, 
 Believing as I always have believed 
 
 That God is just. 
 
88 CHARLES W. HUBNER 
 
 CHARLES W. HUBNER 
 
 (Georgia: 1835 ) 
 
 I'M GROWING OLD 
 
 I'm growing old; and yet no fear 
 Of death or grave appalls me; 
 
 Still, as in days of youth, the dear 
 Sweet love of life enthralls me; 
 
 And still my spirit gladly hears 
 
 The music of the flying years. 
 
 I'm growing old; my hands, my limbs 
 
 Less supple are, less light; 
 And sometimes a strange mist bedims — 
 
 By tears begot — my sight. 
 But still with steady steps my soul 
 Fares bravely on toward her goal. 
 
 I'm growing old; Life's tree has shed 
 
 Its blossoms long ago; 
 The winds that blow about my head 
 
 Are chill with sleet and snow. 
 Yet they, in some mysterious way. 
 Still bring the violet scent of May. 
 
CHARLES W. HUBNER 89 
 
 I'm growing old; alas! so far 
 
 My youth behind me lies, 
 It seems to be a phantom-star 
 
 In dream-imagined skies, 
 And yet one touch of Memory's wand 
 Transports me to youth's fairy-land. 
 
 I'm growing old — how swiftly flies 
 Time's shuttle through the loom ! 
 
 Weaving before my very eyes 
 My garment for the tomb; 
 
 Yet fear I not, nor feel I pain, 
 
 Beyond the grave I'll live again ! 
 
 QUATRAINS 
 
 The World 
 
 I ASKED, "What is the world?" and you replied, 
 "Myself and you, by millions multiplied." 
 I said, " If what you say indeed be true. 
 The world is what we make it, I and you." 
 
 Duty 
 
 Executor of God's almighty will ! 
 Thou, who His laws forever dost fulfill, 
 O, hold my heart, my will, in thy control. 
 And stamp thy sacred seal upon my soul. 
 
90 CHARLES W. HUBNER 
 
 Fame 
 
 Is it worth while to barter Hfe for Fame? 
 The winged, illusive phantom of a name, 
 The echo of a sound that dies at last, 
 Lost in ghost-haunted deserts of the Past. 
 
 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 
 
 When we were twenty-one, O Life, 
 How fair you seemed, how glorious! 
 Hope's banner waving o'er us, 
 The whole wide world before us, 
 
 We scoffed at sorrow, laughed at strife - 
 When we were twenty-one. 
 
 When we were twenty-one, the flame 
 Of Youth's desire burned brightly, 
 Fair Fancy's feet tripped lightly, 
 To music sweet and sprightly; 
 
 We dreamt of love, of wealth, of fame, 
 When we were twenty-one. 
 
 When we were twenty-one, Romance 
 
 Her glamour shed about us; 
 
 The doubts that dared to flout us, 
 
 The cares that rose to rout us. 
 We slew with Love's celestial lance, 
 
 When we were twenty-one. 
 
CHARLES W. HUBNER 91 
 
 .When we were twenty-one, we roved 
 
 Through lands that seemed Elysian, 
 
 Bewitched by many a vision, 
 
 Despite the world's derision; 
 We only knew we lived and loved — 
 
 When we were twenty-one. 
 
 When we were twenty-one, alas ! 
 
 So real looked life's seeming, 
 
 So bright its stars were beaming, 
 
 How could we help our dreaming? 
 But what a glorious dream it was — 
 
 When we were twenty-one. 
 
9S THOMAS JEFFERSON 
 
 THOMAS JEFFERSON 
 
 (Virginia: 1 743-1826) 
 
 LOVELY PEGGY 
 
 Once more I'll tune the vocal shell 
 To hills and dales my passion tell, 
 A flame which time can never quell 
 That burns for lovely Peggy. 
 
 Ye greater bards the lyre should hit, 
 For say what subject is more fit 
 Than to record the sparkling wit 
 And bloom of lovely Peggy. 
 
 The sun first rising in the morn 
 That paints the dew-bespangled thorn 
 Does not so much the day adorn 
 As does my lovely Peggy. 
 
 And when in Thetis' lap to rest 
 He streaks with gold the ruddy west, 
 He's not so beauteous as undrest 
 Appears my lovely Peggy. 
 
THOMAS JEFFERSON 93 
 
 With her a cottage would delight, 
 All's happy when she's in my sight, 
 But when she's gone, 'tis endless night. 
 All's dark without my Peggy. 
 
 The Zephyr's air the violet blows 
 Or breath upon the damask rose — 
 He does not half the sweets disclose 
 That does my lovely Peggy. 
 
 I stole a kiss the other day, 
 And trust me, nought but truth I say, 
 The fragrant breath of blooming May 
 Was not so sweet as Peggy. 
 
 While bees from flow'r to flow'r shall rove. 
 And linnets warble through the grove. 
 Or stately swans the waters love. 
 So long shall I love Peggy. 
 
 And when death with his pointed dart 
 Shall strike the blow that rives my heart. 
 My words shall be when I depart. 
 Adieu, my lovely Peggy. 
 
94, FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 
 
 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 
 
 (Maryland: 1 780-1843) 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 
 
 Oh ! say, can you see by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleam- 
 ing? 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the clouds 
 of the fight 
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly stream- 
 ing! 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; 
 O, say, does that Star-Spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? 
 
 On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 
 'Tis the Star-Spangled banner; O, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 
 
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 95 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 A home and a country should leave us no more? 
 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollu- 
 tion. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; 
 And the Star-Spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 
 
 Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved home and the war's desolation ! 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
 Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a 
 nation ! 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
 And this be our motto — '' In God is our Trust " — 
 And the Star-Spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 
 
96 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 (Georgia: 1842-1881) 
 
 A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER 
 
 Into the woods my Master went, 
 
 Clean forspent, forspent. 
 
 Into the woods my Master came. 
 
 Forspent with love and shame. 
 
 But the olives they were not blind to Him, 
 
 The little gray leaves were kind to Him: 
 
 The thorn-tree had a mind to Him 
 
 When into the woods He came. 
 
 Out of the woods my Master went. 
 
 And He was well content. 
 
 Out of the woods my Master came. 
 
 Content with death and shame. 
 
 When Death and Shame would woo Him last, 
 
 From under the trees they drew Him last: 
 
 'Twas on a tree they slew Him — last 
 
 When out of the woods He came. 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 97 
 
 AN EVENING SONG 
 
 Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands, 
 And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea. 
 
 How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, 
 Ah ! longer we ! 
 
 Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, 
 As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, 
 
 And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'T is done. 
 Love, lay thine hand in mine. 
 
 Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; 
 
 Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands; 
 O night ! divorce our sun and sky apart — 
 
 Never our lips, our hands. 
 
 SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE 
 
 Out of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Down the valleys of Hall, 
 I hurry amain to reach the plain. 
 Run the rapid and leap the fall. 
 Split at the rock and together again. 
 Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. 
 And flee from folly on every side 
 With a lover's pain to attain the plain 
 
 Far from the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Far from the valleys of Hall. 
 
98 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 All down the hills of Habersham, 
 
 All through the valleys of Hall, 
 The rushes cried, Abide, abide, 
 The willful waterweeds held me thrall. 
 The laving laurels turned my tide. 
 The ferns and the fondling grass said, Stay, 
 The dewberry dipped for to work delay. 
 And the little reeds sighed. Abide, abide. 
 
 Here in the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Here in the valleys of Hall. 
 
 High o'er the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
 The hickory told me manifold 
 Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
 Wrought me her shadowy self to hold. 
 The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
 Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, 
 Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 
 
 Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 These glades in the valleys of Hall. 
 
 And oft in the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
 The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone 
 Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
 And many a luminous jewel lone 
 — Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 99 
 
 Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
 
 Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 
 
 In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 
 
 But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
 Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. 
 Downward the voices of Duty call — 
 Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, 
 The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, 
 And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, 
 And the lordly main from beyond the plain 
 
 Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Calls through the valleys of Hall. 
 
 SUNRISE 
 
 In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain 
 Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. 
 
 The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep ; 
 
 Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of 
 sweep. 
 
 Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting. 
 Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting. 
 Came to the gates of sleep. 
 
 Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep 
 
 Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, 
 
100 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling: 
 
 The gates of sleep fell a-trembling 
 Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter 3;^^ 
 Shaken with happiness : 
 
 The gates of sleep stood wide. 
 
 I have waked, I have come, my beloved ! I might not 
 
 abide : 
 I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to 
 
 hide 
 In your gospeling glooms, — to be 
 As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea 
 
 my sea. 
 
 Tell me, sweet burly-bark'd, man-bodied Tree 
 That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know 
 From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow? 
 They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps. 
 Reason's not one that weeps. 
 What logic of greeting lies 
 Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes ? 
 
 O cunning green leaves, little masters ! like as ye gloss 
 All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that 
 
 emboss 
 The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan. 
 So, 
 (But would I could know, but would I could know,) 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 101 
 
 With your question embrold'ring the dark of the ques- 
 tion of man, — 
 So, with your silences purfling this silence of man 
 While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under 
 the ban, 
 
 Under the ban, — 
 So, ye have wrought me 
 Designs on the night of our knowledge, — yea, ye have 
 taught me, 
 So, 
 That haply we know somewhat more than we know. 
 
 Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, 
 Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, 
 Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, 
 Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves. 
 Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me 
 Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, — 
 Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet 
 That advise me of more than they bring, — repeat 
 Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breath 
 From the heaven-side bank of the river of death, — 
 Teach me the terms of silence, — preach me 
 The passion of patience, — sifjt me, — impeach me, — 
 And there, oh there 
 As ye hang with your myriad palms, upturned in the air. 
 Pray me a myriad prayer. 
 
lOa SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 My gossip, the owl, — is it thou 
 That out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough, 
 As I pass to the beach, art stirred? 
 Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird? 
 
 Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea, 
 
 Old chemist, rapt in alchemy, 
 Distilling silence, — lo, 
 That which our father-age had died to know — 
 
 The menstruum that dissolves all matter — thou 
 Hast found it; for this silence, filling now 
 The globed clarity of receiving space. 
 This solves us all: man, matter, doubt, disgrace, 
 Death, love, sin, sanity. 
 Must in yon silence' clear solution lie. 
 Too clear! That crystal nothing who'll peruse? 
 The blackest night could bring us brighter news. 
 Yet precious qualities of silence haunt 
 Round these vast margins, ministrant. 
 Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space, 
 With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race 
 Just to be fellow'd, when that thou hast found 
 No man with room, or grace enough of bound 
 To entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art, — 
 T is here, 't is here thou canst unhand thy heart 
 And breathe it free, and breathe it free. 
 By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 103 
 
 The tide 's at full : the marsh with flooded streams 
 
 Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. 
 
 Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies 
 
 A rhapsody of morning-stars. The skies 
 
 Shine scant with one forked galaxy, — 
 
 The marsh brags ten : looped on his breast they lie. 
 
 Oh, what if a sound should be made ! 
 
 Oh, what if a bound should be laid 
 
 To this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence 
 
 a-spring, — 
 To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the 
 
 string! 
 I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam 
 Will break as a bubble o'er-blown in a dream, — 
 Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night, 
 Over-weighted with stars, over-freighted with light. 
 Over-sated with beauty and silence, will seem 
 
 But a bubble that broke in a dream. 
 If a bound of degree to this grace be laid, 
 
 Or a sound or a motion made. 
 
 But no: it is made: list! somewhere, — mystery, where? 
 
 In the leaves? in the air? 
 In my heart? is a motion made; 
 
 'T is a motion of dawn, like a flicker of shade on shade. 
 In the leaves, 't is palpable: low multitudinous stirring 
 Upwinds through the woods; the little ones, softly con- 
 ferring, 
 
104^ SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Have settled my lord's to be looked for; so; they are 
 
 still; 
 But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill, — 
 And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of 
 the river, — 
 And look where a passionate shiver 
 Expectant is bending the blades 
 Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, — 
 And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting. 
 
 Are beating 
 The dark overhead as my heart beats, — and steady and 
 
 free 
 Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea — 
 (Run home, little streams. 
 With your lapfuls of stars and dreams), — 
 And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak. 
 For list, down the inshore curve of the creek 
 
 How merrily flutters the sail, — 
 And lo, in the East! Will the East unveil? 
 The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed 
 A flush; 't is dead; 't is alive; 't is dead, ere the West 
 Was aware of it; nay, 't is abiding, 't is unwithdrawn : 
 Have a care, sweet Heaven ! 'T is Dawn. 
 
 Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush 
 is uprolled; 
 To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling gold 
 Is builded, in shape as a bee-hive, from out of the sea; 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 105 
 
 The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee, 
 
 The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, 
 
 Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee 
 That shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea. 
 
 Yet now the dew^-drop, now the morning gray, 
 
 Shall live their little lucid sober day 
 
 Ere with the sun their souls exhale away. 
 Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew 
 The summ'd morn shines complete as in the blue 
 Big dew-drop of all heaven; with these lit shrines 
 O'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines. 
 The sacramental marsh one pious plain 
 Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign 
 Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, 
 Minded of nought but peace, and of a child. 
 Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a 
 
 measure 
 Of motion, — not faster than dateless Olympian leisure 
 Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure 
 
 to pleasure, — 
 The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks un jarring, unreeling. 
 
 Forever revealing, revealing, revealing. 
 Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise, — 't is done ! 
 
 Good-morrow, lord Sun ! 
 With several voice, with ascription one. 
 The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul 
 
106 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows 
 
 doth roll, 
 Cry good and past-good and most heavenly morrow, lord 
 
 Sun. 
 
 O Artisan born in the purple, — Workman Heat, — 
 
 Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meet 
 
 And be mixed in the death-cold oneness, — innermost 
 
 Guest 
 At the marriage of elements, — fellow of publicans, — 
 
 blest 
 King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'er 
 The idle skies yet laborest fast evermore, — 
 Thou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat 
 Of the heart of a man, thou Motive, — Laborer Heat: 
 Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea 's all news, 
 With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues, 
 Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues 
 Ever shaming the maidens, — lily and rose 
 Confess thee, and each mild flame that glows 
 In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine, 
 It is thine, it is thine: 
 
 Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds 
 
 a-swirl 
 Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirl 
 In the magnet earth, — yea, thou with a storm for a heart, 
 Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 107 
 
 From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light, 
 
 Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright 
 
 Than the eye of a man may avail of: — manifold One, 
 
 I must pass from thy face, I must pass from the face of 
 
 the Sun; 
 Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle a-frown; 
 The worker must pass to his work in the terrible town; 
 But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be done; 
 
 I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun; 
 How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be 
 
 run, 
 
 I am lit with the sun. 
 
 Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas 
 
 Of traffic shall hide thee. 
 Never the hell-colored smoke of the factories 
 
 Hide thee. 
 Never the reek of the time's fen-politics 
 
 Hide thee. 
 And ever my heart through the night shall with knowl- 
 edge abide thee. 
 And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that hath tried 
 thee. 
 Labor, at leisure, in art, — till yonder beside thee 
 My soul shall float, friend Sun, 
 The day being done. 
 
108 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 THE MARSHES OF GLYNN 
 
 Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 
 With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 
 Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, — 
 Emerald twilights, — 
 Virginal shy lights, 
 Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 
 When lovers pace timidly down through the green colon- 
 nades 
 Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods. 
 
 Of the heavenly woods and glades, 
 That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 
 The wide sea-marshes of Glynn; — 
 
 Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire, — 
 
 Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, 
 
 Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of 
 
 leaves, — 
 Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul 
 
 that grieves, 
 Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the 
 
 wood, 
 Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good; — 
 
 O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the 
 
 vine. 
 While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did 
 
 shine 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 109 
 
 Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in 
 
 mine ; 
 But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, 
 And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, 
 And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem 
 Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, — 
 Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of 
 
 the oak, 
 And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome 
 
 sound of the stroke 
 Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, 
 And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, 
 And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, 
 That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
 
 marshes of Glynn 
 Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me 
 
 of yore 
 When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bit- 
 terness sore. 
 And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable 
 
 pain 
 Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, — 
 
 Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 
 
 The vast sweet visage of space. 
 To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, 
 Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the 
 dawn. 
 
110 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 For a mete and a mark 
 To the forest-dark : — 
 So: 
 Affable live-oak, leaning low, — 
 
 Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent hand, 
 (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) 
 Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
 On the firm-packed sand. 
 
 Free 
 By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 
 
 Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shim- 
 mering band 
 Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the 
 folds of the land. 
 Inward and outward to northward and southward the 
 
 beach-lines linger and curl 
 As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows 
 
 the firm sweet limbs of a girl. 
 Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, 
 Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping 
 
 of light. 
 And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods 
 
 stands high? 
 The world lies east : how ample, the marsh and the sea and 
 
 the sky ! 
 A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad 
 in the blade, 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 111 
 
 Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or 
 
 a shade, 
 Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
 To the terminal blue of the main. 
 
 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? 
 
 Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
 From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin. 
 By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
 marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withhold- 
 ing and free 
 
 Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to 
 the sea ! 
 
 Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the 
 sun, 
 
 Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath 
 mightily won 
 
 God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain 
 
 And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 
 
 As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, 
 Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: 
 I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 
 In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and 
 
 the skies: 
 By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 
 I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: 
 
112 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 
 The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 
 
 And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his 
 
 plenty the sea 
 Pours fast : full soon the time of the floodtide must be ; 
 Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
 About and about through the intricate channels that flow 
 Here and there, 
 Everywhere, 
 Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the 
 
 low-lying lanes, 
 And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 
 That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow 
 In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
 
 Farewell, my lord Sun ! 
 The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 
 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass 
 
 stir; 
 Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; 
 Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; 
 And the sea and the marsh are one. 
 
 How still the plains of the waters be! 
 
 The tide is in his ecstasy; 
 
 The tide is at his highest height; 
 
 And it is night. 
 
SIDNEY LANIER 113 
 
 And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of 
 
 sleep 
 Roll in on the souls of men, 
 But who will reveal to our waking ken 
 The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 
 
 Under the waters of sleep? 
 And I would I could know what swimmeth below when 
 
 the tide comes in 
 On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes 
 
 of Glynn. 
 
114 JAMES MATTHEWS LEGARE 
 
 JAMES MATTHEWS LEGARE 
 
 (South Carolina: 1823-1859) 
 
 TO A LILY 
 
 Go bow thy head in gentle spite, 
 Thou lily white, 
 
 For she who spies thee waving here, 
 With thee in beauty can compare 
 As day with night. 
 
 Soft are thy leaves and white : her arms 
 Boast whiter charms. 
 Thy stem prone bent with loveliness 
 Of maiden grace possesseth less: 
 Therein she charms. 
 
 Thou in thy lake dost see 
 Thyself: so she 
 
 Beholds her image in her eyes 
 Reflected. Thus did Venus rise 
 From out the sea. 
 
JAMES MATTHEWS LEGARE 115 
 
 Inconsolate, bloom not again. 
 
 Thou rival vain 
 
 Of her whose charms have thine outdone, 
 
 Whose purity might spot the sun, 
 
 And make thy leaf a stain. 
 
116 JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 
 
 JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 
 
 (North Carolina: 1874-1907) 
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN 
 
 Near where the shepherds watched by night 
 
 And heard the angels o'er them, 
 The wise men saw the starry light 
 
 Stand still at last before them. 
 No armored castle there to ward 
 
 His precious life from danger, 
 But, wrapped in common cloth, our Lord 
 
 Lay in a lowly manger. 
 No booming bells proclaimed his birth, 
 
 No armies marshaled by, 
 No iron thunders shook the earth, 
 
 No rockets clomb the sky; 
 The temples builded in his name 
 
 Were shapeless granite then, 
 And all the choirs that sang his fame 
 
 Were later breeds of men. 
 But, while the world about him slept, 
 
 Nor cared that he was born. 
 One gentle face above him kept 
 
 Its mother watch till morn; 
 
JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 117 
 
 And, if his baby eyes could tell 
 
 What grace and glory were, 
 No roar of gun, no boom of bell 
 
 Were worth the look of her. 
 Now praise to God that ere his grace 
 
 Was scorned and he reviled 
 He looked into his mother's face, 
 
 A little helpless child; 
 And praise to God that ere men strove 
 
 About his tomb in war 
 One loved him with a mother's love 
 
 Nor knew a creed therefor. 
 
 A FEW DAYS OFF 
 
 I ain't gwine a work till my dyin' day; 
 
 'F I ever lays up enough, 
 I's gwine a go off a while en stay ; 
 
 I'll be takin' a few days off. 
 'Ca'se de jimson weeds don't bloom but once, 
 
 En when dey's shed dey's shed; 
 En when you's dead, 'tain't jis' a few mont's, 
 
 But you's gwine be a long time dead. 
 
 I knowed a' ol' man died powerful rich — 
 
 Two mules en Ian' en a cow. 
 I jus' soon die fum fallin' in a ditch, 
 
 Fur he went to's grave fum's plough. 
 
118 JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 
 
 He never had nothin' 'twas good to eat 
 
 Ner no piller upon his bed; 
 He never took time to dance wid his feet, 
 
 But he's gwine a take long time dead. 
 
 I know a' ol' woman wut scrubbed and hoed, 
 
 En never didn' go nowhar, 
 En when she died de people 'knowed 
 
 Dat she had supp'n hid 'bout dar. 
 She mought a dressed up en a-done supp'n' 
 wrong 
 
 En had 'er a coht-case ple'd; 
 But she didn' have time to live veh long; 
 
 She's gwine have a plenty dead. 
 
 So I says, if I manage to save enough 
 
 Frum de wages I gits dis yur, 
 I is right den takin' a few days off 
 
 At one time en an'er. 
 'Ca'se while I is got my mouf en eyes 
 
 En a little wheel in my head, 
 I's gwine a live fas', fer when I dies 
 
 I'll sho' be a long time dead. 
 
 DAWN 
 
 The hills again reach skyward with a smile. 
 
 Again, with waking life along its way, 
 The landscape marches westward mile on mile 
 
 And time throbs white into another day. 
 
JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 119 
 
 Though eager life must wait on livelihood, 
 And all our hopes be tethered to the mart, 
 
 Lacking the eagle's wild, high freedom, would 
 That ours might be this day the eagle's heart ! 
 
 THE BRIDE 
 
 The little 'white bride is left alone 
 
 With him, her lord; the guests have gone; 
 
 The festal hall is dim. 
 No jesting now, nor answering mirth. 
 The hush of sleep falls on the earth 
 
 And leaves her here with him. 
 
 Why should there be, O little white bride, 
 When the world has left you by his side, 
 
 A tear to brim your eyes? 
 Some old love-face that comes again. 
 Some old love-moments sweet with pain 
 
 Of passionate memories? 
 
 Does your heart yearn back with last regret 
 •For the maiden meads of mignonette 
 
 And the fairy-haunted wood. 
 That you had not withheld from love, 
 A little while, the freedom of 
 
 Your happy maidenhood? 
 
120 JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 
 
 Or is it but a nameless fear, 
 
 A wordless joy, that calls the tear 
 
 In dumb appeal to rise. 
 When, looking on him where he stands. 
 You yield up all into his hands. 
 
 Pleading into his eyes? 
 
 For days that laugh or nights that weep 
 You two strike oars across the deep 
 
 With life's tide at the brim; 
 And all time's beauty, all love's grace 
 Beams, little bride, upon your face 
 
 Here, looking up at him. 
 
 THE RATTLESNAKE 
 
 Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate. 
 Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait. 
 Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate. 
 
 Is't lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing 
 Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing, 
 To lead stark life where mailed death is king; 
 
 Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill, 
 Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill. 
 And life and death fight equal in her will. 
 
JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 121 
 
 THE WIFE 
 
 They locked him in a prison cell, 
 
 Murky and mean. 
 She kissed him there a wife's farewell, 
 
 The bars between. 
 And when she turned to go, the crowd, 
 Thinking to see her shamed and bowed. 
 Saw her pass out as calm and proud 
 
 As any queen. 
 
 She passed a kinsman on the street, 
 
 To whose sad eyes 
 She made reply with smile as sweet 
 
 As April skies. 
 To one who loved her once and knew 
 The sorrow of her life, she threw 
 A gay word, ere his tale was due 
 
 Of sympathies. 
 
 She met a playmate, whose red rose 
 
 Had never a thorn, 
 Whom fortune guided when she chose 
 
 Her marriage morn, 
 And, smiling, looked her in the eyes; 
 But, seeing the tears of sympathy. 
 Her smile died, and she passed on by 
 
 In quiet scorn. 
 
ISa JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 
 
 They could not know how, when by night 
 
 The city slept, 
 A sleepless woman, still and white, 
 
 The watches kept; 
 How her wife-loyal heart had borne 
 The keen pain of a flowerless thorn, 
 How hot the tears that smiles and scorn 
 
 Had held unwept. 
 
 TRIFLES 
 
 What shall I bring you, sweet? 
 
 A posy prankt with every April hue: 
 
 The cloud-white daisy, violet sky-blue. 
 
 Shot with the primrose sunshine through and through ? 
 
 Or shall I bring you, sweet. 
 
 Some ancient rhyme of lovers sore beset, 
 Whose joy is dead, whose sadness lingers yet, 
 That you may read, and sigh, and soon forget? 
 
 What shall I bring you, sweet? 
 Was ever trifle yet so held amiss 
 As not to fill love's waiting heart with bliss, 
 And merit dalliance at a long, long kiss? 
 
JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 123 
 
 VALENTINE 
 
 This is the time for birds to mate; 
 
 To-day the dove 
 Will mark the ancient amorous date 
 
 With moans of love; 
 The crow will change his call to prate 
 
 His hopes thereof. 
 
 The starling will display the red 
 
 That lights his wings; 
 The wren will know the sweet things said 
 
 By him who swings 
 And ducks and dips his crested head 
 
 And sings and sings. 
 
 They are obedient to their blood, 
 
 Nor ask a sign, 
 Save buoyant air and swelling bud. 
 
 At hands divine. 
 But choose, each in the barren wood, 
 
 His valentine. 
 
 In caution's maze they never wait 
 
 Until they die; 
 They flock the season's open gate 
 
 Ere time steals by. 
 Love, shall we see and imitate, 
 
 You, love, and I? 
 
124 JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 
 
 TWO PICTURES 
 
 One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm, 
 A halo, like an angel's, on her hair. 
 
 She clasps a sleeping infant in her arm. 
 A holy presence hovers round her there, 
 And she, for all her mother-pains more fair, 
 
 Is happy, seeing that all sweet thoughts that stir 
 
 The hearts of men bear worship unto her. 
 
 Another wanders where the cold wind blows, 
 Wet-haired, with eyes that sting one like a knife. 
 
 Homeless forever, at her bosom close 
 
 She holds the purchase of her love and life, 
 Of motherhood, unglorified as wife; 
 
 And bitterer than the world's relentless scorn 
 
 The knowing her child were happier never born. 
 
 Whence are the halo and the fiery shame 
 
 That fashion thus a crown and curse of love? 
 
 Have roted words such power to bless and blame? 
 Ay, men have stained a raven from many a dove. 
 And all the grace and all the grief hereof 
 
 Are the two words which bore one's lips apart 
 
 And which the other hoarded in her heart. 
 
 He who stooped down and wrote upon the sand, 
 
 The God-heart in him touched to tenderness. 
 
 Saw deep, saw what we can not understand, — 
 
JOHN CHARLES McNEILL 125 
 
 We, who draw near the shrine of one to bless 
 The while we scourge another's sore distress, 
 
 And judge like gods between the ill and good, 
 
 The glory and the guilt of womanhood. 
 
126 WALTER M ALONE 
 
 WALTER MALONE 
 
 (Mississippi : 1866 - ) 
 
 OCTOBER IN TENNESSEE 
 
 Far^ far away, beyond a hazy height, 
 
 The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy sleep; 
 
 Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white. 
 Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. 
 
 Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, 
 
 October robes the weeds in purple gowns; 
 
 He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold, 
 And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns. 
 
 The straggling fences all are interlaced 
 
 With pink and azure morning-glory blooms, 
 
 The starry asters glorify the waste, 
 
 While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes. 
 
 Yet still amid the splendor of decay 
 
 The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead. 
 
 The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away. 
 And lovely Summer songsters that have fled. 
 
 And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, 
 Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, 
 
WALTER MALONE 12T 
 
 Pale Summer for her perished Kingdom pines, 
 And all the glories of her golden sheaves. 
 
 In vain October woos her to remain 
 
 Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, 
 
 Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain, 
 And weep no more above her faded flowers. 
 
 At last November, like a Conqueror, comes 
 
 To storm the golden city of his foe; 
 We hear his rude winds, like the roll of drums, 
 
 Bringing their desolation and their woe. 
 
 The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, 
 Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, 
 
 The forest flames with foliage red as blood, 
 A conflagration sweeping to the sky. 
 
 Then all the treasures of that brilliant state 
 Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; 
 
 October, like a King resigned to fate. 
 Dies in his forest, with their sunset fire. 
 
 OPPORTUNITY 
 
 They do me wrong who say I come no more 
 When once I knock and fail to find you in; 
 
 For every day I stand outside your door. 
 And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. 
 
1^8 WALTER M ALONE 
 
 Wail not for precious chances past away, 
 Weep not for golden ages on the wane ! 
 
 Each night I burn the records of the day, — 
 At sunrise every soul is born again ! 
 
 Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped. 
 To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; 
 
 My judgments seal the dead past with its dead. 
 But never bind a moment yet to come. 
 
 Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep 
 
 I lend my arm to all who say " I can ! " 
 No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep. 
 
 But yet might rise and be again a man ! 
 
 Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? 
 
 Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? 
 Then turn from blotted archives of the past, 
 
 And find the future's pages white as snow. 
 
 Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; 
 
 Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; 
 Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell. 
 
 Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. 
 
GEORGE HENRY MILES 129 
 
 GEOHGB HENRY MILES 
 
 '^(Maryland: 1824-1871) 
 
 SAID THE ROSE 
 
 I AM weary of the garden. 
 
 Said the Rose; 
 For the winter winds 3:tt sighing, 
 All my playmates ros^iid mt ^ying, 
 And my leaves will s^on be lying 
 
 'Neatli tiie ^mws. 
 
 Btil I ^ear my Mistress coming, 
 
 ^&id the Rose; 
 •She will take me to her chamber, 
 Where the honeysuckles clamber, 
 And I'll bloom there all December, 
 
 'Spite the snows. 
 
 Sweeter fell her lily finder 
 
 Than the Be^ I 
 Ah \ ho.w feebjy I iresisted, 
 ^^©Qthed my thorns, and e'en assisted 
 As all blushing I was twisted 
 
 Qff my tree. 
 
130 GEORGE HENRY MILES 
 
 And she fixed me in her bosom 
 
 Like a star; 
 And I flashed there all the morning, 
 Jasmine, honeysuckle scorning, 
 Parasites forever fawning 
 
 That they are. 
 
 And when evening came she set me 
 
 In a vase 
 All of rare and radiant metal. 
 And I felt her red lips settle 
 On my leaves till each proud petal 
 
 Touched her face. 
 
 And I shone about her slumbers 
 
 Like a light; 
 And I said, " Instead of weeping, 
 In the garden vigil keeping. 
 Here I'll watch my Mistress sleeping 
 
 Every night." 
 
 But when morning with its sunbeams 
 
 Softly shone, 
 In the mirror where she braided 
 Her brown hair I saw how jaded, 
 Old and colorless and faded 
 
 I had grown. 
 
GEORGE HENRY MILES 131 
 
 Not a drop of dew was on me, 
 
 Never one; 
 From my leaves no odors started, 
 All my perfmne had departed, 
 I lay pale and broken-hearted 
 
 In the sun. 
 
 Still, I said her smile is better 
 
 Than the rain; 
 Though my fragrance may forsake me, 
 To her bosom she will take me 
 And with crimson kisses make me 
 
 Young again. 
 
 So she took me — gazed a second — 
 
 Half a sigh — 
 Then, alas ! can hearts so harden ? 
 Without ever asking pardon, 
 Threw me back into the garden, 
 
 There to die. 
 
 How the jealous garden gloried 
 
 In my fall ! 
 How the honeysuckles chid me. 
 How the sneering jasmines bid me 
 Light the long gray grass that hid me 
 
 Like a pall. 
 
132 GEORGE HENRY MILES 
 
 There I lay beneath her window 
 
 In a swoon, 
 Till the earthworm o'er me trailing 
 Woke me, just at twilight's failing. 
 As the whip-poor-will was wailing 
 
 To the moon. 
 
 But I hear the storm winds stirring 
 
 In their lair; 
 And I know they soon will lift me 
 In their giant arms and sift me 
 Into ashes as they drift me 
 
 Through the air. 
 
 So I pray them in their mercy 
 
 Just to take 
 From my heart of hearts, or near it, 
 The last living leaf, and bear it 
 To her feet, and bid her wear it 
 
 For my sake. 
 
IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS 133 
 
 IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS 
 
 (Kentucky; i8 ) 
 
 ADRIFT 
 
 Sometimes, when after years of vain regret, 
 
 I cheat myself into the fond belief 
 
 That I have conquered love and vanquished grief, 
 
 Some little thing, — a spray of mignonette, 
 
 A careless word, the air of that duet 
 
 We used to sing, perchance a turned-down leaf 
 
 In the last book we read, — and lo, how brief 
 
 My boasted calm! Behold, my eyes are wet; 
 
 And barriers, built with patience, day by day, 
 
 By the remorseless flood are swept away, 
 
 While, on the waves of Memory I drift 
 
 Far from the harbor of my self-deceit: 
 
 Borne, unresisting, in the current swift. 
 
 That drowns my will and flings me at thy feet ! 
 
 CHILDLESS 
 
 The sleeping echoes of her quiet room 
 Are never waked by bursts of childish glee. 
 And up the polished staircase never come 
 
134 IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS 
 
 Light patterings of footsteps swift and free. 
 Alone she sits and, in the twiHght gloom, 
 Dreams happily of what shall never be ! 
 
 Sometimes her wnstful fancy strews the floor 
 (Rich-carpeted and neat) with broken toys; 
 Paints finger-prints on window-glass and door, 
 Hears echoes of shrill laughter and rude noise; 
 All that a tired mother might deplore 
 Would seem to her starved heart as priceless joys. 
 
 Till, from the world without, some sudden note 
 Of childish voices through her vision rings. 
 And sobs of anguish rise to her white throat. 
 Round which no dimpled arm in mischief clings; 
 Gone are the sweet dream-fancies, as may float 
 From earth to heaven the flash of angel-wings. 
 
 And yet, no little empty crib is there 
 
 To mock the mother-arms, outstretched in vain ; 
 
 She hoards no shining tress of silken hair; 
 
 No tiny grave where buried hopes lie slain ; 
 
 Only the deeper loss she has to bear 
 
 Upon whose heart no babe of hers has lain ! 
 
IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS 135 
 
 THAT LITTLE CHAP OF MINE 
 
 I KNOW I'm jest an ordinary, easy-goin' cuss, 
 'Bout like the common run of men, no better an' no wuss. 
 I can't lay claim to anything as fur as looks may go, 
 An' when it comes to learning, why, I don't stand any 
 
 show. 
 But thar must be somethin more in me than other folks kin 
 
 see, 
 'Cause I've got a little chap at home that thinks a heap of 
 
 me. 
 
 I've had my ups an' downs in life, as most folks have, I 
 
 guess, 
 An' take it all in all, I couldn't brag of much success. 
 But it braces up a feller, an' it tickles him to know 
 Thar's some one that takes stock in him, no matter how 
 
 things go; 
 An' when I git the worst of it, I'm proud as I kin be, 
 To know that little chap of mine still thinks a heap of me. 
 
 To feel his little hand in mine, so trustin' an' so warm. 
 To know he thinks I'm strong enough to keep him from 
 
 all harm. 
 To see his lovin' faith in all that I kin say or do — 
 It sort o' shames a feller, but it makes him better, too. 
 An' so I try to be the man he fancies me to be. 
 Jest 'cause that little chap of mine, he thinks a heap of me. 
 
136 IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS 
 
 I wouldn't disappoint his trust for anything on earth, 
 Or let him know how little I jest natchully am worth. 
 An' after all, it's easy up the better road to climb, 
 With a little hand to help you on an' guide you all the 
 
 time. 
 An' I reckon I'm a better man than what I used to be, 
 Since I've got a little chap at home that thinks a heap of 
 
 me. 
 
 ISRAEL 
 
 She stands among the nations of the earth, 
 Unique — a figure of pathetic grace, 
 God's chosen daughter of the human race, 
 Destined to woe and grandeur from her birth. 
 She sees her children scattered, doomed to dearth, 
 And in her dusky eyes there shines the trace 
 Of tears, that wet her pale, prophetic face, 
 (Knowing her people's pristine power and worth) 
 
 O stricken mother, unto whom we owe 
 
 The light and life that springs from one pure fount, 
 
 Whence all our laws and inspirations flow, 
 
 Not vainly haVe you shed your blood and tears, 
 
 Withstanding scorn and hatred all these years; 
 
 He guards you still, Who spoke from Sinai's mount. 
 
IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS 137 
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 Dear, do not dream I have forgotten thee, 
 Though life goes on in its accustomed way. 
 There is no single hour in any day 
 That is not set with gems of memory; 
 And, though I wage no war with destiny, 
 I have shut in with that dear, senseless clay, 
 That sleeps beneath the lilies (fair as they), 
 All my heart's wealth and love's lost ecstasy. 
 The last, long pressure of thy hand in mine 
 Has kept it pure as those sealed lips of thine . 
 (That nevermore shall part with smiles for me. 
 Since death has kissed to whiteness their warm red.) 
 Dear, never dream I have forgotten thee. 
 Thy soul and mine are one, by memory wed. 
 
138 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 (Kentucky: 1820-1867) 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few. 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind; 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust. 
 Their plumed heads are bowed; 
 
THEODORE O'HARA 139 
 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud. 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast, 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 
 
 The din and shout, are past; 
 Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that never more may feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps this great plateau, 
 Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 
 
 Came down the serried foe. 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was " Victory or death." 
 
 Long has the doubtful conflict raged 
 
 O'er all that stricken plain. 
 For never fiercer fight had waged 
 
 The vengeful blood of Spain; 
 
140 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 And still the storm of battle blew, 
 
 Still swelled the gory tide; 
 Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
 
 Such odds his strength could bide. 
 
 'Twas in that hour his stern command 
 
 Called to a martyr's grave 
 The flower of his beloved band 
 
 The nation's flag to save. 
 By rivers of their fathers' gore 
 
 His first-born laurels grew, 
 And well he deemed the sons would pour 
 
 Their lives for glory too. 
 
 Full many a norther's breath has swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain, 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its mouldering slain. 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 Ye must not slumber there. 
 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 Along the heedless air. 
 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 Shall be your fitter grave; 
 
THEODORE O'HARA 141 
 
 She claims from War his richest spoil, — 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field, 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield ; 
 The sunlight of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here, 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulchre. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 
 
 Dear as the blood ye gave; 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave, — 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While Fame her record keeps, 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell 
 When many a vanished age hath flown. 
 
 The story how ye fell; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of glory's light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
142 H. F. PAGE 
 
 H. F. PAGE 
 
 (North Carolina: 1873 ) 
 
 THE LAST NIGHT AT APPOMATTOX 
 
 West — ebbing day, 
 Then twilight gray 
 And dusk-glooms gathering slow. 
 
 Sad, whispering pines, 
 
 Tattered tent lines. 
 
 And camp fires glimmering low. 
 
 Forms, swarthy, worn — 
 Gray, battle-torn. 
 Move sadly in the light. 
 
 The Southern Bars, 
 The Cross, the Stars 
 Last- folded lie to-night ! 
 
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER 143 
 
 JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER 
 
 (Maryland: 1825-1896) 
 
 STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY 
 
 Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails; 
 
 Stir up the camp-fire bright ! 
 No growling if the canteen fails: 
 
 We'll make a roaring night. 
 Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
 There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong. 
 To swell the Brigade's rousing song. 
 
 Of Stonewall Jackson's Way. 
 
 We see him now — the queer slouched hat, 
 
 Cocked o'er his eye askew; 
 The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, 
 
 So calm, so blunt, so true. 
 The " Blue-light Elder " knows 'em well : 
 Says he, *' That's Banks ; he's fond of shell. 
 Lord save his soul! we'll give him — ;" Well, 
 
 That's Stonewall Jackson's Way ! 
 
 Silence ! Ground arms ! Kneel all ! Caps off ! 
 Old Massa's going to pray. 
 
144 JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER 
 
 Strangle the fool that dares to scoff: 
 
 Attention ! — it's his way. 
 Appealing from his native sod, 
 In forma pauperis to God, 
 " Lay bare Thine arm ! Stretch forth Thy rod : 
 
 Amen ! " — That's Stonewall's Way. 
 
 He's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 
 
 Steady ! the whole brigade. 
 Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win 
 
 His way out, ball and blade. 
 What matter if our shoes are worn? 
 What matter if our feet are torn? 
 Quick step ! we're with him before morn : 
 
 That's Stonewall Jackson's Way. 
 
 The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
 Of morning; and — By George! 
 
 Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists. 
 Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
 
 Pope and his Dutchmen ! — whipped before. 
 
 " Bay'nets and grape ! " hear Stonewall roar. 
 
 Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby's score. 
 In Stonewall Jackson's Way. 
 
 Ah, Maiden ! wait and watch and yearn 
 
 For news of Stonewall's band. 
 Ah, Widow! read, with eyes thg^t ^um,^ 
 
 That ring upon thy hand. 
 
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER 145 
 
 Ah, Wife ! sew on, pray on, hope on ! 
 Thy Hfe shall not be all forlorn. 
 The foe had better ne'er been born, 
 That gets in Stonewall's Way. 
 
146 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 
 
 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 
 
 (Alabama : 1854 ) 
 
 BESSIE BROWN, M. D. 
 
 'TwAs April when she came to town; 
 
 The birds had come, the bees were swarming. 
 Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown: 
 
 I saw at once that she was charming. 
 She took a cottage tinted green, 
 
 Where dewy roses loved to mingle; 
 And on the door, next day, was seen 
 A dainty little shingle. 
 
 Her hair was like an amber wreath; 
 
 Her hat was darker, to enhance it. 
 The violet eyes that glowed beneath 
 
 Were brighter than her keenest lancet. 
 The beauties of her glove and gown 
 
 The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter, 
 Ere she had been a day in town 
 The town was in a flutter. 
 
 The gallants viewed her feet and hands 
 
 And swore they never saw such wee things; 
 
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 147 
 
 The gossips met in purring bands 
 
 And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things. 
 
 The former drank the Doctor's health 
 With clinking cups, the gay carousers; 
 
 The latter watched her door by stealth, 
 Just like so many mousers. 
 
 But Doctor Bessie went her way 
 
 Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, 
 And drove her buggy every day 
 
 Behind a dashing pair of ponies. 
 Her flower-like face so bright she bore, 
 
 I hoped that time might never wilt her. 
 The way she tripped across the floor 
 Was better than a philter. 
 
 Her patients thronged the village street; 
 
 Her snowy slate was always quite full. 
 Some said her bitters tasted sweet; 
 
 And some pronounced her pills delightful. 
 'Twas strange — I knew not what it meant — 
 
 She seemed a nymph from Eldorado; 
 
 Where'er she came, where'er she went. 
 
 Grief lost its gloomy shadow. 
 
 Like all the rest, I too grew ill; 
 
 My aching heart there was no quelling. 
 I tremble at my doctor's bill, — 
 
 And lo ! the items still are swelling. 
 
148 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 
 
 The drugs Fve drunk you'd weep to hear! 
 
 They've quite enriched the fair concocter, 
 And I'm a ruined man, I fear, 
 
 Unless — I wed the Doctor! 
 
 DOLLIE 
 
 She sports a witching gown 
 With a ruffle up and down 
 
 On the skirt. 
 She is gentle, she is shy ; 
 But there's mischief in her eye, 
 
 She's a flirt ! 
 
 She displays a tiny glove, 
 And a dainty little love 
 
 Of a shoe; 
 And she wears her hat a-tilt 
 Over bangs that never wilt 
 
 In the dew. 
 
 'Tis rumored chocolate creams 
 Are the fabric of her dreams — 
 
 But enough ! 
 I know beyond a doubt 
 That she carries them about 
 
 In her muff. 
 
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 149 
 
 With her dimples and her curls 
 She exasperates the girls 
 
 Past belief: 
 They hint that she's a cat, 
 And delightful things like that 
 
 In their grief. 
 
 It is shocking, I declare ! 
 But what does Dollie care 
 
 When the beaux 
 Come flocking to her feet 
 Like the bees around a sweet 
 
 Little rose? 
 
 LILLIAN'S FAN 
 
 Little fan, of fluff and pearl, 
 Tell me, pray, is life a whirl 
 
 Of delight? 
 In Folly's fickle crew 
 There is naught as blithe as you, 
 
 Or as bright. 
 
 You know no other skies 
 Save my lady's azure eyes 
 
 All a-gleam; 
 And beneath them, night and day, 
 Lo, the moments glide away 
 
 Like a dream. 
 
150 SAMUEL MINTUllN PECK 
 
 Each silver strain a-float 
 From my lady's slender throat 
 
 You have heard; 
 And oftentimes you nest 
 In the roses at her breast 
 
 Like a bird. 
 
 Oh, the blushes you have hid, 
 And the notes behind you slid, 
 
 Naughty fan! 
 The witcheries you weave. 
 Have the cunning to deceive 
 
 Any man. 
 
 Humanity rebels 
 
 n I mention half the spells 
 
 You employ; 
 You laugh at breaking hearts. 
 And a lover's aching smarts 
 
 You enjoy. 
 
 Yet, in spite of everything, 
 Still I bless your snowy wing, 
 
 When you dare 
 To screen her head and mine 
 So " mamma " may not divine 
 
 Who is there. 
 
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 151 
 
 I envy you her touch — 
 
 Oh, I can not tell how much; 
 
 It is sad ! 
 Just to see her gayly tip 
 You against her cheery lip 
 
 Drives me mad ! 
 
 Alas, I would I knew 
 
 Half the secrets known to you. 
 
 Dainty fan ! 
 As it is, my fate I guess. 
 In Damoclean distress, 
 
 As I can. 
 
 Beauty's i^et, a word aside, — 
 While you flutter in your pride 
 
 Have a care; 
 Or ere the season's through 
 She may weary too of you, 
 
 So beware! 
 
 THE GRAPEVINE SWING 
 
 When I was a boy on the old plantation, 
 
 Down by the deep bayou, 
 The fairest spot of all creation. 
 
 Under the arching blue; 
 
152 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 
 
 When the wind came over the cotton and corn, 
 
 To the long slim loop I'd spring 
 With brown feet bare, and a hat brim torn, 
 
 And swing in the grapevine swing. 
 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing, 
 Laughing where the wild birds sing, 
 
 I dream and sigh 
 
 For the days gone by. 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing! 
 
 Out — o'er the water lilies bonnie and bright. 
 
 Back — to the moss-grown tree ; 
 I shouted and laughed with a heart as bright 
 
 As a wild rose tossed by the breeze. 
 The mocking bird joined in my reckless glee, 
 
 I longed for no angel's wing — 
 I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be 
 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
 Laughing where the wild birds sing, 
 
 O to be a boy 
 
 With a heart full of joy. 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing! 
 
 I'm weary at noon, I'm weary at night, 
 I'm fretted and sore at heart, 
 
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK 15S 
 
 And care is sowing my locks with white 
 As I wend through the fevered mart. 
 
 I'm tired of the world, with its pride and pomp, 
 And fame seems a worthless thing. 
 
 I'd barter it all for one day's romp, 
 And a swing in the grapevine swing. 
 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
 Laughing where the wild birds sing, 
 
 I would I were away 
 
 From the world to-day, 
 Swinging in the grapevine swing! 
 
154 SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT 
 
 SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT 
 
 (Kentucky: i8 ) 
 
 THE WITCH IN THE GLASS 
 
 " My mother says I must not pass 
 Too near that glass; 
 She is afraid that I will see 
 A little witch that looks like me, 
 With a red, red mouth to whisper low 
 The very thing I should not know ! " 
 
 "Alack for all your mother's care! 
 A bird of the air, 
 A wistful wind, or (I suppose 
 Sent by some hapless boy) a rose, 
 With breath too sweet, will whisper low 
 The very thing you should not know ! " 
 
EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 155 
 
 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 
 
 (Maryland: 1802-1828) 
 
 A HEALTH 
 
 I FILL this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 
 
 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds, 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burdened bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 The measures of her hours; 
 
156 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 
 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
 The freshness of young flowers, 
 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 So fill her, she appears 
 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 Of her bright face, one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain; 
 But memory such as mine of her 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh my latest sigh 
 
 Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon — 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a frame. 
 That life might be all poetry, 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
EDWARD CO ATE PINKNEY 157 
 
 THE SERENADE 
 
 Look out upon the stars, my love, 
 
 And shame them with thine eyes, 
 On which, than on the lights above, 
 
 There hang more destinies; 
 Night's beauty is the harmony 
 
 Of blending shades and light; 
 Then, Lady, up — look out, and be 
 
 A sister to the Night! 
 
 Sleep not ! Thine image wakes for aye 
 
 Within my watching breast; 
 Sleep not ! from her soft sleep should fly, 
 
 Who robs all hearts of rest; 
 Nay, Lady, from thy slumbers break, 
 
 And make the darkness gay. 
 With looks, whose brightness well might make 
 
 Of darker nights a day. 
 
158 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 (Virginia: 1809-1849) 
 
 A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 
 
 Take this kiss upon the brow ! 
 
 And, in parting from you now, 
 
 Thus much let me avow: 
 
 You are not wrong, who deem 
 
 That my days have been a dream; 
 
 Yet if hope has flown away 
 
 In a night, or in a day. 
 
 In a vision, or in none, 
 
 Is it therefore the less gone? 
 
 All that we see or seem 
 
 Is but a dream within a dream. 
 
 I stand amid the roar 
 Of a surf-tormented shore. 
 And I hold within my hand 
 Grains of the golden sand — 
 How few ! yet how they creep 
 Through my fingers to the deep. 
 While I weep, while I weep ! 
 O God ! can I not grasp 
 Them with a tighter clasp? 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 159 
 
 O God ! can I not save 
 One from the pitiless wave? 
 Is all that we see or seem 
 But a dream within a dream? 
 
 ANNABEL LEE 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
 . By the name of Annabel Lee; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 But we loved with a love that was more than love, — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee, — 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 So that her highborn kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me. 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
160 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me ; 
 Yes, that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we, 
 
 Of many far wiser than we ; 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 161 
 
 BRIDAL BALLAD 
 
 The ring is on my hand, 
 
 And the wreath is on my brow ; 
 Satins and jewels grand 
 Are all at my command, 
 
 And I am happy now. 
 
 And my lord he loves me well; 
 
 But when first he breathed his vow 
 I felt my bosom swell, 
 For the words rang as a knell, 
 And the voice seemed his who fell 
 In the battle down the dell, 
 
 And who is happy now. 
 
 But he spoke to reassure me, 
 
 And he kissed my pallid brow. 
 While a revery came o'er me, 
 And to the churchyard bore me. 
 And I sighed to him before me. 
 Thinking him dead D'Elormie, 
 
 " Oh, I am happy now ! " 
 
 And thus the words were spoken. 
 
 And this the plighted vow, 
 And though my faith be broken. 
 And though my heart be broken, 
 Behold the golden token 
 
 That proves me happy now! 
 
162 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Would God I could awaken ! 
 
 For I dream I know not how, 
 And my soul is sorely shaken 
 Lest an evil step be taken, 
 Lest the dead who is forsaken 
 
 May not be happy now. 
 
 FOR ANNIE 
 
 Thank Heaven! the crisis — 
 The danger is past, 
 
 And the lingering illness 
 Is over at last, 
 
 And the fever called " Living " 
 Is conquered at last. 
 
 Sadly I know 
 
 I am shorn of my strength. 
 And no muscle I move 
 
 As I lie at full length; 
 But no matter ! I feel 
 
 I am better at length. 
 
 And I rest so composed. 
 
 Now, in my bed. 
 That any beholder 
 
 Might fancy me dead — 
 Might start at beholding me, 
 
 Thinking me dead. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 163 
 
 The moaning and groaning, 
 
 The sighing and sobbing, 
 Are quieted now, 
 
 With that horrible throbbing 
 At heart, — ah, that horrible, 
 
 Horrible throbbing ! — 
 The sickness, the nausea, 
 
 The pitiless pain, 
 Have ceased, with the fever 
 
 That maddened my brain. 
 With the fever called " Living " 
 
 That burned in my brain. 
 
 And oh ! of all tortures 
 
 That torture the worst • 
 
 Has abated — the terrible 
 
 Torture of thirst 
 For the naphthaline river 
 
 Of Passion accurst; 
 I have drunk of a water 
 
 That quenches all thirst, — 
 
 Of a water that flows. 
 
 With a lullaby sound. 
 From a spring but a very few 
 
 Feet under ground, 
 From a cavern not very far 
 
 Down under ground. 
 
164 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 And ah ! let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That my room it is gloomy 
 
 And narrow my bed; 
 For man never slept 
 
 In a different bed — 
 And, to sleep, you must slumber 
 
 In just such a bed. 
 
 My tantalized spirit 
 Here blandly reposes, 
 
 Forgetting, or never 
 Regretting, its roses — 
 
 Its old agitations 
 
 Of myrtles and roses; 
 
 For now, while so quietly 
 
 Lying, it fancies 
 A holier odor 
 
 About it, of pansies — 
 A rosemary odor. 
 
 Commingled with pansies, 
 With rue and the beautiful 
 
 Puritan pansies. 
 
 And so it lies happily, 
 
 Bathing in many 
 A dream of the truth 
 
 And the beauty of Annie, 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 165 
 
 Drowned in a bath 
 
 Of the tresses of Annie. 
 
 She tenderly kissed me, 
 
 She fondly caressed, 
 And then I fell gently 
 
 To sleep on her breast. 
 Deeply to sleep 
 
 From the heaven of her breast. 
 
 When the light was extinguished 
 She covered me warm, 
 
 And she prayed to the angels 
 To keep me from harm, 
 
 To the queen of the angels 
 To shield me from harm. 
 
 And I lie so composedly 
 
 Now in my bed, 
 (Knowing her love) 
 
 That you fancy me dead; 
 And I rest so contentedly 
 
 Now in my bed, 
 (With her love at my breast) 
 
 That you fancy m^e dead — 
 That you shudder to look at me. 
 
 Thinking me dead. 
 
^66 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 But my heart is brighter 
 
 Than all of the many 
 Stars in the sky, 
 
 For it sparkles with Annie — 
 It glows with the light 
 
 Of the love of my Annie, 
 With the thought of the light 
 
 Of the eyes of my Annie. 
 
 ISRAFEL 
 
 And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, 
 and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. — 
 Koran. 
 
 In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
 
 Whose heart-strings are a lute; 
 None sing so wildly well 
 As the angel Israfel, 
 And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 
 Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
 
 Of his voice, all mute. 
 
 Tottering above 
 
 In her highest noon, 
 
 The enamored moon 
 Blushes with love, 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 167 
 
 While, to listen, the red levin 
 (With the rapid Pleiades, even, 
 Which were seven) 
 Pauses in Heaven. 
 
 And they say (the starry choir 
 
 And the other listening things) 
 That Israfeli's fire 
 Is owing to that lyre 
 
 By which he sits and sings, 
 The trembling living wire 
 
 Of those unusual strings. 
 
 But the skies that angel trod, 
 
 Where deep thoughts are a duty, 
 Where Love's a grown-up God, 
 Where the Houri glances are 
 
 Imbued with all the beauty 
 Which we worship in a star. 
 
 Therefore thou art not wrong, 
 
 Israfeli, who despisest 
 An unimpassioned song; 
 To thee the laurels belong, 
 
 Best bard, because the wisest: 
 Merrily live, and long! 
 
 The ecstasies above 
 With thy burning measures suit; 
 
168 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
 With fervor of thy lute; 
 Well may the stars be mute ! 
 
 Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 
 
 Is a world of sweets and sours; 
 
 Our flowers are merely flowers, 
 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
 
 Is the sunshine of ours. 
 
 If I could dwell 
 Where Israfel 
 
 Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
 He might not sing so wildly well 
 
 A mortal melody. 
 While a bolder note than this might swell 
 
 From my lyre within the sky. 
 
 LENORE 
 
 Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit flown forever ! 
 Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on the Stygian 
 
 river; 
 And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — weep now or 
 
 nevermore ! 
 See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore ! 
 Come ! let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be 
 
 sung: 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 169 
 
 An anthem for the queenhest dead that ever died so 
 
 young, 
 A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. 
 
 " Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her 
 for her pride, 
 
 And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — that 
 she died ! 
 
 How shall the ritual, then, be read? the requiem how be 
 sung 
 
 By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, the slan- 
 derous tongue 
 
 That did to death the innocence that died, and died so 
 young? " 
 
 Peccavimus; but rave not thus ! and let a Sabbath song 
 Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong ! 
 The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope, that flew 
 
 beside, 
 Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have 
 
 been thy bride, — 
 For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies. 
 The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes; 
 The life still there, upon her hair, the death upon her 
 
 eyes. 
 
 "Avaunt ! avaunt ! from fiends below, the indignant ghost 
 
 is riven, — 
 From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven, — 
 
no EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the 
 
 King' of Heaven ! 
 Let no bell toll, then, — lest her soul, amid its hallowed 
 
 mirth. 
 Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned 
 
 Earth ! 
 And I ! — to-night my heart is light ! — no dirge will I 
 
 upraise. 
 But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days ! " 
 
 THE BELLS 
 
 I 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells, 
 
 Silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens seem to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 171 
 
 II 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells. 
 Brazen bells ! 
 
172 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek. 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
 With a desperate desire 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Now, now to sit, or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows 
 By the twanging 
 And the clanging 
 How the danger ebbs and flows; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells 
 In the jangling 
 And the wrangling 
 How the danger sinks and swells, — 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 173 
 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells ; 
 
 Of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells, 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
 In the silence of the night 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people, 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 All alone, 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman. 
 They are neither brute nor human, 
 
 They are ghouls; 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 
174 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls 
 A paean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells ! 
 And he dances, and he yells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the paean of the bells. 
 Of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells; 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells. 
 In a happy Runic rhymee. 
 
 To the rolling of the bells; 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 To the tolHng of the bells; 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 175 
 
 THE CITY IN THE SEA 
 
 Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne 
 
 In a strange city lying alone 
 
 Far down within the dim West, 
 
 Where the good and the bad and the worst 
 
 and the best 
 Have gone to their eternal rest. 
 There shrines and palaces and towers 
 (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) 
 Resemble nothing that is ours. 
 Around, by lifting winds forgot. 
 Resignedly beneath the sky 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 
 No rays from the holy heaven come down 
 On the long night-time of that town; 
 But light from out the lurid sea 
 Streams up the turrets silently, 
 Gleams up the pinnacles far and free,— 
 Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls. 
 Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls. 
 Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
 Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, 
 Up many and many a marvelous shrine 
 Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
 iThe viol, the violet, and the vine. 
 
176 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Resignedly beneath the sky 
 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 
 So blend the turrets and the shadows there 
 
 That all seem pendulous in air, 
 
 While from a proud tower in the town 
 
 Death looks gigantically down. 
 
 There open fanes and gaping graves 
 Yawn level with the luminous waves; 
 But not the riches there that lie 
 In each idol's diamond eye, — 
 Not the gayly jeweled dead 
 Tempt the waters from their bed; 
 For no ripples curl, alas ! 
 Along that wilderness of glass; 
 No swellings tell that winds may be 
 Upon some far-off happier sea; 
 No heaving hint that winds have been 
 On seas less hideously serene ! 
 
 But lo, a stir is in the air ! 
 
 The wave — there is a movement there! 
 
 As if the towers had thrust aside, 
 
 In slightly sinking, the dull tide; 
 
 As if their tops had feebly given 
 
 A void within the filmy Heaven ! 
 
 The waves have now a redder glow, 
 
 The hours are breathing faint and low; 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 177 
 
 And when, amid no earthly moans, 
 Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
 Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
 Shall do it reverence. 
 
 THE CONQUEROR WORM 
 
 Lo ! 't is a gala night 
 
 Within the lonesome latter years ! 
 An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 
 
 In veils, and drowned in tears. 
 Sit in a theater, to see 
 
 A play of hopes and fears. 
 While the orchestra breathes fitfully 
 
 The music of the spheres. 
 
 Mimes, in the form of God on high, 
 
 Mutter and mumble low. 
 And hither and thither fly; 
 
 Mere puppets they, who come and go 
 At bidding of vast formless things 
 
 That shift the scenery to and fro. 
 Flapping from out their condor wings 
 
 Invisible Woe ! 
 
 That motley drama — oh, be sure 
 
 It shall not be forgot! 
 With its Phantom chased for evermore 
 
 By a crowd that seize it not, 
 
178 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Through a circle that ever returneth in 
 
 To the self-same spot; 
 And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 
 
 And Horror the soul of the plot. 
 
 But see amid the mimic rout 
 
 A crawling shape intrude, — 
 A blood-red thing that writhes from out 
 
 The scenic solitude ! 
 It writhes — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs 
 
 The mimes become its food, 
 And seraphs sob at vermin fangs 
 
 In human gore imbued. 
 
 Out — out are the lights — out all! 
 
 And over each quivering form 
 The curtain, a funeral pall, 
 
 Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
 While the angels, all pallid and wan. 
 
 Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
 That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 
 
 And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 
 
 THE HAUNTED PALACE 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace — 
 
 Radiant palace — reared its head. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 179 
 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion, 
 
 It stood there; 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair. 
 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow 
 (This — all this — was in the olden 
 
 Time long ago), 
 And every gentle air that dallied. 
 
 In that sweet day. 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odor went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley 
 
 Through two luminous windows saw 
 Spirits moving musically, 
 
 To a lute's well tuned law. 
 Round about a throne where, sitting, 
 
 Porphyrogene, 
 In state his glory well befitting, 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace door. 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing. 
 
 And sparkling evermore. 
 
180 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
 
 Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
 (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 
 
 Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 
 And round about his home the glory 
 
 That blushed and bloomed 
 Is but a dim-remembered story 
 
 Of the old time entombed. 
 
 And travelers now within that valley 
 
 Through the red-litten windows see 
 Vast forms that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody, 
 While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
 
 Through the pale door 
 A hideous throng rush out forever. 
 
 And laugh — but smile no more. 
 
 THE RAVEN 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
 
 weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 
 
 lore, — 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 181 
 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 
 tapping, 
 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 
 door. 
 
 " 'T is some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my cham- 
 ber door: 
 Only this and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Decem- 
 ber, 
 
 A^ifi ' each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 
 the floor. 
 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to 
 borrow 
 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
 Lenore, 
 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 Lenore: 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple 
 
 curtain 
 Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 
 
 before ; 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood re- 
 peating 
 " T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 door, 
 
182 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 door: 
 This it is and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no 
 longer, 
 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I im- 
 plore ; 
 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 
 rapping. 
 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chaui-oer 
 door. 
 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide 
 the door: — 
 Darkness there and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there won- 
 dering, fearing. 
 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
 dream before; 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no 
 token. 
 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 
 "Lenore?" 
 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
 " Lenore : " 
 Merely this and nothing more. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 183 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
 burning, 
 
 Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than be- 
 fore. 
 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window 
 lattice ; 
 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery ex- 
 plore ; 
 
 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery ex- 
 plore: 
 'Tis the wind and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 
 flutter, 
 
 In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of 
 yore. 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped 
 or stayed he; 
 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cham- 
 ber door. 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 door: 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smil- 
 ing 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
 wore, — 
 
184 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
 
 " art sure no craven, 
 Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the 
 
 Nightly shore: 
 Tell me w^hat thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian 
 
 shore ! " 
 Quoth the Raven, '' Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 
 
 plainly. 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy 
 
 bore; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
 
 being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber 
 
 door. 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 
 
 door, 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke 
 
 only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 
 
 outpour. 
 Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he 
 
 fluttered. 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, — " Other friends have 
 
 flown before; 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 185 
 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown 
 before." 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
 spoken, 
 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and 
 store, 
 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 
 Disaster 
 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one bur- 
 den bore : 
 
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 
 bore 
 Of * Never — nevermore.' " 
 
 But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smil- 
 ing, 
 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and 
 bust and door; 
 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to link- 
 ing 
 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 
 yore. 
 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 
 bird of yore 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
186 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable express- 
 ing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 
 core; 
 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease re- 
 clining 
 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated 
 o'er, 
 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloat- 
 ing o'er 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an 
 
 unseen censer 
 Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 
 
 floor. 
 "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these 
 
 angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 
 
 Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 
 
 Lenore ! " 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird 
 
 or devil ! 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
 
 here ashore, 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 187 
 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
 chanted — 
 
 On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I im- 
 plore: 
 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I 
 implore ! " 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird 
 
 or devil ! 
 By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both 
 
 adore, 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 
 
 Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore, 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels nai^e 
 
 Lenore." 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 
 shrieked, upstarting; 
 
 " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plu- 
 tonian shore ! 
 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
 hath spoken ! 
 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my 
 door ! 
 
188 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 
 off my door ! " 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 
 
 dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow 
 
 on the floor; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on 
 
 the floor 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 THE SLEEPER 
 
 At midnight, in the month of June, 
 I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
 An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
 Exhales from out her golden rim, 
 And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
 Upon the quiet mountain-top, 
 Steals drowsily and musically 
 Into the universal valley. 
 The rosemary nods upon the grave; 
 The lily lolls upon the wave; 
 Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
 The ruin molders into rest; 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 189 
 
 Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 
 A conscious slumber seems to take, 
 And would not, for the world, awake. 
 All beauty sleeps ! — and lo ! where lies 
 (Her casement open to the skies) 
 Irene, with her destinies ! 
 
 O lady bright ! can it be right, 
 
 This window open to the night? 
 
 The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 
 
 Laughingly through the lattice drop; 
 
 The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 
 
 Flit through my chamber in and out, 
 
 And wave the curtain canopy 
 
 So fitfully, so fearfully. 
 
 Above the closed and fringed lid 
 
 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, 
 
 That, o'er the floor and down the wall. 
 
 Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall. 
 
 O lady dear, hast thou no fear? 
 
 Why and what art thou dreaming here? 
 
 Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 
 
 A wonder to these garden trees ! 
 
 Strange is thy pallor : strange thy dress : 
 
 Strange, above all, thy length of tress. 
 
 And this all-solemn silentness ! 
 
190 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 
 
 Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
 
 Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
 
 This chamber changed for one more holy, 
 
 This bed for one more melancholy, 
 
 I pray to God that she may lie 
 
 Forever with unopened eye. 
 
 While the pale sheeted ghosts go by ! 
 
 My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 
 
 As it is lasting, so be deep ! 
 
 Soft may the worms about her creep ! 
 
 Far in the forest, dim and old, 
 
 For her may some tall vault unfold, — 
 
 Some vault that oft hath flung its black 
 
 And winged panels fluttering back. 
 
 Triumphant, o'er the crested palls. 
 
 Of her grand family funerals; 
 
 Some sepulcher, remote, alone, 
 
 Against whose portal she hath thrown, 
 
 In childhood, many an idle stone; 
 
 Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
 
 She ne'er shall force an echo more, 
 
 Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, 
 
 It was the dead who groaned within ! 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 191 
 
 THE VALLEY OF UNREST 
 
 Once it smiled a silent dell 
 
 Where the people did not dwell; 
 
 They had gone unto the wars, 
 
 Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
 
 Nightly from their azure towers. 
 
 To keep watch above the flowers, 
 
 In the midst of which all day 
 
 The red sunlight lazily lay. 
 
 Now each visitor shall confess 
 
 The sad Valley's restlessness. 
 
 Nothing there is motionless, 
 
 Nothing save the airs that brood 
 
 Over the magic solitude. 
 
 Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 
 
 That palpitate like the chill seas 
 
 Around the misty Hebrides ! 
 
 Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 
 
 That rustle through the unquiet heaven 
 
 Uneasily, from morn till even, 
 
 Over the violets there that lie 
 
 In myriad types of the human eye — 
 
 Over the lilies there that wave 
 
 And weep above a nameless grave ! 
 
 They wave ; from out their fragrant tops 
 
 Eternal dews come down in drops. 
 
 They weep; from off their delicate stems 
 
 Perennial tears descend in gems. 
 
192 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 TO HELEN 
 
 Helen, thy beauty is to me 
 
 Like those Nicsean barks of yore, 
 
 That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
 The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 
 
 Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home 
 To the glory that was Greece 
 And the grandeur that was Rome. 
 
 Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
 How statue-like I see thee stand. 
 
 The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
 Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
 Are Holy Land! 
 
 TO ONE IN PARADISE 
 
 Thou wast all that to me, love, 
 
 For which my soul did pine, — 
 A green isle in the sea, love, 
 
 A fountain and a shrine. 
 All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 
 
 And all the flowers were mine. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 193 
 
 Ah, dream too bright to last ! 
 
 Ah, starry hope that didst arise 
 But to be overcast ! 
 
 A voice from out the future cries, 
 " On ! on ! "— but o'er the Past 
 
 (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
 Mute, motionless, aghast! 
 
 For, alas ! alas ! with me 
 
 The light of life is o'er ! 
 
 "No more — no more — no more — " 
 (Such language holds the solemn sea 
 
 To the sands upon the shore) 
 Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 
 
 Or the stricken eagle soar ! 
 
 And all my days are trances, 
 
 And all my nightly dreams 
 Are where thy gray eye glances. 
 
 And where thy footstep gleams, 
 In what ethereal dances. 
 
 By what eternal streams. 
 
 ULALUME 
 
 The skies they were ashen and sober; 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere, 
 The leaves they were withering and sere; 
 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 
194 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Of my most immemorial year; 
 It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
 
 In the misty mid region of Weir: 
 It was down by the dank tarn of Auber; 
 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 Here once, through an alley Titanic 
 Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 
 Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
 
 These were days when my heart was volcanic 
 As the scoriae rivers that roll, 
 As the lavas that restlessly roll 
 
 Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
 In the ultimate climes of the pole. 
 
 That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
 In the realms of the boreal pole. 
 
 Our talk had been serious and sober, 
 
 But our thoughts they were palsied and sere, 
 Our memories were treacherous and sere, 
 
 For we knew not the month was October, 
 And we marked not the night of the year 
 (Ah, night of all nights in the year!), 
 
 We noted not the dim lake of Auber 
 
 (Though once we had journeyed down here). 
 
 Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
 Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 195 
 
 And now, as the night was senescent 
 
 And star-dials pointed to morn, 
 
 As the star-dials hinted of morn, 
 At the end of our path a liquescent 
 
 And nebulous luster was born, 
 Out of which a miraculous crescent 
 
 Arose with a duplicate horn, 
 Astarte's bediamonded crescent 
 
 Distinct with its duplicate horn. 
 
 And I said, "She is warmer than Dian; 
 
 She rolls through an ether of sighs, 
 
 She revels in a region of sighs; 
 She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
 
 These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
 And has come past the stars of the Lion 
 
 To point us the path to the skies. 
 
 To the Lethean peace of the skies; 
 Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
 
 To shine on us with her bright eyes. 
 Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
 
 With love in her luminous eyes." 
 
 But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
 
 Said, " Sadly this star I mistrust, 
 
 Her pallor I strangely mistrust; 
 Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 
 
 Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — for we must." 
 
196 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
 Wings until they trailed in the dust; 
 
 In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
 Plumes till they trailed in the dust, 
 Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 
 
 I replied, "This is nothing but dreaming: 
 
 Let us on by this tremulous light ! 
 
 Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
 Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 
 
 With hope and in beauty to-night ! 
 
 See, it flickers up the sky through the night ! 
 Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
 
 And be sure it will lead us aright; 
 We safely may trust to a gleaming 
 
 That can not but guide us aright, 
 
 Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 
 
 Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her. 
 
 And tempted her out of her gloom. 
 
 And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 
 And we passed to the end of the vista. 
 
 But were stopped by the door of a tomb, 
 
 By the door of a legended tomb; 
 And I said, " What is written, sweet sister, 
 
 On the door of this legended tomb?" 
 
 She replied, " Ulalume ! Ulalume ! — 
 
 'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 197 
 
 Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
 As the leaves that were crisped and sere, 
 As the leaves that were withering and sere, 
 
 And I cried, " It was surely October 
 On this very night of last year 
 That I journeyed, I journeyed down here, 
 That I brought a dread burden down here. 
 On this night of all nights in the year, 
 Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 
 
 Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
 This misty mid region of Weir; 
 
 Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
 This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 
 
198 GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE 
 
 GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE 
 
 (Kentucky: 1802-1870) 
 
 THE CLOSING YEAR 
 
 'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
 
 Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 
 
 The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds, 
 
 The bell's deep-notes are swelling. 'Tis the knell 
 
 Of the departed year. 
 
 No funeral train 
 Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, 
 With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, 
 Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, 
 As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud 
 That floats so still and placidly through heaven 
 The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — 
 Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form. 
 And Winter, with his aged locks, — and breathe 
 In mournful cadences, that come abroad 
 Like the far wind harp's wild and touching wail, 
 A melancholy dirge o'er the dead Year, 
 Gone from the earth forever. 
 
GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE 199 
 
 'Tis a time 
 For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 
 Still chambers of the heart a specter dim, 
 Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, 
 Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
 And solemn finger to the beautiful 
 And holy visions that have passed away 
 And left no shadow of their loveliness 
 On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts 
 The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love. 
 And, bending mournfully above the pale 
 Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
 O'er what has passed to nothingness. 
 
 The year 
 Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng 
 Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 
 Its shadow on each heart. In its swift course 
 It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful — 
 And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
 Upon the strong man — and the haughty form 
 Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
 It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
 The bright and joyous — and the tearful wail 
 Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 
 And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 
 The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield 
 Flashed in the light of midday — and the strength 
 
200 GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE 
 
 Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
 Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
 The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came 
 And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; 
 Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air. 
 It heralded its millions to their home 
 In the dim land of dreams. 
 
 Remorseless Time ! — 
 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
 His iron heart to pity? On, still on 
 He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
 The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
 Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
 The fury of the Northern hurricane 
 And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
 Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks down 
 To rest upon his mountain crag, — but Time 
 Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
 And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
 His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
 O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
 Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink, 
 Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles 
 Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back 
 To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear 
 To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
 
GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE 201 
 
 Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise, 
 Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
 And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
 Startling the nations ; and the very stars. 
 Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
 Glitter a while in their eternal depths. 
 And like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. 
 Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, 
 To darkle in the trackless void; yet Time, 
 Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
 Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not 
 Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
 To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
 Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
 
202 MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 
 
 MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 
 
 (Virginia: 1820-1897) 
 
 FLOOD-TIDE 
 
 To every artist, howsoe'er his thought 
 
 Unfolds itself before the eyes of men — 
 
 Whether through sculptor's chisel, poet's pen, 
 
 Or painter's wondrous brush, — there comes, full fraught 
 
 With instant revelation, lightning-wrought, 
 
 A moment of supremest heart-swell, when 
 
 The mind leaps to the tidal crest, and then 
 
 Sweeps on triumphant to the harbor sought. 
 
 Wait, eager spirit, till the topping waves 
 Shall roll their gathering strength in one, and lift 
 From out the swamping trough thy galleon free ; 
 Mount with the whirl, command the rush that raves 
 A maelstrom round; then proudly shoreward drift. 
 Rich-freighted as an Indian argosy. 
 
 THE ANGEL UNAWARE 
 
 Abroad on the landscape pale and cold, 
 Blurred with a patter of autumn rain, 
 
MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 203 
 
 I gazed, and questioned if it could hold 
 
 Ever the sweet, old joy again. 
 The color had faded from earth and sky, 
 
 Mists hung low where the light had laii;i, 
 And through the willows a fretful sigh 
 
 Moaned as their branches swept the pane. 
 
 "My days must darken as these," I said — 
 
 " Out of my life must summer go ; 
 Its russeted memories, dim and dead, 
 
 Shiver along my pathway so ; 
 No more the elastic life comes back^ 
 
 The leap of heart and the spirit-glow 
 That never had sense of loss or lack, 
 
 Whether my lot were glad or no." 
 
 But here on my musings broke a child. 
 
 Fresh from a rush in the pinching air; 
 And, kissing my hand, she gayly smiled. 
 
 Speaking no word, but leaving there 
 A handful of heart's-ease, blithe and bright. 
 
 What had become of my cloud of care? 
 It had haloed itself in a ring of light 
 
 Over the angel unaware! • 
 
204 MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 
 
 WE TWO 
 
 Ah, painful-sweet ! how can I take it in ! 
 
 That somewhere in the illimitable blue 
 
 Of God's pure space, which men call Heaven, we two 
 
 Again shall find each other, and begin 
 
 The infinite life of love, a life akin 
 
 To angels, — only angels never knew 
 
 The ecstasy of blessedness that drew 
 
 Us to each other, even in this world of sin. 
 
 Yea, find each other! The remotest star 
 
 Of all the galaxies would hold in vain 
 
 Our souls apart, that have been, heretofore, 
 
 As closely interchangeable as are 
 
 One mind and spirit: Oh, joy that aches to pain, 
 
 To be together — we two — forever more ! 
 
JAMES RYDER RANDALL 205 
 
 JAMES RYDER RANDALL 
 
 (Maryland: 1839-1908) 
 
 MY MARYLAND 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle-queen of yore, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For life and death, for woe and weal. 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
206 JAMES RYDER RANDALL 
 
 Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Remember Carroll's sacred trust; 
 Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
 And all thy slumberers with the just, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come with thy panoplied array, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
 With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
 With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Dear Mother ! burst the tyrant's chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Virginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She meets her sisters on the plain — 
 ^' Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
JAMES RYDER RANDALL 207 
 
 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come to thine own heroic throng 
 Walking with Liberty along, 
 And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
 From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Better the fire upon thee roll, 
 Better the shot, the blade, the bowl. 
 Than crucifixion of the soul. 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
208 JAMES RYDER RANDALL 
 
 I hear the distant thunder hum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; 
 Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
 She breathes — she burns! she'll come! she'll come! 
 
 Maryland! My Maryland! 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 209 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 (Mississippi: 1853-1879) 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE BANJO 
 
 From " Christmas Night in the Quarters " 
 
 Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired 0' hearin' you a-squawkin'; 
 Keep silence fur yo' betters ! — don't you heah de banjo 
 
 talkin'? ^ 
 
 About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter — ladies, 
 
 listen ! — 
 About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r 's missin': 
 
 " Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' 
 
 solemn, — 
 Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber 
 
 column, — 
 An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches. 
 An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah 
 
 Natchez. 
 
 or Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; 
 An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin' ; 
 But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to 
 
 happen : 
 An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. 
 
210 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob eb'ry sort o' 
 
 beas'es, — 
 Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces ! 
 He had a Morgan colt an' seb'ral head o' Jarsey cattle, — 
 An' druv 'em board de Ark as soon's he heerd de thunder 
 
 rattle. 
 
 Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, 
 
 De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; 
 
 De people all wuz drowned out — 'cep' Noah an' de crit- 
 ters. 
 
 An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix de 
 bitters. 
 
 De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin'; 
 
 De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin' ; 
 
 De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all 
 
 de fussin'. 
 You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' 
 
 cussin'. 
 
 Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, 
 Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de 
 
 racket ; 
 An' so, fur to amuse hese'f, he steamed some wood an' 
 
 bent it. 
 An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz invented. 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 211 
 
 He wet de ledder, stretched it on, made bridge an' screws 
 
 an' aprin; 
 An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' tap'rin'; 
 He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; 
 An' den de mighty question riz : how wuz he gwine to 
 
 string it? 
 
 De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; 
 De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong, — des fit fur banjo- 
 
 stringin' ; 
 Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner 
 
 graces ; 
 An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses. 
 
 He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz " Nebber 
 
 min' de wedder," — 
 She sound' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all together; 
 Some went to pattin'; some to dancin'; Noah called de 
 
 figgers ; 
 An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob de 
 
 niggers ! 
 
 Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not 
 
 de slightes' showin' 
 Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; 
 An' curi's, too, dat's nigger's ways: his people nebber los* 
 
 'em, — 
 Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar's de banjo an' de 
 
 'possum ! 
 
212 ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 
 
 ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 
 
 (Virginia: 1839-1886) 
 
 THE CONQUERED BANNER 
 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
 Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 
 
 Furl it, fold it, — it is best; 
 For there's not a man to wave it. 
 And there's not a sword to save it, 
 And there's not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
 
 Furl it, hide it — let it rest! 
 
 Take that Banner down ! 'tis tattered ; 
 Broken is its staff and shattered; 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered 
 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it ; 
 Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
 Hard that those who once unrolled it 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh ! 
 
ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 213 
 
 Furl that Banner ! — furl it sadly ! 
 Once ten thousand hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousand wildly, madly. 
 
 Swore it should forever wave; 
 Swore that foeman's sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their grave ! 
 
 Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
 
 Cold and dead are lying low; 
 And that Banner — it is trailing, 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it, — " 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, 
 Weep for those who fell before it. 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
 And, oh ! wildly they deplore it. 
 Now who furl and fold it so ! 
 
 Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory, 
 Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
 And 'twill live in song and story 
 Though its folds are in the dust! 
 For its fame on brightest pages, 
 Penned by poets and by sages, 
 
214 ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 
 
 Shall go sounding down the ages, — 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
 Treat it gently — it is holy, 
 
 For it droops above the dead. 
 Touch it not — unfold it never; 
 Let it droop there, furled forever, — 
 
 For its people's hopes are dead ! 
 
 THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE 
 
 Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, 
 
 Flashed the sword of Lee ! 
 Far in the front of the deadly fight. 
 
 High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
 Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light. 
 
 Led us to victory ! 
 
 Out of its scabbard, where, full long, 
 
 It slumbered peacefully. 
 Roused from its rest by the battle's song. 
 Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong. 
 Guarding the right, avenging the wrong. 
 
 Gleamed the sword of Lee! 
 
 Forth from its scabbard, high in air 
 
 Beneath Virginia's sky ! — 
 And they who saw it gleaming there, 
 
ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 215 
 
 And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
 That \v^here that sword led they would dare 
 To follow — and to die ! 
 
 Out of its scabbard ! — never hand 
 
 Waved sword from stain as free; 
 Nor purer sword led braver band, 
 Nor braver bled for a brighter land, 
 Nor brighter land had cause so grand, 
 
 Nor cause a chief like Lee ! 
 
 Forth from its scabbard ! — how we prayed 
 
 That sword might victor be ! 
 And when our triumph was delayed, 
 And many a heart grew sore afraid. 
 We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 
 
 Of noble Robert Lee. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard all in vain 
 
 Bright flashed the sword of Lee ! 
 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, 
 It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, 
 Defeated, yet without a stain, 
 
 Proudly and peacefully. 
 
^16 GEORGE HERBERT SASS 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT SASS 
 
 (South Carolina: 1845-1908) 
 
 IN A KING-CAMBYSES VEIN 
 
 Cambyses, King of the Persians, 
 
 Sat with his lords at play 
 Where the shades of the broad plane-branches 
 
 Slanted athwart the way. 
 
 And he listened and heard Prexaspes 
 
 Tell to his fellows there 
 Of a Bactrian bowman's prowess 
 
 And skill beyond compare. 
 
 And the heart of the King was bitter, 
 And he turned and said to him: 
 
 " Dost see on the greensward yonder 
 That plane-tree's slender limb? 
 
 "It stands far off in the gloaming — 
 
 Dost think thy Bactrian could 
 With a single shaft unerring 
 
 Smite through that slender wood?" 
 
GEORGE HERBERT SASS 217 
 
 " But nay," then said Prexaspes, 
 
 " Nor ever a mortal man 
 Since the days when Nimrod hunted 
 
 Where great Euphrates ran." 
 
 Then Cambyses, son of Cyrus, 
 
 Looked, and before him there 
 Meres, the King's cupbearer. 
 
 Stood where the wine flowed clear. 
 
 Meres, the King's cupbearer, 
 
 Prexaspes' only son, 
 And the heart of the King was hardened, 
 
 And the will of the King was done. 
 
 And he said : " Bind Meres yonder 
 
 To the plane-tree's slender stem, 
 And give me yon sheaf of arrows 
 
 And the bow that lies by them." 
 
 And so, when the guards had bound him 
 
 He drew the shaft to the head ; 
 " Give heed ! give heed, Prexaspes, 
 
 I aim for the heart ! " he said. 
 
 Sharp through the twilight stillness 
 
 Echoed the steel bow's twang; 
 Loud through the twilight stillness 
 
 The courtiers' plaudits rang. 
 
218 GEORGE HERBERT SASS 
 
 And the head of the boy drooped downward, 
 And the quivering shaft stood still; 
 
 And the King said : " O, Prexaspes, 
 Match I thy Bactrian's skill?" 
 
 Then low before Cambyses 
 
 The Satrap bowed his head — 
 " O, great King, live forever ! 
 
 Thou hast cleft the heart ! " he said. 
 
JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING ^19 
 
 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 
 
 (Kentucky: 1840 ) 
 
 AT THE NINTH HOUR 
 
 Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? 
 
 O sadder than the ocean's waiHng moan. 
 
 Sadder than homes whence life and joy have flown, 
 
 Than graves where those we love in darkness lie; 
 
 More full of anguish than all agony 
 
 Of broken hearts, forsaken of their own 
 And left in hopeless misery alone. 
 
 Is this, O sweet and loving Christ, Thy cry ! 
 
 For this, this only is infinite pain: 
 
 To feel that God Himself has turned away. 
 
 If He abide all loss may still be gain. 
 And darkest night be beautiful as day. 
 
 But lacking Him the universe is vain, 
 And man's immortal soul is turned to clay. 
 
220 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 
 
 DEATH'S GRAND AVENUE 
 
 The heavens shall grow old; be cast aside 
 Like out-worn vesture ; the great sun shall fail 
 And all the countless host of stars wax pale 
 
 And on the earth no living thing abide ! 
 
 This is the voice with which the Blessed Saviour cried 
 To men, who on time's billowy ocean sail, 
 Trusting their all to bottoms that are frail. 
 
 With perishable elements for guide. 
 
 This is the truth which science utters too, 
 
 Teaching that suns and moons and earth shall die, 
 
 That boundless space is death's grand avenue, 
 Where winds the funeral march of earth and sky. * 
 
 Is death then the eternal only true, 
 And life, but a despairing wail, a lie? 
 
 THE PRAISE OF MEN 
 
 Why wish that men should praise me when Fm dead? 
 
 Now all alive I hold their praise is vain. 
 
 It can not give content nor deaden pain. 
 Nor bring the loved who into darkness fled. 
 
 Nor widen my life-current's narrow bed, 
 
 Nor lift my thought and love to higher plane, 
 Nor win for me an everlasting gain, 
 
 Nor place unfading wreath upon my head. 
 
JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 221 
 
 What need of praise then when my body lies 
 In silent earth and I to God have flown? 
 
 But if, as some have held, the soul too dies 
 And wholly ceases, like a flame outblown, 
 
 To praise the dead is worst of vanities 
 
 And meaningless as the dull ocean's moan. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF MORNING 
 
 How many a time, just when the sun up-glows, 
 I gently brush away my own sweet sleep, 
 And walk into the balmy air, knee-deep 
 
 In clover, rich and fragrant as the rose, 
 
 Along a little stream which, singing, flows 
 
 Beneath o'ershadowing trees whose green boughs keep 
 Their silent watch, while the young sunbeams peep 
 
 Through leaves, to kiss the wave that prattling goes. 
 
 O then, I hear the song of birds, the low 
 
 Of cattle, and the hum of early bees ; 
 Of fresh-awakened flowers I catch the glow, 
 
 And feel the odorous kiss of morning breeze; 
 The startled air sends forth the cock's shrill crow. 
 
 And the whole earth with joyful thoughts agrees. 
 
222 JOHN LANCASTER SPALDING 
 
 THE STARRY HOST 
 
 The countless stars, which to our human eye 
 Are fixed and steadfast, each in proper place, 
 Forever bound to changeless points in space, 
 
 Rush with our sun and planets through the sky, 
 
 And like a flock of birds still onward fly; 
 Returning never whence began their race. 
 They speed their ceaseless way with gleaming face 
 
 As though God bade them win Infinity. 
 
 Ah, whither, whither is their forward flight 
 Through endless time and limitless expanse? 
 
 What Power with unimaginable might 
 
 First hurled them forth to spin in tireless dance? 
 
 What Beauty lures them on through primal night. 
 So that for them to be is to advance? 
 
FRANK LEBBY STANTON 223 
 
 FRANK LEBBY STANTON 
 
 (South Carolina: 1857 ) 
 
 LITTLE ELAINE 
 
 Where have you gone, Httle Elaine, 
 
 With eyes like violets wet with rain — 
 
 Silvery April rain that throws 
 
 (Ah, never with eyes as bright as those!) 
 
 Melting diamonds over the rose. 
 
 You have left me alone, but where have you flown? 
 
 God knows, my dear, God knows ! 
 
 Where have you gone, little Elaine, 
 
 With laughing lips of the crimson stain — 
 
 Lips that smiled as the sunlight glows 
 
 When morning breaks like a white, sweet rose 
 
 Over the wearisome winter snows? 
 
 Shall I miss their song my whole life long? 
 
 God knows, my dear, God knows ! 
 
 You have left me lonely, little Elaine: 
 
 I call to you, but I call in vain; 
 
 I sing to you when the twilight throws 
 
 Its dying light on my life's last rose. 
 
 While the tide of memory ebbs and flows. 
 
 Is it God's own will I should miss you still? 
 
 God knows, my dear, God knows ! 
 
224f HENRY JEROME STOCKARD 
 
 HENRY JEROME STOCKARD 
 
 (North Carolina: 1858 ) 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 He heard the Voice that spake and, unafraid, 
 
 Beheld at dawning of primeval light 
 
 The systems flame to being, move in flight 
 
 Unmeasured, unimagined, and unstayed. 
 
 He stood at nature's evening and surveyed 
 
 Dissolved worlds, — saw uncreated night 
 
 About the universe's depth and height 
 
 Slowly and silently forever laid. 
 
 Down the pale avenues of death he trod, 
 
 And trembling gazed on scenes of hate that chilled 
 
 His blood, and for a breath his pulses stilled, — 
 
 Then clouds from sun-bright shores a moment rolled 
 
 And blinded glimpsed he One with thunder shod, 
 
 Crowned with the stars, and with the morning stoled ! 
 
 AS SOME MYSTERIOUS WANDERER OF THE 
 SKIES 
 
 An some mysterious wanderer of the skies. 
 Emerging from the deeps of outer dark, 
 Traces for once in human ken the arc 
 Of its stupendous curve, then swiftly flies 
 
HENRY JEROME STOCKARD 225 
 
 Out through some orbit veiled in space, which Hes 
 
 Where no imagination may embark, — 
 
 Some onward-reaching track that God di3 mark 
 
 For all eternity beneath his eyes, — 
 
 So comes the soul forth from creation's vast; 
 
 So clothed with mystery moves through mortal sight; 
 
 Then sinks away into the Great Unknown. 
 
 What systems it hath seen in all the past. 
 
 What worlds shall blaze upon its future flight, 
 
 Thou knowest, eternal God, and thou alone ! 
 
226 JOHN BANISTER TABS 
 
 JOHN BANISTER TABB 
 
 (Virginia: 1845-1909) 
 
 A CRADLE-SONG 
 
 Sing it, Mother ! sing it low : 
 
 Deem it not an idle lay. 
 In heart 't will ebb and flow 
 
 All the life-long way. 
 
 Sing it, Mother ! softly sing, 
 While he slumbers on thy knee; 
 
 All that after-years may bring 
 Shall flow back to thee. 
 
 Sing it, Mother, Love is strong ! 
 
 When the tears of manhood fall, 
 Echoes of thy cradle-song 
 
 Shall its peace recall. 
 
 Sing it. Mother! when his ear 
 Catcheth first the Voice Divine, 
 
 Dying, he may smile to hear 
 What he deemeth thine. 
 
JOHN BANISTER TABB 227 
 
 FERN SONG 
 
 Dance to the beat of the rain, little Fern, 
 And spread out your palms again, 
 
 And say, " Tho' the sun 
 
 Hath my vesture spun. 
 He had labored, alas, in vain. 
 
 But for the shade 
 
 That the Cloud hath made, 
 And the gift of the Dew and the Rain." 
 
 Then laugh and upturn 
 
 All your fronds, little Fern, 
 And rejoice in the beat of the rain! 
 
 KEATS 
 
 Upon thy tomb 't is graven, " Here lies one 
 Whose name is writ in water." Could there be 
 A flight of Fancy fitlier feigned for thee, 
 
 A fairer motto for her favorite son? 
 
 For, as the wave, thy varying numbers run — 
 Now crested proud in tidal majesty, 
 Now tranquil as the twilight reverie 
 
 Of some dim lake the white moon looks upon 
 
 While teems the world with silence. Even there. 
 
 In each Protean rainbow-tint that stains 
 The breathing canvas of the atmosphere. 
 
228 JOHN BANISTER TABB 
 
 We read an exhalation of thy strains. 
 Thus, on the scroll of Nature, everywhere, 
 Thy name, a deathless syllable, remains. 
 
 MAGADALEN 
 
 (After Swinburne) 
 " She hath done what she could," 
 It was thus that He spake of her. 
 
 Trembling and pale as the penitent stood. 
 "And this she hath done shall be told for the sake 
 
 of her, 
 Told as embalmed in the gift that I take of her, 
 Take, as an earnest of all that she would 
 Who hath done what she could. 
 
 " She hath done what she could : 
 Lo, the flame that hath driven her 
 
 Downward, is quenched ! and her grief like a flood 
 In the strength of a rain-swollen torrent hath shriven 
 
 her: 
 Much hath she loved and much is forgiven her; 
 
 Love in the longing fulfills what it would — 
 
 She hath done what she could." 
 
JOHN BANISTER TABB 929 
 
 O'ERSPENT 
 
 My soul is as a fainting noonday star, 
 
 And thou, the absent night; 
 Haste, that thy healing shadow from afar 
 
 May touch me into light. 
 
 ON THE FORTHCOMING VOLUME OF SIDNEY 
 LANIER'S POEMS 
 
 Snow ! Snow ! Snow ! 
 
 Do thy worst, Winter, but know, but know 
 That, when the Spring cometh, a blossom shall blow 
 From the heart of the Poet that sleeps below. 
 And his name to the ends of the earth shall go, 
 In spite of the snow ! 
 
 SOLITUDE 
 
 Thou wast to me what to the changing year 
 Its seasons are, — a joy forever new; 
 What to the night its stars, its heavenly dew, 
 
 Its silence; what to dawn its lark-song clear; 
 
 To noon, its light — its fleckless atmosphere, 
 Where ocean and the overbending blue. 
 In passionate communion, hue for hue. 
 
 As one in Love's circumference appear. 
 
230 JOHN BANISTER TABB 
 
 O brimming heart, witii tears for utterance 
 Alike of joy and sorrow! lift thine eyes 
 
 And sphere the desolation. Love is flown; 
 And in the desert's widening expanse 
 
 :Grim Silence, like a sepulchre of stone, 
 Stands charneling a soul's funereal sighs. 
 
 THE BUBBLE 
 
 Why should I stay? Nor seed nor fruit have I, 
 But, sprung at once to beauty's perfect round. 
 Nor loss, nor gain, nor change in me is found,- 
 
 A life-complete in death-complete to die. 
 
 THE DRUID 
 
 Godlike beneath his grave divinities, 
 The last of all their worshipers, he stood. 
 The shadows of a vanished multitude 
 
 Enwound him, and their voices in the breeze 
 
 Made murmur, while the meditative trees 
 
 Reared of their strong fraternal branches rude 
 
 A temple meet for prayer. What blossoms strewed 
 
 The path between Life's morning hours and these? 
 
 What lay beyond the darkness? He alone 
 
 The sunshine and the shadow and the dew 
 
JOHN BANISTER TABB S31 
 
 Had shared alike with leaf, and flower, and stem: 
 Their life had been his lesson; and from them 
 
 A dream of immortality he drew, 
 As in their fate foreshadowing his own. 
 
 THE PLAINT OF THE ROSE 
 
 Said the budding Rose, " All night 
 Have I dreamed of the joyous light: 
 
 How long doth my lord delay ! 
 Come, Dawn, and kiss from mine eyes away 
 The dewdrops cold and the shadows gray, 
 
 That hide thee from my sight ! " 
 
 Said the full-blown Rose, "O Light! 
 (So fair to the dreamer's sight!) 
 
 " How long doth the dew delay ! 
 Come back, sweet sister shadows gray, 
 And lead me home from the world away. 
 
 To the calm of the cloister Night ! " 
 
23a WILL HENRY THOMPSON 
 
 WILL HENRY THOMPSON 
 
 (Georgia: 1848 ) 
 
 THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG 
 
 A CLOUD possessed the hollow field 
 The gathering battle's smoky shield. 
 
 Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, 
 And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, 
 And from the heights the thunder pealed. 
 
 Then at the brief command of Lee 
 
 Moved out that matchless infantry, 
 
 With Pickett leading grandly down, 
 To rush against the roaring crown 
 
 Of those dread heights of destiny. 
 
 Far heard above the angry guns 
 A cry across the tumult runs, — 
 
 The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods 
 
 And Chickamauga's solitudes. 
 The fierce South cheering on her sons ! 
 
 Ah, how the withering tempest blew 
 Against the front of Pettigrew! 
 
WILL HENRY THOMPSON 233 
 
 A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed 
 Like that infernal flame that fringed 
 The Britsh squares at Waterloo ! 
 
 A thousand fell where Kemper led; 
 
 A thousand died where Garnett bled; 
 
 In blinding flame and strangling smoke 
 The remnant through the batteries broke 
 
 And crossed the works with Armistead. 
 
 " Once more in glory's van with me ! " 
 
 Virginia cried Tennessee; 
 
 " We two together, come what may 
 Shall stand upon these works to-day ! " 
 
 (The reddest day in history.) 
 
 Brave Tennessee ! In reckless way 
 
 Virginia heard her comrade say: 
 
 " Close round this rent and riddled rag ! " 
 What time she sets her battle-flag 
 
 Amid the guns of Doubleday. 
 
 But who shall break the guards that wait 
 
 Before the awful face of Fate? 
 
 The tattered standards of the South 
 Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth, 
 
 And all her hopes were desolate. 
 
234 WILL HENRY THOMPSON 
 
 In vain the Tennesseean set 
 
 His breast against the bayonet ! 
 
 In vain Virginia's charged and raged, 
 A tigress in her wrath uncaged, 
 
 Till all the hill was red and wet! 
 
 Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed. 
 Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost 
 Receding through the battle-cloud. 
 And heard across the tempest loud 
 The death cry of a nation lost ! 
 
 The brave went down ! Without disgrace 
 They leaped to Ruin's red embrace, 
 
 They only heard Fame's thunders wake, 
 And saw the dazzling sun-burst break 
 In smiles on Glory's bloody face ! 
 
 They fell, who lifted up a hand 
 
 And bade the sun in heaven to stand ! 
 
 They smote and fell, who set the bars 
 Against the progress of the stars. 
 And stayed the march of Motherland! 
 
 They stood, who saw the future come 
 On through the fight's delirium ! 
 
 They smote and stood, who held the hope 
 Of nations on that slippery slope 
 Amid the cheers of Christendom. 
 
WILL HENRY THOMPSON 235 
 
 God lives ! He forged the iron will 
 That clutched and held that trembling hill. 
 God lives and reigns ! He built and lent 
 The heights for Freedom's battlement 
 Where floats her flag in triumph still ! 
 
 Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns ! 
 Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. 
 
 The mighty mother turns in tears 
 
 The pages of her battle years, 
 Lamenting all her fallen sons! 
 
236 FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR 
 
 FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR 
 
 (Georgia: 1822-1874) 
 
 " LITTLE GIFFEN " 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire; 
 Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
 (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!) 
 Specter ! such as you seldom see, 
 " Little Giffen," of Tennessee ! 
 
 "Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said; 
 " Little the doctor can help the dead ! " 
 So we took him; and brought him where 
 The balm was sweet in the summer air; 
 And we laid him down on a wholesome bed, — 
 Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 
 
 And we watched the war with abated breath, — 
 Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. 
 Months of torture, how many such? 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
 And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
 Told of a spirit that wouldn't die, 
 
FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR 237 
 
 And didn't. Nay, more ! in death's despite 
 The crippled skeleton " learned to write." 
 " Dear mother," at first, of course ; and then 
 " Dear captain," inquiring about the men. 
 Captain's answer : '* Of eighty-and-five, 
 Gififen and I are left alive." 
 
 Word of gloom from the war, one day; 
 
 Johnson pressed at the front, they say. 
 
 Little Giffen was up and away; 
 
 A tear — his first — as he bade good-by, 
 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
 
 " ril write, if spared ! " There was news of the 
 
 fight; 
 But none of Giffen. — He did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that, were I king 
 
 Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, 
 
 With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, 
 
 And the tender legend that trembles here, 
 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry. 
 
 For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 
 
 THE SWORD IN THE SEA 
 
 The billows plunge like steeds that bear 
 The knights with snow-white crests; 
 
FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR 
 
 The sea-winds blare like bugles where 
 The Alabama rests. 
 
 Old glories from their splendor-mists 
 Salute with trump and hail, 
 
 The sword that held the ocean lists 
 Against the world in mail. 
 
 And down from England's storied hills, 
 From lyric slopes of France, 
 
 The old bright wine of valor fills 
 The chalice of Romance. 
 
 For here was Glory's tourney-field. 
 
 The tilt-yard of the sea; 
 The battle-path of kingly wrath. 
 
 And kinglier courtesy. 
 
 And down the deeps, in sumless heaps. 
 The gold, the gem, the pearl. 
 
 In one broad blaze of splendor, belt 
 Great England like an earl. 
 
 And there they rest, the princeliest 
 
 Of earth's regalia gems. 
 The starlight of our Southern Cross, 
 
 The sword of Raphael Semmes. 
 
HENRY TIMROD 239 
 
 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 (South Carolina: 1829-1867) 
 
 AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 
 The pilgrim here to pause. 
 
 In seeds of laurel in the earth 
 
 The blossom of your fame is blown, 
 And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
 
 The shaft is in the stone ! 
 
 Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
 
 Which keep in trust your storied tombs. 
 
 Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 
 And these memorial blooms. 
 
 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
 More proudly on these wreaths to-day. 
 
 Than when some cannon-molded pile 
 Shall overlook this bay. 
 
 Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 Than where defeated valor lies. 
 
 By mourning beauty crowned. 
 
240 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 HYMN 
 
 [Sung at the consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charles- 
 ton, S. C] 
 
 Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death ! 
 
 In the false aspect of a ruthless foe. 
 Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath, — 
 
 O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so? 
 
 Thou rather should'st be crowned with fadeless flowers, 
 
 Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; 
 Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, 
 
 But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through. 
 
 So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed 
 And beautified, O Death ! thy mansion here. 
 
 Where gloom and gladness — grave and garden — mixed, 
 Make it a place to love, and not to fear. 
 
 Heaven ! shed thy most propitious dews around ! 
 
 Ye holy stars ! look down with tender eyes. 
 And gild and guard and consecrate the ground 
 
 Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise. 
 
HENRY TIMROD g41 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes, 
 
 Indeed the product of my heart and brain? 
 
 How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain 
 
 Falls like faint memories of far off times ! 
 
 When did I feel the sorrow, act the part, 
 
 Which I had striven to shadow forth in song? 
 
 In what dead century swept that mingled throng 
 
 Of mighty pains and pleasures through my heart? 
 
 Not in the yesterday of that still life. 
 
 Which I have passed so free and far from strife — 
 
 But somewhere in this weary world, I know, 
 
 In some strange land, beneath some Orient clime 
 
 I saw or shared a martyrdom sublime. 
 
 And felt a deeper grief than any later woe. 
 
 II 
 
 Some truths there be are better left unsaid; 
 Much is there that we may not speak unblamed. 
 On words, as wings, how many joys have fled! 
 The jealous fairies love not to be named. 
 There is an old-world tale of one whose bed 
 A genius graced, to all, save him, unknown; 
 One day the secret passed his lips, and sped 
 As secrets speed — thenceforth he slept alone. 
 
242 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 Too much, oh ! far too much is told in books ; 
 Too broad a daylight wraps us all and each. 
 Ah ! it is well that, deeper than our looks 
 Some secrets lie beyond conjecture's reach. 
 Ah! it is well that in the soul are nooks 
 That will not open to the keys of speech. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I scarcely grieve, O Nature ! at the lot 
 
 That pent my life within a city's bounds. 
 
 And shut me from thy sweetest sights and sounds. 
 
 Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone cot 
 
 Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the mart 
 
 Taught me amid its turmoil; so my youth 
 
 Had missed full many a stern but wholesome truth. 
 
 Here, too, O Nature ! in this haunt of Art, 
 
 Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall. 
 
 There is no unimpressive spot on earth ! 
 
 The beauty of the stars is over all, 
 
 And Day and Darkness visit every hearth. 
 
 Clouds do not scorn us: yonder factory's smoke 
 
 Looked like a golden mist when morning broke. 
 
 IV 
 
 Most men know love but as a part of life; 
 They hide it in some. corner of the breast, 
 Even from themselves; and only when they rest 
 
HENRY TIMROD 243 
 
 In the brief pauses of that daily strife, 
 Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, 
 They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy 
 To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) 
 And hold it up to sister, child, or wife. 
 Ah me! why may not love and life be one? 
 Why walk we thus alone, when by our side. 
 Love, like a visible god, might be our guide? 
 How would the marts grow noble ! and the street, 
 Worn like a dungeon-floor by weary feet. 
 Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun! 
 
 Life ever seems as from its present site 
 It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past 
 It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast, 
 Into a purple cloud ! Across the night 
 Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light 
 All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn. 
 Not the near daisies, but yon distant height 
 Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn. 
 And always, be the landscape what it may — 
 Blue, misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain 
 It is the eye's endeavor still to gain 
 The fine, faint limit of the bounding day. 
 God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain 
 Hint of a happier home, far, far away ! 
 
244 AMELIE RIVES TROUBETZKOY 
 
 AMELIE RIVES TROUBETZKOY 
 
 (Virginia : 1 863 ) 
 
 A MOOD 
 
 It is good to strive against wind and rain 
 
 In the keen, sweet weather that autumn brings. 
 
 The wild horse shakes not the drops from his mane, 
 The wild bird flicks not the wet from her wings, 
 
 In gladder fashion than I toss free 
 
 The mist-dulled gold of my bright hair's flag, 
 What time the winds on their heel-wings lag, 
 
 And all the tempest is friends with me. 
 
 None can reach me to wound or cheer; 
 Sound of weeping and sound of song — 
 
 Neither may trouble me: I can hear 
 
 But the wind's loud laugh, and the sibilant, strong. 
 
 Lulled rush of the rain through the sapless weeds. 
 
 rare, dear days, ye are here again ! 
 
 1 will woo ye as maidens are wooed of men, — 
 With oaths forgotten and broken creeds! 
 
 Ye shall not -lack for the sun's fierce shining — 
 With the gold of my hair will I make ye glad; 
 
 For your blown, red forests give no repining — 
 Here are my lips: will ye still be sad? 
 
AMELIE RIVES TROUBETZKOY S45 
 
 Comfort ye, comfort ye, days of cloud, 
 Days of shadow, of wrath, of blasts 
 I who love ye am come at last. 
 
 Laugh to welcome me ! cry aloud I 
 
 For wild am I as thy winds and rains — 
 
 Free to come and to go as they; 
 Love's moon sways not the tides of my veins; 
 
 There is no voice that can bid me stay. 
 Out and away on the drenched, brown lea ! 
 
 Out to the great, glad heart of the year ! 
 
 Nothing to grieve for, nothing to fear, — 
 Fetterless, lawless, a maiden free ! 
 
 BEFORE THE RAIN 
 
 The blackcaps pipe among the reeds, 
 And there'll be rain to follow; 
 
 There is a murmur as of wind 
 In every coign and hollow; 
 
 The wrens do chatter of their fears 
 
 While swinging on the barley-ears. 
 
U6 AMELIE RIVES TROUBETZKOY 
 
 Come, hurry, while there yet is time, 
 
 Pull up thy scarlet bonnet. 
 Now, sweetheart, as my love is thine. 
 
 There is a drop upon it. 
 So trip it ere the storm-hag weird 
 Doth pluck the barley by the beard ! 
 
 Lo! not a whit too soon we're housed; 
 
 The storm-witch yells above us; 
 The branches rapping on the panes 
 
 Seem not in truth to love us. 
 And look where through the clover bush 
 The nimble-footed rain doth rush ! 
 
AMELIE RIVES TROUBETZKOY S47 
 
 A SONNET 
 
 Take all of me, — I am thine own, heart, soul, 
 
 Brain, body, — all ; all that I am or dream 
 
 Is thine forever; yea, though space should teem 
 
 With thy conditions, I'd fulfill the whole — 
 
 Were to fulfill them to be loved of thee. 
 
 Oh, love me ! — were to love me but a way 
 
 To kill me — love me; so to die would be 
 
 To live forever. Let me hear thee say 
 
 Once only, "Dear, I love thee," — then all life 
 
 Would be one sweet remembrance, thou its king: 
 
 Nay, thou art that already, and the strife 
 
 Of twenty worlds could not uncrown thee. Bring, 
 
 O Time ! my monarch to possess his throne 
 
 Which is my heart and for himself alone. 
 
248 BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 
 
 BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 
 
 (Virginia: 1846 ) 
 
 THE RHONE AND THE ARVE 
 
 The Rhone has for its source several springs, near the 
 Glacier du Rhone, and Hoivs through the Canton of the 
 Valais, between the parted Alps, until its current is lost in 
 Lake Leman. On one side of the Savoy Alps rise precip- 
 itously; on the other side slope the Jorat Hills, terraced 
 with vineyards and cloven, here and there, by valleys and 
 ravines, covered nith zvild narcissus. At Geneva the 
 Rhone rushes szviftly from the lake, uniting with the 
 Arve a few miles below the town. 
 
 The Arve rises in the valley of Chamouni, one of its 
 sources gushing forth from the Sea of Ice at the base of 
 Mount Blanc. It breaks through the valley at the Gorge 
 de Serros. When it joins the Rhone its snowy waters 
 How in the same channel with the clear blue zvaters of the 
 latter, until at last, their colors mingling, they -flow on 
 together through the fields of France, to the Mediter- 
 
BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER S49 
 
 I 
 
 Can they ever come together, 
 Can they meet and kiss each other, 
 The two rivers Fate has parted? — 
 Winsome Rhone, who, Hke a maiden, 
 In the Valais springs and bubbles, 
 Like a maiden merry-hearted. 
 Careless-footed, all unladen 
 Of Life's troubles; — 
 
 II 
 
 Eager Arve, that stays and shivers. 
 But a moment, ere he quivers, 
 
 Ere he rushes thro' th' embrasure 
 Of his icy, dreary prison. 
 How he shouts in gleeful madness 
 As he hastens from the glacier 
 On to where the sun's uprisen 
 In its gladness ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Ah ! the Rhone, she swiftly passes, 
 Down the crags and thro' crevasses, — 
 None can stay nor follow after; — 
 But she may not pass on over 
 The grim Alps that gaze in wonder 
 
250 BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 
 
 Tho' she cry, with merry laughter, 
 " Let me by, for I've a lover 
 Over yonder ! " 
 
 IV 
 
 Then she turns, and softly sighing. 
 Thro' the Valais swiftly hieing, 
 
 Past the mountains, — silent wardens. 
 By the valley kept asunder, — 
 Flees unheeding clouds that hover. 
 Thro' the fields and scented gardens, — 
 And she whispers, " Over yonder 
 I've a lover ! " 
 
 Ah! the Arve, — the King of mountains 
 Can not chain his eager fountains 
 With his snows and ice eternal ! — 
 On he hastens never heeding 
 Avalanche nor roar of thunder 
 Murm'ring, through the valley vernal, 
 " To a river I am speeding. 
 Over yonder ! " 
 
 VI 
 
 And the Rhone is flowing faster, 
 In her quest to meet her master, 
 
BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER ^51 
 
 Who shall help her seek the ocean, — 
 On — by towns and hamlets turning, 
 On — by village bridges under, 
 On — with swift unbroken motion, — 
 For the lover ever yearning 
 Over yonder ! 
 
 VII 
 
 Ah ! the Rhone, the placid Leman, 
 Like some fair and treach'rous demon, 
 Like some fair, relentless ogress, — 
 As the siren with Ulysses, 
 By her jealous arts divining, 
 Tries to bar and stay her progress. 
 Tries to silence (hush with kisses) 
 Love's repining ! 
 
 VIII 
 
 And the Alps, whose peaks discover. 
 On the other side her lover, — 
 
 Gray, grim Alps, of love abhorrent ! — 
 Try to keep the lovers parted; 
 And the lake she's resting under 
 With her magic stills her torrent. 
 Till the Arve is broken-hearted, 
 Over yonder ! 
 
25S BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 
 
 IX 
 
 But the Jorat, more unbending, 
 To the lake-side slowly wending, 
 Tells the river " Would you kiss us, 
 You may surely pass on over, 
 
 Where our vineyards part asunder, 
 "Thro' our vales of sweet narcissus." 
 But she answers, " I've no lover 
 Over yonder ! " 
 
 And the Arve, he hastens ever, 
 With a restless, strong endeavor. 
 
 Thro' the valley mountain-bounded,- 
 And he hammers, till he crushes 
 Down his prison's last reliance, 
 Till, as when a stag is hounded, 
 Thro' the rocky gorge he rushes 
 In defiance ! 
 
 XI 
 
 And the tender, soft beguiling. 
 Of the fragrant fields and smiling. 
 And the bell, at matins ringing. 
 Can not stay his eager flowing; 
 And the Vesper bell unheeding, 
 
BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 253 
 
 On he glances, lightly singing, 
 " To my loved one I am going, 
 I am speeding ! " 
 
 XII 
 
 But the Rhone is bolder, bolder, 
 For, at last, a something's told her, 
 
 That tho' strong the walls that bound her, 
 Yet the stream of her existence 
 
 Is not spent, tho' scarcely moving, — 
 So she looks and looks beyond her, 
 With a maiden's fond persistence 
 In her loving! 
 
 XIII 
 
 As the fates her love embolden, 
 She perceives a city olden, 
 
 Where the mountains watch no longer. 
 Then beneath the bridges darting, — 
 Where the children gaze in wonder, — 
 On she hastens, swifter, stronger, 
 As she whispers, " There's no parting 
 Over yonder ! " 
 
 XIV 
 
 O the rapture rare of meeting, 
 O the music sweet of greeting. 
 
254) BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 
 
 When at last the barrier's broken ! 
 Now (the weary sun. descending) 
 
 On the mountain heights in distance 
 Is the purple flush, the token 
 
 Of their wrath as comes the ending 
 Of resistance. 
 
 XV 
 
 And now close, — all partings ended, — 
 In one channel still unblended, 
 Are the Arve and Rhone together ; 
 Here the water gray and troubled 
 
 With the battling fierce with mountains, 
 But as crystal blue the other 
 As when first it gushed and bubbled 
 Sunny fountains. 
 
 XVI 
 
 But at last their currents merging 
 After Love's impetuous urging 
 
 Flows the river — twain no longer! 
 And the hand of fate can never 
 Part the lovers thus united, — 
 Gentler one, the other stronger, 
 When their troth for now and ever 
 They have plighted ! 
 
BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 255 
 
 XVII 
 
 On — thro' clover-scented meadows, 
 On — in gloomy mountain shadows, 
 Flow the wedded streams together; 
 And they glide with quiet motion, — 
 Or they speed with roar of thunder, 
 Whisp'ring oft to one another, 
 As they seek to reach the ocean, 
 " Rest is yonder ! " 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Now the current moves more slowly, 
 With a requiem sad and lowly, 
 Where the velvet mantle covers 
 Weary forms in silence sleeping. 
 
 Now, as sing and sail the maidens. 
 In barges near their lovers. 
 On it courses, ever keeping 
 Gentle cadence, 
 
 XIX 
 
 Till the River, young no longer, 
 Growing wider, deeper, stronger, 
 Plays its part in Life's endeavor! 
 And by busy cities flowing, — 
 
 On the bosoms Love has mated. 
 
256 BEVERLEY DANDRIDGE TUCKER 
 
 On the bosoms none can sever, — 
 Are the Vessels coming, going, 
 Treasure-freighted. 
 
 XX 
 
 But, at last, the daylight dimmer, — 
 Lo, the Moon begins to glimmer 
 On the Ocean over yonder ! — 
 
 And the streams that sought each other, 
 In the valley fair and vernal. 
 And the lovers none could sunder 
 Find forever, find together 
 Rest eternal! 
 
SEVERN TEACKLE WALLIS 257 
 
 SEVERN TEACKLE WALLIS 
 
 (Maryland: 1816-1894) 
 
 DEJECTION 
 
 Oh God ! to see the swelling stream 
 
 Of happiness roll on ! — 
 To count the blessed barks, that gleam 
 In morning's flush and evening's beam, 
 
 Each on its journey gone; 
 And feel that, by the lonely shore, 
 
 Mine creeps, a laggard, still. 
 While not a breeze that blew of yore 
 Comes back, with freshness, as before, 
 
 Its drooping sails to fill ! 
 
 Oh say not to me, to deride. 
 
 That, of that better day, 
 In waste, in passion, or in pride, 
 Unmindful of the fleeting tide, 
 
 I flung the hours away ! 
 Not mine the weakness or the sin 
 
 Of golden chances spurned — 
 To toil and hope is not to win; 
 
258 SEVERN TEACKLE WALLIS 
 
 We end not all that we begin, 
 Nor gather all we've earned ! 
 
 There's not a poisoned seed we sow, 
 
 Of folly or of crime, 
 But surely will to rankness grow, 
 And bear its certain fruit of woe. 
 
 In its appointed time : 
 But, from the germs of better things 
 
 We planted in our youth, 
 How few the flowers that summer flings, 
 How rare the fruit that autumn brings. 
 
 To bless our trust and truth ! 
 
 Men hold it ill, at Fate to rail. 
 
 When all is ruled by Heaven; 
 But when, e'en at our best, we fail. 
 And, trim we as we will our sail, 
 
 On rocks and shoals we're driven, — 
 Though we may feel 'tis Heaven's high plan, 
 
 And bend beneath our lot, — 
 Yet, if we be no more than man. 
 Resigned we may be, if we can. 
 
 Contented we are not! 
 
SEVERN TEACKLE WALLIS 259 
 
 THE CURFEW 
 
 Ah why, when Hfe's dim eve comes on, 
 Should hearts, once warm, grow cold? 
 
 And why should sighs for feelings gone, 
 Make up our breath when old? 
 
 'Tis true, the happy light that fell 
 
 On board and hearth, of yore, 
 Went out when evening's tyrant bell, 
 
 The Curfew's warning bore. 
 
 But oh ! it is not thus the heart 
 
 Should hear the voice of time; 
 Not thus its cheerful light depart 
 
 At sound of evening's chime ! 
 
 For me, kind fate ! forbid that e'er 
 
 That dismal tocsin toll, 
 In whose sad discord I shall hear 
 
 The curfew of the soul ! 
 
260 HOWARD WEEDEN 
 
 HOWARD WEEDEN 
 
 (Alabama: i8 ) 
 
 MAMMY'S LULLABY 
 
 " Swing low, sweet Chariot," low enough 
 
 To give some heavenly rest 
 To dis poor restless little one 
 
 Dat sobs on Mammy's breast. 
 
 " Swing low, sweet Chariot," wid your load 
 
 Of angels snowy drest. 
 And thow a dream out to de chile 
 
 'Most sleep on Mammy's breast. 
 
 " Swing low, sweet Chariot," so dat She 
 
 May look into de nest, 
 An' see how sound her baby sleeps 
 
 At last, — on Mammy's breast ! 
 
 THE OLD BOATMAN 
 
 I CHANGED my name, when I got free, 
 To "Mister" like the res', 
 
 But now dat I am going Home, 
 I like de ol' name bes'. 
 
HOWARD WEEDEN S61 
 
 Sweet voices callin' " Uncle Rome," 
 
 Seem ringin' in my ears; 
 An' swearin' sort o' sociable, 
 
 or Master's voice I hears. 
 
 De way he used to call his boat. 
 
 Across de river : " Rome ! 
 You damn ol' nigger, come an' bring 
 
 Dat boat, an' row me home ! " 
 
 He's passed Heaven's River now, an' soon 
 
 He'll call across its foam: 
 " You, Rome, you damn ol' nigger, loose 
 
 Your boat, an' come on Home ! " 
 
 TWO LOVERS AND LIZETTE 
 
 Who, me? in love, an' wid Lizette? 
 
 You better b'lieve I ain't; 
 No sassy gal like dat could give 
 
 Dis nigger heart-complaint. 
 
 If Gord don't love her more den I, 
 
 Den all I got to say 
 Is, dat her soul's in danger she', 
 
 An' she had better pray ! 
 
262 HOWARD WEEDEN 
 
 It's her, dat is in love wid me; 
 
 An' I jes laughs an' tell her, 
 " De fruit dat drops d'out bein' shook 
 
 Is sho' to be too meller ! " 
 
 But all de same, you talks too much 
 To suit me, 'bout Lizette: 
 
 Some gent'man's nigger gwine get hurt 
 About dat same gal yet! 
 
AMELIA COPPUCK WELBY 263 
 
 AMELIA COPPUCK WELBY 
 
 (Maryland: 1819-1852) 
 
 TWILIGHT AT SEA 
 
 The twilight hours like birds flew by, 
 
 As lightly and as free; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
 
 Ten thousand on the sea; 
 For every wave, with dimpled face. 
 
 That leaped upon the air, 
 Had caught a star in its embrace 
 
 And held it trembling there. 
 
264 JOHN ALLAN WYETH 
 
 JOHN ALLAN WYETH 
 
 (Alabama: 1845 ) 
 
 MY SWEETHEART'S FACE 
 
 My kingdom is my sweetheart's face, 
 And these the boundaries I trace: 
 Northward her forehead fair; 
 Beyond a wilderness of auburn hair; 
 A rosy cheek to east and west; 
 
 Her little mouth, 
 
 The sunny south, 
 It is the south that I love best. 
 
 Her eyes, two crystal lakes. 
 
 Rippling with light. 
 Caught from the sun by day, 
 
 The stars by night. 
 
 The dimples in 
 
 Her cheeks and chin 
 Are snares which Love hath set, — 
 
 And I have fallen in ! 
 
JOHN ALLAN WYETH 265 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 Deal gently with her, Time ! these many years 
 
 Of life have brought more smiles with them than tears. 
 
 Lay not thy hand too harshly on her now, 
 
 But trace decline so slowly on her brow 
 
 That (Hke a sunset of the northern clime. 
 
 Where twilight lingers in the summer time, 
 
 And fades at last into the silent night, 
 
 Ere one may note the passing of the light) 
 
 So may she pass — since 'tis the common lot — 
 
 As one who, resting, sleeps, and knows it not. 
 
266 MARTHA YOUNG 
 
 MARTHA YOUNG 
 
 (Alabama: i8 ) 
 
 GOD'S LI'L' JEWELRY 
 
 Who done tangle up Mammy's yarn, 
 Playin' cat's-cradle by de ole barn — 
 Makin' crow's-foot and eyes and mo' — 
 Mangle de thread so Mam' can't sew? 
 (Bless dat chile ! 
 
 Laughin' at Mammy all de while — ) 
 God ain't made no whiter pearl 
 Dan yo' teef, my li'l' girl, 
 Mostes' precious thing to me — 
 My chile 's God's Li'l' Jewelry. 
 
 Who dat took Mammy's thimble now? 
 
 Been cuttin' biscuits, I allow; 
 
 Nice li'l' biscuits for us to eat; 
 
 Dat chile's cookin' taste mighty sweet. 
 (Bless dat chile ! 
 Peepin' at Mammy all de while.) 
 God ain't got no turquoise blue 
 Deeper'n dese eyes. My Honey, you 
 Cost'est thing round here I see — 
 What cost mo'n God's Jewelry? 
 
MARTHA YOUNG S67 
 
 Done took Mam's handk'cher, wha^ you think? 
 De while I's takin' forty wink; 
 Made a swing out it on dat tree, 
 Mam's keys rockin', Hke dolls, I see. 
 
 (I be boun' ! 
 
 Best not drap noddin', she aroun'!) 
 
 God ain't paint no ruby red 
 
 As dis baby's lips foresaid — 
 
 What my li'l' girl 'd ruther be 
 
 Dan des God's Li'l' Jewelry? 
 
 Who dat pick up Mammy's ole shoe? 
 Made a boat out it — hew-ew-whew ! 
 Dar in de washtub floatin' roun' ! 
 Mistifis chile, I do be boun' — 
 
 (Bless de chile! 
 
 Curls all wet up now dis while.) 
 
 God ain't got no shinin' gole 
 
 Brighter 'n dis chile's hair do hoi'. 
 
 Babe, you's des clean heavenly, 
 
 'Caze you's God's Li'l' Jewelry. 
 
 Now what you done wid Mammy's 'specs? 
 Lawsy me ! What'll you do nex' ? 
 Yoked de kittens wid Mammy's specs ! 
 Dat's mos' enough to git me vex.' 
 (Bless dis chile! 
 
ms MARTHA YOUNG 
 
 A-kissin' Mammy all dis while.) 
 God ain't got no diamond dye 
 Brighter'n light of dis chile's eye. 
 Yas ; dem angels done agree 
 Dat you is God's Jewelry. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Adrift Morris 133 
 
 " Ah. Si Jeunesse Savait !" A. C. Gordon 58 
 
 Angel Unaware, The Preston 202 
 
 Annabel Lee Poe 159 
 
 As Some Mysterious Wanderer of the Skies. .. .Stockard 224 
 
 At Anchor IV. H. Hayne 76 
 
 At Magnolia Cemetery Timrod 239 
 
 At the Ninth Hour Spalding 219 
 
 Attributes Cawein 31 
 
 Autumn Breeze, An W. H. Hayne 77 
 
 Ballad of Trees and the Master, A Lanier 96 
 
 Beautiful-Bosomed, O Night Cawein 32 
 
 Before the Rain Trouhetzkoy 245 
 
 Bells. The Poe 170 
 
 Bessie Brown, M.D Peck 146 
 
 Bivouac of the Dead, The O'Hara 138 
 
 Bridal Ballad Poe 161 
 
 Bride, The McNeill 119 
 
 Bubble, The Tahh 230 
 
 By the Grave of Henry Timrod \ . .P. H. Hayne 70 
 
 Cavalier's Serenade, The Bradenhaugh 28 
 
 Childless Morris 133 
 
 Christmas Hymn, A McNeill 116 
 
 City in the Sea, The Poe 175 
 
 Closing Year, The Prentice 198 
 
 Comparison, A P. H. Hayne 68 
 
 Condemned, The Howland 86 
 
 Conquered Banner, The Ryan 212 
 
 Conqueror Worm, The Poe 177 
 
 Cradle-Song, A Tabb 226 
 
 Curfew. The Wallis 259 
 
 Cyclone at Sea, A W. H. Hayne 76 
 
 Dawn McNeill 118 
 
270 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dead Moon, The Dandridge 43 
 
 Death's Grand Avenue Spalding 220 
 
 Dejection IVallis 257 
 
 Dollie Peck 148 
 
 Dream Within a Dream, A Poe 158 
 
 Drifting Petal, A Fenollosa 51 
 
 Druid, The Tabb 230 
 
 Duty Hubner 89 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe Bruce 30 
 
 Enise A. C. Gordon 60 
 
 Evening Song, An , Lanier 97 
 
 Exiles IV. H. Hayne 77 
 
 Fairy Camp, The Dandridge 46 
 
 Fame Hubner 90 
 
 Fern Song Tabb 227 
 
 Few Days Off, A McNeill 117 
 
 Flood-Tide Preston 202 
 
 For Annie Poe 162 
 
 Four Feet on a Fender A. C. Gordon 62 
 
 Gather Leaves and Grasses Boner 23 
 
 God's Li'l Jewelry Young 266 
 
 Gossips, The Crockett 38 
 
 Grapevine Swing, The Peck 151 
 
 Haunted Palace, The Poe 178 
 
 Heahh, A Pinkney 155 
 
 High Tide at Gettysburg, Tlie Thompson 232 
 
 Hymn Timrod 240 
 
 Hymn to Spiritual Desire Cawein 34 
 
 I'm Growing Old Hubner 88 
 
 In a King-Cambyses Vein Sass 216 
 
 Israel Morris 136 
 
 Israfel .Poe 166 
 
 Keats '• Tabb 227 
 
 Last Night, The Dandridge 46 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 271 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Last Night at Appomattox, The Page 142 
 
 Lenore Poe 168 
 
 Lillian's Fan Peck 149 
 
 Little Elaine Stanton 223 
 
 Little Giffen Ticknor 236 
 
 Little While I Fain Would Linger Yet, A.. P. H. Hayne 68 
 
 Lorraine /. L. Gordon 65 
 
 Lovely Peggy Jefferson 92 
 
 Magdalen Tabh 228 
 
 Mammy's Lullaby Weeden 260 
 
 Marshes of Glynn, The Lanier 108 
 
 Miyoko San Fenollosa 52 
 
 Mocking-Bird, The P. H. Hayne 74 
 
 Mood, A Troubetskoy 244 
 
 Moon-Loved Land, The Boner 25 
 
 My Maryland Randall 205 
 
 My Study P. H. Hayne 74 
 
 My Sweetheart's Face Wyeth 264 
 
 October in Tennessee Malone 126 
 
 O'erspent Tabb 229 
 
 Old Boatman, The Weeden 260 
 
 Old Photograph, An Fenollosa 51 
 
 On a Bust of Mendelssohn IV. H. Hayne 78 
 
 On the Forthcoming Volume of Sidney Lanier's Poems 
 
 Tabb 229 
 
 Opportunity Malone 127 
 
 Origin of the Banjo Russell 209 
 
 Orion Crockett S7 
 
 Plaint of the Rose, The .Tabb 231 
 
 Poem, for the unveiling of the bust of Sidney Lanier, at 
 
 Macon, Ga., October 17, 1890 W. H. Hayne 78 
 
 Praise of Men, The Spalding 220 
 
 Rattlesnake, The McNeill 120 
 
 Raven, The Poe 180 
 
 Remembrance Boner 24 
 
 Remembrance Morris 137 
 
 Rhone and the Arve, The Tucker 248 
 
272 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Said the Rose Miles 129 
 
 Scandal W. H. Hayiie 80 
 
 Serenade, The Pinkncy 157 
 
 Shakespeare Stockard 224 
 
 Sleeper, The Poe 188 
 
 Solitude ■. Tabb 229 
 
 Song of the Chattahoochee Lanier 97 
 
 Sonnet P. H. Hayne y^ 
 
 Sonnet, A Tronbetzkoy 247 
 
 Sonnets Timrod 241 
 
 Spirit of Morning, The Spalding 221 
 
 Starry Host, The Spalding 222 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The Key 94 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way Palmer 143 
 
 Sunrise Lanier 99 
 
 Sunrise on the Hills of Satsuma Fenollosa 5.3 
 
 Sweet Little Fool, The Boner 26 
 
 Sword in the Sea, The Ticknor 237 
 
 Sword of Robert Lee, The Ryan 214 
 
 That Little Chap of Mine Morris 135 
 
 Three Summer Studies Hope 82 
 
 To a Lily Legarc 114 
 
 To Helen Poe 192 
 
 To My Mother Wyeth 265 
 
 To One in Paradise Poe 192 
 
 Trifles .McNeill \22 
 
 Twilight at Sea Welby 263 
 
 Twilight in the Woods Dandridge 48 
 
 Two Lovers and Lizette Weedcn 261 
 
 Two Pictures McNeill 124 
 
 Ulalume Poe 193 
 
 Unborn, The Finch 55 
 
 Valentine McNeill 123 
 
 Valley of Unrest, The Poe 191 
 
 We Two .Preston 204 
 
 When We Were Twenty-One Huber 90 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 273 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Wife, The McNeill 121 
 
 Wind, The Crockett 41 
 
 Witch in the Glass, The Piatt 154 
 
 World, The Hiihner 89 
 
 Worship Crockett 41 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Abroad on the landscape pale and cold, 202. 
 
 A cloud possessed the hollow held, 232. 
 
 A golden pallor of voluptuous light, 74. 
 
 Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! 168. 
 
 Ah ! how she trembles when the night is long, 46. 
 
 Ah, painful-sweet! how can I take it in! 204. 
 
 Ah why, when life's dim eve comes on, 259. 
 
 A little while (my life is almost set!), 68. 
 
 Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes, 241. 
 
 As one who strays from out some shadowy glade, 7^. 
 
 As some mysterious wanderer of the skies, 224. 
 
 A throat of thunder, a tameless heart, 76. 
 
 At midnight, in the month of June, 188. 
 
 Beautiful-bosomed, O Night, in thy moon, s^. 
 Bonny Lorraine, have you forgot, 65. 
 
 Cambyses, King of the Persians, 216. 
 
 Can they ever come together, 249. 
 
 Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate, 120. 
 
 Come, stack arms, men ; pile on the rails, 143. 
 
 Dance to the beat of the rain, little Fern, 227. 
 Deal gently with her. Time ! these many years, 265. 
 Dear, do not dream I have forgotten thee, 137. 
 
 Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? 219. 
 Executor of God's almighty will! 89. 
 
 Far blacker than a raven's wings, 80. 
 Far, far away, beyond a hazy height, 126. 
 Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, 214. 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary, 212. 
 
 Gather leaves and grasses, 23. 
 
 Glooms of the life-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven, 108. 
 
 Go bow thy head in gentle spite, 114. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 27i 
 
 Godlike beneath his grave divinities, 230. 
 
 Go 'way fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin', 209. 
 
 Had Youth but known some years ago, 58. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells, 170. 
 
 He heard the Voice that spake and, unafraid, 224. 
 
 Helen, thy beauty is to me, 192. 
 
 His high-arched brow and quiet eyelids seem, 78. 
 
 Hopes grimly banished from the heart, yy. 
 
 How many a time, just when the sun up-glows, 221. 
 
 I ain't gwine a work till my dyin' day, 117. 
 
 I am weary of the garden, 129. 
 
 I asked, " What is the world ? " and you replied, 89. 
 
 I changed my name, when I got free, 260. 
 
 H I, athirst by a stream, should kneel, 51. 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up, 155. 
 
 I know I'm just an ordinary, easy-goin' cuss, 135. 
 
 Fm growing old; and yet no fear, 88. 
 
 In Death's dark wood two cedars stood, 38. 
 
 In Heaven a spirit doth dwell, 166. 
 
 In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain, 99. 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys, 178. 
 
 Into the woods my Master went. 96. 
 
 I saw the daughters of the Dawn come dancing o'er the 
 
 hills, 31. 
 Is it worth while to barter life for Fame? 90. 
 I think, ofttimes, that lives of men may be, 68. 
 I think that we retain of our dead friends, 24. 
 It is anthracite coal, and the fender is low, 62. 
 It is good to strive against wind and rain, 244. 
 It was many and many a year ago, 159. 
 I was a fool ! 26. 
 
 Little fan. of fluff and pearl. 149. 
 
 Lo! Death has reared himself a throne, 175. 
 
 Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands, 97, 
 
 Look out upon the stars, my love, 157. 
 
 Lo ! 'tis a gala night, 177. 
 
 Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers, 34. 
 
276 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 My kingdom is my sweetheart's face, 264. 
 My love was like a buoyant boat, 76. 
 " My mother says I must not pass," 154. 
 My soul is as a fainting noonday star, 229. 
 
 Near where the shepherds watched by night, 116. 
 
 No lovelier song was ever heard, 25. 
 
 Not where men congregate to talk of God, 41. 
 
 Oh God ! to see the swelling stream, 257. 
 
 Oh ! say, can you see by the dawn's early light, 96. 
 
 Once it smiled a silent dell, 191, 
 
 Once more I'll tune the vocal shell, 92. 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
 
 weary, 180. 
 One sits in soft light, where the hearth is warm, 124. 
 Out from' its casket of pungent calf, 51. 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire, 236. 
 Out of the hills of Habersham, 97. 
 
 Read me no moral, priest, upon my life, 86. 
 
 Said the budding Rose, " All night," 230. 
 
 " She hath done what she could," 228. 
 
 She sports a witching gown, 148. 
 
 She stands among the nations of the earth, 135. 
 
 Sing it, Mother ! sing it low, 226. 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 240. 
 
 Snare me the soul of a dragon-fly, 51. 
 
 Snow ! Snow ! Snow ! 229. 
 
 Sometimes, when after years of vain regret, 133, 
 
 " Swing low, sweet Chariot," low enough, 260. 
 
 Take all of me, — I am thine own, heart, soul, 247. 
 
 Take this kiss upon the brow ! 158. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! the crisis, 162. 
 
 The billows plunge like steeds that bear, 237. 
 
 The blackcaps pipe among the reeds, 245. 
 
 The cock hath crowed. I hear the doors unbarr'd, 82. 
 
 The countless stars, which to our human eye, 222. 
 
 The day unfolds like a lotus bloom, 53. 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 205. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES ^77 
 
 The heavens shall grow old; be cast aside, 220. 
 
 The hills again reach skyward with a smile, 118. 
 
 The hour for praise has come again, 48. 
 
 The little white bride is left alone, 119. 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat, 138. 
 
 The ring is on my hand, i6i. 
 
 The skies they were ashen and sober, 193. 
 
 The sleeping echoes of her quiet room, 133. 
 
 The splendor of Silence, — of snow-jewele"d hills and of ice, 
 
 37- . 
 The twilight hours like birds flew by, 263. 
 The way of the wind is a strange, wild way, 41. 
 They do me wrong who say I come no more, 127. 
 They locked him in a prison cell, I2i. 
 This gentle and half melancholy breeze, "jy. 
 This is my world ! within these narrow walls, 74. 
 This is the time for birds to mate, 123. 
 Thou art my very own, 55. 
 Thou wast all that to me, love, 192. 
 Thou wast to me what to the changing year, 229. 
 Time Aveighs the destinies that men befall, 30. 
 'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now, 198. 
 To every artist, howsoe'er his thought, 202. 
 'Twas April when she came to town, 146. 
 
 Unveil the noble brow, the deep-souled eyes, 78. 
 Upon thy tomb 'tis graven, "Here lies one," 227. 
 
 Very fair you are, Enise, 60. 
 
 We are ghost-ridden, 43. 
 
 West — ebbing day, 142. 
 
 What did I see in the woods to-day? 46. 
 
 What shall I bring you, sweet ! 122. 
 
 When I was a boy on the old plantation, 151. 
 
 When last we parted — thy frail hand in mine, 70. 
 
 When we were twenty-one. O Life, 90. 
 
 Where have you gone, little Elaine, 223. 
 
 Who done tangle up Mammy's yarn, 266. 
 
 Who, me? in love, an' wid Lizette? 261. 
 
 Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death ! 239. 
 
278 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Why should I stay? Nor seed nor fruit have I, 230. 
 Why wish that men should praise me when I'm dead? 220. 
 
 Yon silent star his flashing shield, 28. 
 
DEC 28 1912 
 

 
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