GIFT OF 
 Stone Deavours 
 
 
THE MISSISSIPPI POETS 
 
THE MISSISSIPPI 
 POETS 
 
 BY 
 
 V X 
 
 ERNESTINE CLAYTON DEAVOURS 
 
 FORMERLY TEACHER IN THE CITY SCHOOLS OF LAUREL, MISSISSIPPI 
 
 E. H. CLARKE & BROTHER 
 
 18 SOUTH MAIN STREET 
 MEMPHIS 
 
'-<Sl4> 
 
 Copyright, 1922, by 
 ERNESTINE CLAYTON DEAVOURS 
 
IN MEMORY OF ADELINE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ABNEY, HENRY M. 
 
 The Mound-Builders 15 
 
 ADAMS, T. A. S. 
 
 Growing Gray 17 
 
 BAKER, JULIA K. WETHERILL 
 
 When All Is Said 21 
 
 BEALL, CHATTIE 
 
 Premature Gray Hairs 23 
 
 BERRYHILL, S. NEWTON 
 My Castle 24 
 
 Mississippi 27 
 
 The Frost and the Forest 28 
 
 The Forgotten Picture 28 
 
 Tidings from the Battle Field 31 
 
 When I Am Dead and Gone 33 
 
 BIEN, H. M. 
 
 The Best and the Worst 34 
 
 BONNER, SHERWOOD 
 
 A Longed-For Valentine 36 
 
 BRISBANE, MARGARET HUNT 
 
 Menelaus to Helen 37 
 
 The Dead Leaf 38 
 
 The Snow 39 
 
 A Woman 41 
 
 CAPPLEMAN, JOSIE FRAZEE 
 
 Where Do the Kisses Grow? 43 
 
 The Dreams of a Vanished Day 45 
 
 vii 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 CARPENTER, MARCUS T. PAGE 
 
 On the Return of the Mississippi Volunteers ... 48 
 Spring 50 
 
 CHAMBERS, BETTIE KEYES 
 
 A Fancy 52 
 
 CLAIBORNE, J. F. H. 
 
 The Maid of Pascagoula 54 
 
 DIMITRY, MAUD L. S. 
 
 Cupid and Psyche 56 
 
 Wilt Thou Return? 57 
 
 ELEMJAY, LOUISE 
 
 ' ' They May Deem >Tis the Love of Another " . . . 62 
 
 ELLETT, A. H. 
 Faith 64 
 
 FOLSOM, ISRAEL 
 
 The Indian's Song 66 
 
 FRANTZ, VIRGINIA 
 
 Hungry Hearts 68 
 
 GIBSON, J. M. 
 
 The Violets 70 
 
 GORDON, JAMES 
 
 Lochinvar 73 
 
 GREER, MARY A. 
 Why Jefferson Davis Failed 75 
 
 GUYTON, DAVID E. 
 
 Triolets . 77 
 
 Yesterday 78 
 
 HAMBERLIN, LAFAYETTE E. 
 
 She Kissed My Violets 80 
 
 The Woman in the Moon 81 
 
 HAMLETT, LIZZIE 
 Maternity . . 82 
 
CONTENTS ix 
 
 HARTZ, ASA PAGE 
 
 My Love and I 84 
 
 HEBRON, ELLEN E. 
 
 To My Brother 86 
 
 HEMINGWAY, GRACE HYER 
 
 The Seekers 88 
 
 HINSDALE, LAURA F. 
 
 Mysterious Music of the Gulf Coast 90 
 
 Spanish Moss 92 
 
 HOSKINS, WILLIAM WALTON 
 
 Prologue of "Atlantis" 94 
 
 JEFFREY, EOSA VERTNER 
 
 Angel Watchers . 96 
 
 JONAS, S. A. 
 
 A Confederate Note 99 
 
 Only a Soldier's Grave 100 
 
 JOSSELYN, ROBERT 
 
 The Young Widow 101 
 
 KENDALL, JOHN S. 
 
 Eequiem 103 
 
 Aspiration 105 
 
 KERNAN, WILL H. 
 
 Questionings 106 
 
 LAMPE, HERBERT 
 
 It Is Spring in My Heart 108 
 
 LEE, ELEANOR PERCY 
 
 Locust Trees 110 
 
 LEE, MUNA 
 
 Compensation 113 
 
 Magdalen . 114 
 
 LOCKWOOD, W. B. 
 
 Nail the Flag to the Plow 115 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 LOGAN, MARGARET ANN PAGE 
 
 Success 117 
 
 LORD, WILLIAM WILBERFORCE 
 
 A Dirge 118 
 
 LOWREY, BOOTH 
 
 The Bed-Haired Girl 119 
 
 LOWREY, PERRIN HOLMES 
 
 War Dogs of the Sea 121 
 
 Song of the Flag 122 
 
 LYNCH, JAMES D. 
 
 The Fall of the Alamo 124 
 
 MALONE, WALTER 
 
 Opportunity 128 
 
 The World Is My Home .129 
 
 "He Who Hath Loved " 130 
 
 The Graveyard 130 
 
 MARTIN, WALTER D. 
 
 Not There 133 
 
 McCLUNG, ALEXANDER K. 
 
 Invocation to Death 134 
 
 MOORE, DAVID 
 
 Take Courage 135 
 
 MONEY, CLAUDIA BODDIE 
 
 To a Violinist 136 
 
 NICHOLSON, ELLZA JANE 
 
 Only a Heart 137 
 
 The Soldier's Grave 139 
 
 Waiting 140 
 
 ODUM, MARY H. M. 
 
 The Picket 142 
 
 OLIVER, JAMES MCCARTY 
 
 To Hattie 145 
 
CONTENTS xi 
 
 OVERALL, JOHN W. PAGE 
 
 To a Miniature . .. . . . ' . 147 
 
 PERCY, WILLIAM ALEXANDER 
 
 For Music 150 
 
 To the Mississippi : . 151 
 
 To a Mocking Bird: From Taormina ...... 151 
 
 PERKINS, HAL M. 
 
 When I Depart 153 
 
 PRICE, SUSAN THOMPSON 
 
 The Sunset Vale ............... 154 
 
 PURVIS, EVELYN M. 
 
 One of the Eeapers 156 
 
 EAGSDALE, LULAH 
 
 Impennate 158 
 
 The Mother's Son 159 
 
 The Illiterate . . . .... 160 
 
 EOBB, JOHN W., JR. 
 
 Come unto Me . . . . . . . ... . . 162 
 
 Eoss, EMMETT L. 
 
 The Solid South .... ... 164 
 
 EOWLAND, ERON OPHA 
 
 A Prayer for 1918 168 
 
 Biloxi 169 
 
 EUSSELL, IRWIN 
 
 Nebuchadnezzar 172 
 
 Selling a Dog ... .... . 174, 
 
 The Origin of the Banjo ......... 175 
 
 An Exchange 178 
 
 SHANNON, EDMUND G. 
 
 Two Little Maids ....... . . . . . 180 
 
 SHIPJP, BARNARD 
 
 Concluding Lines of Poem "Beflections on the Year 
 
 1848" . . . ; . .... 181 
 
xii CONTENTS 
 
 SIGNAIGO, J. AUGUSTINE PAGE 
 
 On the Heights of Mission Eidge 182 
 
 SIMMONS, J. F. 
 
 The Undecorated Graves 184 
 
 SMITH, ALBERTA ODELL 
 
 The Mother 186 
 
 SMITH, STEVE W. 
 
 My Four Little Scamps 188 
 
 THOMAS, OLIVIA TULLY 
 
 "When Peace Returns" 189 
 
 VANCE, ADA REEDY 
 
 Death by the Wayside 191 
 
 WALWORTH, JEANNETTE H. 
 
 My Litany 194 
 
 WARD, WILLIAM 
 
 The Dying Year 196 
 
 WARFIELD, CATHERINE ANN 
 
 I Have Seen This Place Before 198 
 
 WHELESS, JENNIE NOONAN 
 
 Faint-Hearted 200 
 
 YOUNG, STARK 
 
 Love and Sleep 202 
 
 Sonnet 203 
 
 Reaper's Song 203 
 
 The Choice of Death 204 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE compilation of this volume has not been an 
 easy task. It may not appear to the reader that the 
 work has been difficult; but the difficulties in the 
 way of its preparation have been many. The sources 
 of information in regard to the poets of Mississippi 
 are meager. The poems of several of them have 
 never been published in book form, so had to be 
 searched for by varying methods. In some in- 
 stances, though the poems had been published in 
 book form, the volumes were out of print and had to 
 be looked for in several places before being found. 
 Under such circumstances, one may realize that the 
 correspondence necessary has been considerable. 
 
 The compilation is not complete. I wish it were. 
 I can only say, touching this phase, that it is as com- 
 plete as I could make it with the material I had at 
 hand or could secure access to. 
 
 I considered it fair, for the purposes of this com- 
 pilation, to consider as Mississippi poets both those 
 who were born in the state and those who lived in 
 the state for any considerable period. It may be 
 that some other compiler would have adopted a dif- 
 ferent plan of classification; but I hope that mine 
 may be considered proper. It is an easy matter to 
 classify poets as English or French or Italian, and 
 
 ii 
 
12 PREFACE 
 
 so on ; but there are complications when one attempts 
 to determine a classification, as among more than 
 forty states, all members of one Union, and all under 
 one government, with all their peoples using one lan- 
 guage. It is not out of the ordinary in the United 
 States for a person to be born in one state, to be edu- 
 cated in another, to make his home during active life 
 in another, and to pass his old age and to die in still 
 another. 
 
 The biographical mention has been made as brief 
 as possible. 
 
 If any one entitled to a place in this compilation 
 has been omitted from it, I shall be genuinely sorry 
 that such is the case. I hope that my attention may 
 be called to the omission in order that, at a later 
 date, the matter of the omission may be remedied. 
 
 It is my sincere hope that the publication of this 
 little volume will help to awaken an interest in lit- 
 erary matters in Mississippi, particularly in the lit- 
 erature of the state. If its publication shall do this, 
 it will have accomplished my chief purpose. 
 
 In the preparation of this volume, I have had ac- 
 cess to books as follows, in addition to practically all 
 the published volumes of the authors from whose 
 writings selections have been made: 
 
 Library of Southern Literature, Publications of the 
 Mississippi Historical Society, Dunbar Rowland's 
 Mississippi (in three volumes), Stedman's & Hutch- 
 inson's Library of American Literature, Goodspeed's 
 Memoirs of Mississippi, Stedman's American Anthol- 
 ogy, Miss Clarke's Songs of the South, Miss For- 
 
PREFACE 13 
 
 rest's Women of the South, Dixon's Poets and Poetry 
 of Texas, Cushman's History of Choctaw, Chickasaw 
 and Natchez Indians, Manly 's Southern Literature, 
 Simms' War Poetry of the South, and Davidson's 
 Living Writers of the South. 
 
 ERNESTINE CLAYTON DEAVOURS. 
 
 LAUREL, Miss. 
 
 November 1, 1920. 
 
MISSISSIPPI POETS 
 
 HENRY M. ABNEY 
 
 The compiler regrets that she has not been able to secure 
 information in regard to this author. His volume of poems, 
 entitled " Ballads and Sonnet Variations/' was published in 
 1877. 
 
 The Mound-Builders 
 
 IN those dim years forgotten of earth, 
 What wast thou, land of dream and doubt? 
 
 Where was the birthplace, where the birth, 
 Of tribes who measured out 
 
 Their mortal steps upon thy soil 
 As ruler, vassal, friend, and foe, 
 
 Who lived to battle, till, and toil 
 Ages ago? 
 
 If nations waned and nations grew, 
 
 Within thy shores as ages came; 
 If monarchs swayed and conquerors slew, 
 
 And passions burned as flame, 
 Time hath devoured the trace of all 
 
 Save these, poor relics of their power, 
 A mound of earth, a buried wall, 
 An old stone tower. 
 
 15 
 
16 HENRY M. ABNEY 
 
 Perhaps above where madly rang 
 
 The voice of wild wave on thy shore, 
 
 Some Sappho, martyr-lover, sang. 
 But tho' these things be o'er, 
 
 Yet time is just; from laureled heads 
 He's loath to take the fair-won crown; 
 
 Time reaps the ripened wheat, and treads 
 The wild weed down. 
 
 Heroes, I ween, thou hadst to strike 
 
 For thee, who might our greatest spurn, 
 
 In bloody fields of battle, like 
 Old Scotland's Bannockburn; 
 
 Or wise half-gods, who ruled as gods 
 Might rule, if they on earth did dwell, 
 
 Not as the kings whose scourging rods 
 Make earth a hell. 
 
 Alas, that they should be forgot 
 
 If thus they were; but if I dream, 
 
 I wildly dream, it matters not; 
 'Twere better thus, I deem, 
 
 That memory of their actions sleep, 
 That darkest death enwrap their name 
 
 Than that their evil deeds should reap 
 Inglorious fame. 
 
T. A. S. ADAMS 17 
 
 T. A. S. ADAMS 
 
 Thomas A. S. Adams was horn in Noxubee county in 1839, 
 and died suddenly in the city of Jackson in 1888. He was 
 educated at the University of Mississippi and at Emory and 
 Henry College, Virginia. After preparing for the ministry he 
 became a minister of the Methodist church. He served as a 
 soldier and chaplain in the Confederate Army. At different 
 times he was engaged in teaching, and was deeply interested 
 in the cause of education in the South. He held several impor- 
 tant pastorates in Mississippi. He was the author of two vol- 
 umes of poems: the first, published in 1875, entitled "Ensco- 
 tidion; or Shadow of Death/' the second, published in 1882, 
 entitled "Aunt Peggy and Other Poems. " 
 
 Growing Gray 
 
 GROWING gray! A silver line 
 
 Clotho spins me day by day, 
 And as through the black they shine 
 
 I am growing old they say! 
 But I'm on the sunny slope 
 
 Of the hills of middle life; 
 Who would say, to mar my hope: 
 
 "Atropos whets up her knife?" 
 Yes, she whets as Clotho spins, 
 
 Clips a fiber here and there ; 
 Day by day the locks she thins 
 
 Of each smoothest, blackest hair, 
 
i8 T. A. S. ADAMS 
 
 Black ones that will come no more 
 After they have dropped away; 
 
 While the wrinkles tell me o'er, 
 I am growing old and gray. 
 
 And is age so very nigh? 
 
 Yesterday my heart was light. 
 Now a film is on my eye, 
 
 But 'tis ten o 'clock at night, 
 I am growing gray, that's all; 
 
 'Tis an easy thing to read 
 When the letters are not small ; 
 
 But this type is bad indeed. 
 I've a stiffness in my knee, 
 
 'Twas not there a year ago, 
 'Tis the climate's work, you see, 
 
 And the lot of man below. 
 There's a dullness at my heart, 
 
 Labor brought that on to-day; 
 Rest will cause it to depart, 
 
 Though it leaves me still more gray. 
 
 Growing gray, and grayer still ! 
 
 Looking in the glass I see 
 Some one hobbling down the hill, 
 
 Seeming to be hunting me. 
 Bent his form, and dim his eye, 
 
 How he prates of days agone ! 
 Begging of his memory 
 
 One fresh picture, only one: 
 Only one, where Love and Hope 
 
 Weave a fadeless wreath to crown 
 
T. A. S. ADAMS 19 
 
 Youth's fair brow, whose pathway up 
 Ne'er shall know a going down. 
 
 But I look again, I see 
 Into night he fades away; 
 
 Does he think while hunting me 
 That I 'm growing old and gray ? 
 
 Can the Future's ghost grow old? 
 
 Toothless, and of faltering speech, 
 Howsoe'er the Past may scold, 
 
 Its young grandchild, out of reach, 
 Hides behind the curtains bright 
 
 In its games of hide and seek. 
 Let me play with it to-night, 
 
 Ere the roses leave my cheek. 
 Down, ye bitter memories! 
 
 Down, ye dark forebodings, down ! 
 In the blissful future rise 
 
 Brightest visions ever known. 
 Be they false or be they true, 
 
 What is that, since you disdain 
 Giving back the locks that grew 
 
 Glossy on my brow in vain ? 
 ye cares that on my track 
 
 Hover like a beast of prey ! 
 I'll not try to drive you back, 
 
 Though I'm growing old and gray. 
 
 Growing gray ! Beyond the sun 
 Sinking slow o'er western slopes, 
 
 Streams perennially run, 
 
 Sparkling with immortal hopes; 
 
20 T. A. S. ADAMS 
 
 And as on those streams I look, 
 
 Glossy shine the locks as ever; 
 Life is still the purling brook, 
 
 Not the noisy turbid river. 
 Care is but a phantom grim, 
 
 Drawn with charcoal on the wall. 
 Who would be afraid of him, 
 
 Whether seeming great or small ? 
 Faith sits calmly in the shade 
 
 Laughing foolish cares away; 
 And I smile to hear it said: 
 
 "He is growing old and gray." 
 
 Go, thou spinster sister, go ! 
 
 Spin for love or spin for spite! 
 Let the locks still thinner grow! 
 
 Let the threads grow still more white. 
 Clip, thou scowling sister, clip ! 
 
 Clip it short or clip it long, 
 111 not let the moment slip 
 
 For a glad and hopeful song. 
 For the Graces, too, can spin, 
 
 They can weave 'mid clouds and snows 
 Veils of spotless white as thin 
 
 As those that on the mount repose, 
 When the angel of the night 
 
 Stoops to change with that of day, 
 And with its departing light 
 
 Blends the golden with the gray. 
 
JULIA K. WETHERILL BAKER 21 
 
 JULIA K. WETHERILL BAKER 
 
 Mrs. Baker was born in Woodville in 1858, and is now a 
 resident of New Orleans, where for several years she has been 
 connected with the press. She has been a frequent contributor 
 to the leading magazines. 
 
 When All Is Said 
 
 WHEN all is said, when all our words 
 Of love and pleasure, one by one, 
 
 Have taken wing and flown like birds 
 That seek the Southern sun, 
 
 Naught shall be changed. The sweet delay 
 Of April dusks, the rapturous dawn, 
 
 The glowing height of golden day, 
 Shall all go on, and on. 
 
 The birds shall shake the rosy bough 
 With ecstasy of springtime song; 
 
 And in the meadows, then as now, 
 The grass shall crowd and throng. 
 
 There shall be flowers and flowers! to waste 
 Along the paths where victors tread, 
 
 Or where the feasters, singing, haste, 
 And wreaths to deck the dead. 
 
22 JULIA K. WETHERILL BAKER 
 
 And not the less clear streams shall run 
 Through secret haunts of woodland gloom; 
 
 And I shall smile, as smiles the sun 
 On cradle and on tomb. 
 
 When all is said, Soul of my soul, 
 Could all be said of love's delight, 
 
 'Twixt thee and me, though time should roll 
 Beyond earth's day and night? 
 
CHATTIE BEALL 23 
 
 CHATTIE BEALL 
 
 Mrs. Beall, who is now a resident of Washington City, where 
 her husband, Hon. Fred Beall, is a distinguished lawyer, lived 
 for many years at West Point, Miss. Her poems have never 
 been published in book form. 
 
 Premature Gray Hairs 
 
 OH ! why did the frosty old finger of Care 
 Seek out a page so faultlessly fair, 
 And write in white signs on that jetty black hair 
 God's own secret, an unanswered prayer? 
 Were there not brows enough already lined, 
 Where shrouded hopes were sacredly twined, 
 And dead loves and lost loves are sadly enshrined. 
 Where care a more fitting tablet could find? 
 Spare that young brow, 'tis so splendidly fair, 
 Shadows of smiles should only fall there! 
 Snowy white roses those tresses should wear, 
 And not thy handwriting, pitiless Care. 
 
24 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 
 
 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 
 
 This author was born in what is now Webster county in 1839, 
 and died in that county in 1887. He was an invalid from early 
 manhood, and unable to stand on his feet. For a time he lived 
 in Lowndes county, and served one term as treasurer of that 
 county. In 1878 he published at Columbus his one volume of 
 verse, entitled "Backwoods Poems. " 
 
 My Castle 
 
 THEY do not know, who sneer at me because I'm 
 
 poor and lame, 
 And round my brow has never twined the laurel 
 
 wreath of fame, 
 They do not know that I possess a castle, old and 
 
 grand, 
 
 With many an acre broad attached of fair and fer- 
 tile land; 
 With hills and dales, and lakes and streams, and 
 
 fields of waving grain, 
 And snowy flocks, and lowing herds, that browse 
 
 upon the plain. 
 In sooth, it is a good demesne, how would my scorn- 
 
 ers stare 
 Could they behold the splendors of my Castle in the 
 
 Air! 
 
S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 25 
 
 The room in which I'm sitting now is smoky, bare, 
 and cold, 
 
 But I have gorgeous stately chambers in my pal- 
 ace old. 
 
 Eich paintings, by the grand old masters, hang upon 
 the wall, 
 
 And marble busts and statues stand around the spa- 
 cious hall. 
 
 A chandelier of silver pure, and golden lamps illume, 
 
 With rosy light, on festal nights, the great reception 
 room, 
 
 When wisdom, genius, beauty, wit, are all assembled 
 there, 
 
 And strains of sweetest music fill my Castle in the 
 Air. 
 
 About the castle grounds, ten thousand kinds of 
 
 flowers bloom, 
 And freight each passing zephyr with a load of sweet 
 
 perfume. 
 Thick clumps of green umbrageous trees afford a 
 
 cool retreat, 
 Where oft I steal me when the sun pours down his 
 
 scorching heat, 
 
 &nd there, upon a mossy bank, recline the livelong day, 
 And watch the murmuring fountains in the marble 
 
 basins play; 
 Or listen to the song of birds, with plumage bright 
 
 and rare, 
 Which flit among the trees around my Castle in the 
 
 Air. 
 
26 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 
 
 Sometimes the mistress of my castle sits beside me 
 
 there, 
 With dark-blue eyes so full of love, and sunny silken 
 
 hair; 
 With broad, fair, classic brow, where genius sheds 
 
 his purest ray, 
 
 And little, dimpled, rosy mouth, where smiles for- 
 ever play. 
 
 Ah, she is very dear to me ; her maiden heart alone 
 Returned my soul's deep love, and beat responsive to 
 
 my own; 
 And I chose her for my spirit-bride, this maiden, 
 
 young and fair, 
 And now she reigns sole mistress of my Castle in the 
 
 Air. 
 
 The banks may break, and stocks may fall; the 
 
 Croesus of to-day 
 May see, to-morrow, all his wealth, like snow, dissolve 
 
 away, 
 And th' auctioneer, at panic price, to the highest 
 
 bidder sell 
 His marble home, in which a king might well be 
 
 proud to dwell. 
 
 But in my Castle in the Air I have a sure estate, 
 No panic, with its hydra-head, can e 'er depreciate, 
 No hard-faced sheriff dares to levy execution there, 
 For universal law exempts a Castle in the Air. 
 
S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 27 
 
 Mississippi 
 
 THANK God! she is not conquered yet,- 
 
 The brave old Rifle State ! 
 Tho' many a recreant son has fled 
 
 And left her to her fate. 
 She well can spare the craven wretch 
 
 Who safety seeks afar; 
 Who wore the lion's hide in peace, 
 
 But plays the sheep in war. 
 
 She is not conquered yet! Her flag 
 
 Still proudly floats on high; 
 From every hill, and vale, and swamp, 
 
 Is heard the slogan cry. 
 Old men and boys have rushed to arms 
 
 Who scorn the vandal's wrath, 
 Whose breasts shall be a living wall 
 
 Across a conqueror's path. 
 
 And by the graves of martyred sons 
 
 In bloody conflict slain, 
 We swear our dear old Mother State 
 
 Shall wear no master's chain! 
 Ere she is bound, each sunny plain 
 
 A Marathon shall be, 
 And every narrow, rugged pass 
 
 A red Thermopylae! 
 
28 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 
 
 The Frost and the Forest 
 
 THE Frost King came in the dead of night, 
 Came with jewels of silver sheen, 
 
 To woo by the spinster Dian's light 
 The pride of the South, the Forest Queen. 
 
 He wooed till morn and went away ; 
 
 Then I heard the Forest faintly sigh, 
 And she blushed like a girl on her wedding day, 
 
 And her blush grew deeper as time went by. 
 
 Alas, for the Forest! The cunning Frost 
 Her ruin sought, when he came to woo; 
 
 She moaned all day for her glory lost, 
 And her blush has changed to a deathlike hue. 
 
 The Forgotten Picture 
 
 IN the dark old chamber of my mind, 
 
 Up many a winding stair, 
 I have a little room that's full 
 
 Of pictures old and rare. 
 
 I've portraits there of gray-haired men, 
 And maidens young and fair, 
 
 Sweet matrons with their angel smiles 
 And babes with golden hair. 
 
S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 29 
 
 Dear kindred that have left the earth 
 
 To join the angel band, 
 And friends I loved in early years, 
 
 Gone to the spirit land. 
 
 And I have there fair landscapes, too, 
 
 With verdure fresh and green, 
 Houses, and fields, and gurgling streams, 
 
 With clumps of trees between; 
 
 And many a scene of joy or grief 
 
 I knew in bygone years: 
 Death-beds of those I loved, but these 
 
 Are sadly soiled with tears. 
 
 Yest're'en I was a- weary grown 
 Of the toils, and cares, and strife, 
 
 That ever have beset the path 
 Which I have trod through life; 
 
 And I shut me up in this little room, 
 
 Where the sunbeams rarely fall, 
 And watched the pictures as they hung 
 
 Upon the dark-brown wall. 
 
 In the darkest corner of the room, 
 
 I found upon the floor, 
 A picture moldered o'er with age, 
 
 I had not seen before. 
 
30 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 
 
 I bore it to the feeble light, 
 But I could scarcely trace, 
 
 The mildew was so thick on it, 
 The outlines of the face. 
 
 I brushed away the cruel dust, 
 
 And saw my Nancy there! 
 Just as she looked long time ago, 
 
 When she was young and fair. 
 
 Her dark-brown hair was parted smooth 
 
 Upon her pale, sweet brow, 
 And fell in rich profusion o'er 
 
 Her shoulders white as snow; 
 
 Her lips half parted, still were wet 
 With the kiss I left on them: 
 
 And purity sat on her brow, 
 Like a queenly diadem; 
 
 Her hazel eyes gazed into mine 
 With a look that seemed to say: 
 
 6 1 Couldst thou not give one thought to me 
 While I was far away?" 
 
 Oh! how my spirit trembled then, 
 
 As pictures of the past, 
 Along the wall in the shadowy gloom, 
 
 Came thronging thick and fast. 
 
S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 31 
 
 The drama of our early love, 
 
 Glided before my view 
 Like a panorama, and I lived 
 
 Those blissful hours anew. 
 
 But the ghosts of all my withered hopes 
 
 Came gibbering round me then, 
 And mocked me with a bitter taunt 
 
 Of what I might have been. 
 
 Tidings from the Battle Field 
 
 " FRESH tidings from the battle field!" 
 
 A widowed mother stands, 
 And lifts the glasses from her eyes 
 
 With trembling, withered hands. 
 " Fresh tidings from the battle field! 
 
 Your only son is slain; 
 He fell with t Victory!' on his lips, 
 
 And a bullet in his brain." 
 The stricken mother staggers back, 
 
 And falls upon the floor; 
 And the wailing shriek of a broken heart 
 
 Comes from the cottage door. 
 
 ''Fresh tidings from the battle field!" 
 
 The wife her needle plies, 
 While in the cradle at her feet 
 
 Her sleeping infant lies. 
 "Fresh tidings from the battle field! 
 
 Your husband is no more, 
 
32 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 
 
 But lie died as a soldier loves to die, 
 
 His wounds were all before." 
 Her work was dropped, "0 God!" she moans, 
 
 And lifts her aching eyes; 
 The orphaned babe in the cradle wakes, 
 
 And joins its mother's cries. 
 
 1 'Fresh tidings from the battle field!" 
 
 A maid with pensive eye 
 Sits musing near the sacred spot 
 
 Where she heard his last good-by. 
 " Fresh tidings from the battle field! 
 
 Your lover's cold in death; 
 But he breathed the name of her he loved 
 
 With his expiring breath." 
 With hands pressed to her snowy brow, 
 
 She strives her grief to hide; 
 She shrinks from friendly sympathy, 
 
 A widow ere a bride. 
 
 " Fresh tidings from the battle field!" 
 
 Oh, what a weight of woe 
 Is borne upon their blood-stained wings 
 
 As on, still on they go ! 
 War! eldest child of Death and Hell! 
 
 When shall thy horrors cease? 
 When shall the gospel usher in 
 
 The reign of love and peace? 
 Speed, speed the blissful time, Lord! 
 
 The blessed, happy years, 
 When plow-shares shall be made of swords, 
 
 And pruning-hooks of spears! 
 
S. NEWTON BERRYHILL 33 
 
 When I Am Dead and Gone 
 
 WHEN I am dead and gone, 
 The sun will shine as bright as now, 
 The summer skies appear as blue; 
 The distant mountain's brow, 
 
 Kissed by the early dawn, 
 Will blush as roseate a hue. 
 
 When I am dead and gone, 
 The sweet wild-flowers will bloom as fair, 
 In woods where I was wont to roam ; 
 And birds with plumes as bright and rare, 
 
 Sing in as sweet a tone 
 Among the trees around my home. 
 
 When I am dead and gone, 
 The merry laugh will ring as clear 
 Among my friends. They'll jest as free; 
 And some, the songs I love to hear 
 
 Will sing in careless tone, 
 And never give one thought to me. 
 
 When I am dead and gone, 
 The maiden that I love so well* 
 The arbor vitae at my head 
 Will pluck, some loving swain to tell 
 
 She lives for him alone, 
 And hath forgot the lover dead. 
 
34 H. M. BIEN 
 
 H. M. BIEN 
 
 Babbi Bien made his home for many years at Vicksburg. He 
 was the author of several books: "Ben Beor, 77 "Oriental 
 Legends, 77 "Feast of Lights/ 7 "What Is Judaism? 77 "Sam- 
 son, 77 and others. His first book was published in 1883. 
 
 The Best and the Worst 
 
 "SEARCH the bazaar," said the sheik to the slave, 
 "And get me the Best which the markets provide." 
 
 The slave salaamed lowly, the slave answered grave: 
 "Thy will shall be done; in my judgment abide," 
 
 And soon, on returning, said: "Bightly or wrong, 
 
 I bring here the Best of the market, a tongue." 
 
 ' ' Search the bazaar, ' ' said the sheik to the slave, 
 "And get me the Worst which the markets pro- 
 vide." 
 
 The slave salaamed lowly, the slave answered grave: 
 "Thy will shall be done; in my judgment abide," 
 
 And soon, on returning, said : ' l Eightly or wrong, 
 
 I bring here the Worst of the market, a tongue!" 
 
 "Explain what thou meanest!" cried the sheik to 
 
 the slave; 
 
 "I'll give thee thy freedom if well thou decide." 
 The slave salaamed lowly, the slave answered grave: 
 
H. M. BIEN 35 
 
 ' l Thy will must be done : in my judgment abide. 
 Now listen and say if I 'm right or if wrong : 
 The Best and the Worst in the world is the tongue. 
 
 "The tongue to a freedman quick changes a slave; 
 The tongue enslaves quickly the free, though he 
 
 died; 
 The tongue rules the world, from cradle to grave; 
 
 The tongue sways the khedive and beggar beside. " 
 "Thy tongue made thee free! Thou argued it 
 Laughed the sheik. "The Best and the Worst is 
 the tongue!" 
 
36 SHERWOOD BONNER 
 
 SHERWOOD BONNER 
 
 Sherwood Bonner was born at Holly Springs in 1849, and 
 died there in 1883. For a short time she lived in Texas, but 
 later went East, making her home in Boston, where she was 
 kindly received by the literary people of that city. The poet 
 Longfellow was one of her close friends. Her writings consist 
 almost entirely of short stories, which she contributed to lead- 
 ing magazines in the North and East. She published one novel, 
 "Like unto Like." In 1883 a collection of her stories was 
 published under the title "Dialect Tales, M and in 1884 a sec- 
 ond collection appeared under the title "Suwanee River 
 Tales." She published but few poems. 
 
 A Longed-For Valentine 
 
 COME to my aching heart, my weary soul, 
 
 And give my thoughts once more their vanquished 
 
 will; 
 
 That I may strive and feel again the thrill 
 Of bounding hope, to reach its farthest goal, 
 Not Love, though sweet as that which Launcelot stole, 
 Nor Beauty, happy as a dancing rill, 
 Nor Gold poured out from some fond miser's till, 
 Nor yet a name on Fame's immortal scroll, 
 But what I ask, gracious Lord, from Thee, 
 If to Thy throne my piteous cry can reach, 
 When stricken down like tempest-riven tree, 
 Too low for prayer to wreak itself in speech, 
 Is but the fair gift ah, will 't ne'er be mine? 
 My long-lost Health for my dear Valentine. 
 
MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 37 
 
 MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 
 
 Mrs. Brisbane, a native of Vicksburg, comes of a literary 
 ancestry. She was married in 1883, and has for many years 
 made her home in New Orleans. She was a member of the 
 Mississippi Press Association, a frequent contributor to the 
 newspapers in Mississippi while she lived in the State, and 
 since her removal to New Orleans has contributed poems to 
 various leading periodicals. 
 
 Menelaus to Helen 
 
 I LOVE thee as well as of old 
 
 But in different fashion; 
 
 My heart and my soul have grown cold 
 
 To the calling of passion. 
 
 I have learned to meet calmly the days 
 
 And the nights that surround me; 
 
 Forgetting the peace-planted ways 
 
 In the land where love found me. 
 
 My Queen, I could suffer all things 
 
 If bliss it were giving 
 
 To thee of the white Psyche-wings 
 
 And the red Eros living! 
 
 I could rest, wide awake in my grave 
 
 None the worse for life's story 
 
 Could I know that thy soul, once so brave 
 
 Had recaptured its glory. 
 
38 MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 
 
 Be true to the dreams of thy youth 
 
 Let nothing degrade thee! 
 
 Rise up a white star to the truth 
 
 Of the white gods who made thee! 
 
 My heart, like a taper, burned out 
 
 Just a light for thy walking ; 
 
 But I died in that moment of doubt 
 
 And the dead must cease talking! 
 
 The Dead Leaf 
 
 I WENT out in the garden where a few late roses blow ; 
 I left them on their altars green pale chalices of 
 
 snow; 
 I left the gold chrysanthemum to guard the russet 
 
 land, 
 And came in with an Autumn leaf a dead leaf in 
 
 my hand. 
 
 Fit symbol of my heart thou art, oh! leaf, so cold 
 
 and brown; 
 The breeze that softly wooed thee once now rudely 
 
 shakes thee down, 
 A withered and forsaken thing, poor little leaf, thou 
 
 art, 
 Yet memories of a former hope still light thy dying 
 
 heart, 
 
 Here lies a tracery of gold, some touch of Summer 
 
 sun 
 Oh! keep it in thy fading hold, thou sad, deserted 
 
 one! 
 
MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 39 
 
 And here a blaze of crimson fire too full of life to die, 
 Betrays some unforgotten kiss from some torch- 
 lighted sky. 
 
 Oh! heart bereaved and colorless, lift to God's pity- 
 ing eyes 
 
 Thy memories of thy Summer suns, thy blazing sun- 
 set skies; 
 
 For love and hope were once thine own, they kissed 
 thee long ago, 
 
 Before November skies were gray with prophecies of 
 snow. 
 
 Love is a memory, hope a dream, belief an empty 
 
 husk; 
 
 All color an uncertain gleam that dies into the dusk ; 
 The night is near; a wailing wind frets 'neath a 
 
 troubled sky; 
 Gray shadows fall, day's pallid pall dead leaf, dead 
 
 heart, good-by! 
 
 The Snow 
 
 WE live in a land of sunshine, 
 
 So, when our darling died, 
 "We simply pushed away the flowers 
 
 That littered the green hillside. 
 And made her a bed of blossoms, 
 
 This dear little child of ours, 
 And covered with sweet, from head to feet, 
 
 We left her asleep with the flowers. 
 
40 MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 
 
 And all through the balmy Winter, 
 
 I think how the pine trees fling 
 Their green embrace above her 
 
 The dear little sleeping thing! 
 And all through the Spring and Summer, 
 
 Such blossomy, golden hours, 
 I think of her still, asleep on the hill, 
 
 With her little friends, the flowers. 
 
 In the tender Southern Autumn, 
 
 My fond heart feels the same; 
 I know the woods are burning 
 
 With rare, exquisite flame. 
 The wondrous, brilliant torches, 
 
 Of shining golden rod, 
 Light up wild ways, through dreamy haze, 
 
 For the little maid and God. 
 
 But last night, in the silence, 
 
 A something, white and chill, 
 Came and sighed at my window: 
 
 "I have been on the churchyard hill." 
 I started up on my pillow, 
 
 I shook in a storm of woe ; 
 I gave her to God and the flowers 
 
 And not to the night and the snow. 
 
 Oh, baby! Poor little baby! 
 
 Chained to the churchyard hill; 
 Come back; come back to your mother! 
 
 Her heart can shelter you still! 
 
MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 41 
 
 There was only a sobbing silence, 
 
 Bitterly soft and low; 
 I felt for God in the darkness, 
 
 But found the night and the snow. 
 
 A Woman 
 
 I'VE had his dark eyes, overbrimmed with light, 
 
 Fall on my face, 
 Stay scarce a moment then indifferent go, 
 
 Adrift in space; 
 I've had the blood like myriad hot tongued flames 
 
 To my cheeks dart, 
 Before his eyes' cold brilliancy, but that, 
 
 That did not break my heart. 
 
 I 've known the bitterness that I to him 
 
 Was simply naught; 
 My love and I had never entered 
 
 His slightest thought. 
 I've seen him careless meet me in the crowd, 
 
 And careless part 
 And though I paled in anguish, yet, I lived, 
 
 That did not break my heart. 
 
 I stood one evening when the burning lights 
 
 Flooded the west; 
 A lovely woman by me leaned, 
 
 A rose lay on her breast. 
 
42 MARGARET HUNT BRISBANE 
 
 He paused in passing as his eye met hers, 
 
 I saw him start, 
 Turn to her with one look one look but that, 
 
 That broke my heart. 
 
JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN 43 
 
 JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN 
 
 Mrs. Cappleman is a native of Kentucky. For the last few 
 years she has made her home in Little Bock, Ark., but for 
 many years she lived at Okolona, Miss. While her home was 
 in this state she was prominent in the work of the United 
 Daughters of the Confederacy, and was active in the State 
 Federation of Women 's Clubs, also doing much literary work 
 during her residence in Mississippi. She has published only 
 one volume of poems, "Heart Songs. " 
 
 Where Do the Kisses Grow? 
 
 THEY leap from the soul of a baby 
 
 And then all over it spread, 
 From the white and pink of the toe-tips 
 
 To the halo of gold on its head ; 
 From the depths of its dainty dimples, 
 
 From the roseate, laughter-turned lips, 
 From the soft, shapely neck and shoulders 
 
 To the tapering finger-tips. 
 
 They're hidden within every heart-fold, 
 
 And cuddled down close to the core, 
 And tho' they are evermore gathered, 
 
 Still, I find there a thousand-fold more; 
 And each one seems softer and sweeter 
 
 Than the one I found just before, 
 Till I wonder if ever the sweetest 
 
 Is taken from baby's vast store. 
 
44 JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN 
 
 So daily I search for and seize them, 
 
 And hourly I pluck a new prize, 
 Sometimes from the whitest of foreheads, 
 
 Sometimes from the brightest of eyes; 
 Of all the rare sweets sent from heaven, 
 
 These kisses, to me, are most sweet; 
 A blessing they bring to my being 
 
 As the holiest emotions there meet. 
 
 And I whisper: "0 angel-kissed baby, 
 
 Do you feel, can you ever quite know 
 Of the wondrous worth of these kisses 
 
 That ever continue to grow? 
 Of the wearisome woes that they soften, 
 
 Of the heart-cares they curtain from sight, 
 Of their magic that soars through the sunshine 
 
 And on through the knells of the night?" 
 
 I hold that we're higher and better 
 
 For every fresh kiss that we take, 
 For every fond love-token given, 
 
 When given for sacred love's sake; 
 For, if purity's planted in Earthdom, 
 
 Then surely it springs from the soul 
 Of that beautiful, angel-like being 
 
 As its life-page begins to unroll. 
 
 Then I'll gather them early and often, 
 From the bright, curly head to the toe, 
 
 I can't rob the wee tot of its treasures, 
 For still they continue to grow. 
 
JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN 45 
 
 And in long after-years fondest memory 
 
 E'en backward forever will flow 
 To that bonny-eyed babe of the bygone, 
 
 Whose kisses no longer may grow. 
 
 The Dreams of a Vanished Day 
 
 A BUNCH of letters, a broken flower 
 All yellow 'd and blurr 'd and dim, 
 A wisp of hair in its wrappings there, 
 
 And a priceless poem from him: 
 Just these were the keys that unclosed the screen 
 From the fane of the Far Away, 
 And waked with a start 
 The sealed, silent heart, 
 To the dream of a vanished day. 
 
 Long, long was their sleep, and longer had slept 
 
 Adown in that dreamless abyss, 
 Save Chance opened wide the vast time-divide 
 
 And brought back the youth-days and this, 
 And the little dead rose that once was so white, 
 "With its myriad companions and more, 
 Breathed of joy-years to be, 
 Of Fate's fondest decree, 
 And buoyant life-messages bore. 
 
 Are you looking with me on the rose-trailing Past, 
 All splashed with its crimson and gold; 
 
 While the same shining dreams, in a measure fulfilled, 
 Do you not, in the present, behold? 
 
46 JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN 
 
 It seems the faint odor that fitfully floats 
 From the jonquil, the jasmine and rose, 
 
 Tells the tale of year-tides, 
 
 Rise, fall, and divides, 
 Far better than tongue can disclose. 
 
 Aye, each has a dream-drawer somewhere concealed, 
 
 With cover and close-guarded key, 
 And, oh, for the loves and the losses therein, 
 
 And the wraiths of Eeality! 
 
 And some bring a smile, as of sanction, when seen 
 By the child, on the mother-love face; 
 And the rose-pictures rare 
 Of some still are there, 
 While the heart-hurt of some leaves its trace. 
 
 dreamers of dreams, do you often unlock 
 
 The casket that palls the pale dead, 
 Ambitions, gem-set, and gold-arched aims, 
 
 And the purposeful plans far ahead? 
 Perchance you have found what I'm finding to- 
 night, 
 
 Dead roses and dreams in decay; 
 Yet action and deed 
 Have arisen at need 
 From the dreams of a vanished day. 
 
 So, I hold the first Fancies and Phantoms we hoard 
 
 Are firm, as the fair-coraled isle 
 'Neath the tropical glow of the sun-surging sea; 
 
 Are the breakers we build on the while. 
 
JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN 47 
 
 And far thro' the stretch of the soul-seething years, 
 Thro' the hapless heart- tempests of Time, 
 
 We break and we build, 
 
 With the lapses infilled 
 By triumphs that touch the sublime. 
 
 Then never a dream, since the rose-dream of Morn, 
 
 With its brilliance and beauty and bloom, 
 But whole, or in part, presaged the pale start, 
 Where the great life achievements now loom. 
 So I treasure the letters and little dead rose, 
 With their thousands of thoughts laid away; 
 Thro' the long interim 
 Float the shadows dim 
 Of the dreams of a vanished day. 
 
48 MARCUS T. CARPENTER 
 
 MARCUS T. CARPENTER 
 
 Marcus T. Carpenter was a native of New York state, but 
 made his home at Jackson, Miss., where he was connected with 
 a newspaper. While living in that city he published (1850) 
 his only volume of poems, "Memories of the Past." 
 
 On the Return of the Mississippi Volunteers 
 
 THRICE welcome to your home again, 
 
 Ye men of iron nerve ! 
 For ye have proved your faith like men 
 
 Who would their country serve; 
 With fearless hearts, at Monterey, 
 
 Ye charged upon the foe, 
 And tower and battlement gave way 
 
 At every freeman's blow. 
 
 Ye heeded not the old grim walls 
 
 That frowned above you there, 
 Nor deadly showers of hissing balls 
 
 That filled the smoky air; 
 Our country's flag ye onward bore, 
 
 Through, all the bloody fray, 
 Until it waved in triumph o'er 
 
 The heights of Monterey. 
 
MARCUS T. CARPENTER 49 
 
 On Buena Vista's awful field, 
 
 Ye did what men may do, 
 With hearts that know not how to yield, 
 
 With weapons tried and true; 
 And, oh, how swelled our hearts with pride, 
 
 When news came from afar, 
 How ye had stemmed the battle's tide, 
 
 On that great day of war! 
 
 And now, with one united voice, 
 
 All welcome your return, 
 And o'er your glorious deeds rejoice, 
 
 Whose lights will cease to burn 
 When freedom's altars are no more, 
 
 Her temples pass away, 
 And when her spirit flees before 
 
 Corruption and decay. 
 
 But one short year has roll'd along, 
 
 Since your chivalric band 
 Left peace and home in valor strong, 
 
 For far-off foeman's land; 
 Your ranks, so thin and meager now, 
 
 Speak more than words may tell, 
 And cast a gloom o'er every brow 
 
 For patriot ones who fell. 
 
 And with the shouts which now arise 
 
 To welcome you again, 
 Are mingled low and stifled sighs, 
 
 For those in battle slain; 
 
50 MARCUS T. CARPENTER 
 
 Our eyes are dimmed with sorrowing tears, 
 
 For all who nobly bled; 
 But their names will be through coming years 
 
 Among the glorious dead. 
 
 Spring 
 
 THE spring is here again, 
 And, over hill and plain, 
 
 She hath flung 
 The magic of her smile, 
 And the world looks glad the while, 
 
 As when young: 
 
 And hearts, long worn with care, 
 That heavy burdens bear 
 
 Towards the tomb, 
 Are now as light and free 
 As they were wont to be, 
 
 In life's bloom. 
 
 But ere another comes, 
 
 The hearthstones of their homes 
 
 May be left 
 
 Sad, desolate, and cold, 
 Of their cheerfulness of old 
 
 All bereft. 
 
 For myriad years gone by, 
 With as bright and pure a sky, 
 Hath the Spring 
 
MARCUS T. CARPENTER 51 
 
 Succeeded to the blast 
 Of winter, binding fast 
 Everything. 
 
 For myriad ages yet, 
 Will she free the rivulet 
 
 From its chains, 
 
 And strew the earth with flowers, 
 And fill the woodland bowers 
 
 With sweet strains. 
 
 And hearts that are to be, 
 In dim futurity, 
 
 Will, like ours, 
 With joyous rapture burn, 
 At her annual return, 
 
 With flowers. 
 
 Oh! the Spring, it makes me sad, 
 Though everything looks glad, 
 
 Round me here; 
 For the future, like the past, 
 Will be borne away at last, 
 
 On its bier. 
 
 Yet I love the Spring to come, 
 Driving winter from the home, 
 
 Where I dwell; 
 Though its bursts of revelry 
 Of passing time to me 
 
 Sound the knell. 
 
52 BETTIE KEYES CHAMBERS 
 
 BETTIE KEYES CHAMBERS 
 
 Mrs. Chambers is a native of Alabama, but after the Civil 
 War she made her home in Mississippi, later removing to Cali- 
 fornia. In 1912 her volume of poems, " Idyls of the South," 
 was published by The Neale Publishing Company, New York. 
 
 A Fancy 
 
 A BRIGHT mantle of crimson and gold 
 
 And purple hung low in the west ; 
 It was waiting the day to enfold 
 
 That soon would be sinking to rest. 
 The sun was still lingering awhile 
 
 In love with both woodland and sea, 
 While the earth, blushing warm in his smile, 
 
 Seemed fairer than ever to be. 
 
 And a rose-tree in beauty and bloom 
 
 Its blossoms had lavishly spread, 
 They were shedding their sweetest perfume 
 
 And wealth o'er a maiden's fair head; 
 While, just touching her innocent face 
 
 Half-opened, some bright buds reclined, 
 Did they droop, that their loveliest grace, 
 
 Was gathered from that they entwined? 
 
BETTIE KEYES CHAMBERS 53 
 
 Like a Parsean priestess at prayer, 
 
 She watched the light fade in the skies ; 
 And the glow of idolatry there 
 
 Shone bright in her beautiful eyes. 
 "He will come," she was murmuring low, 
 
 "Though shadows grow gloomy and tall. 
 He is true as the sunlight, I know; 
 
 He will come. He will come, after all." 
 
 But the night brought her quivering fears; 
 
 And doubt, with its dagger-like smart, 
 Like a shadow fell over her years 
 
 And crushed out the faith in her heart. 
 Then she knew her idolatrous trust 
 
 Had passed with the evening's light, 
 That it evermore, moldering, must 
 
 Lay shrouded in darkness of night. 
 
 Then the morning saw roses in tears, 
 
 That yesterday blossomed so bright; 
 Arid as time flings to mortals its years, 
 
 The roses still weep in the night 
 For the remnant of Paradise gone, 
 
 Which passed with the loss of man's truth, 
 And the doubt and the agony born, 
 
 From death to the hope of our youth. 
 
54 J. F. H. CLAIBORNE 
 
 J. F. H. CLAIBORNE 
 
 "The Historian of Mississippi 77 is little known as a poet, 
 yet he wrote many poems, though these poems have never been 
 published in book form. Colonel Claiborne's literary work was 
 almost altogether along historical lines. He was born in Adams 
 county in 1807, and died in that county in 1884. For many 
 years he was prominent in the politics of the state ; was a mem- 
 ber of the Legislature and also a member of Congress, and 
 edited newspapers in both Mississippi and Louisiana. His pub- 
 lished works in permanent form are : ' ' Life and Times of Sam 
 Dale/ 7 "Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman," and 
 "Mississippi as a Province, Territory, and State. " 
 
 The Maid of Pascagoula 
 
 WHILE others boast their eyes of blue, 
 Their locks of gold or raven hue, 
 Be mine to praise with modest lays 
 
 The Maid of Pascagoula! 
 Her speaking face, her snowy arms, 
 The tout ensemble of her charms, 
 Her grace and majesty of mien, 
 So fair, so beautiful! they seem 
 Not mortal, but an angel's dream, 
 
 My maid of Pascagoula! 
 
 Let others gaze on passers-by, 
 For every beauty breathe a sigh; 
 
J. F. H. CLAIBORNE 55 
 
 My eye is turned, my heart is given, 
 With all the truth and faith of heaven, 
 In bonds that only death can sever, 
 My maid of Pascagoula! 
 
 She may be thine and never mine, 
 
 This maid of Pascagoula ! 
 Where'er I roam by land or sea, 
 I still shall love and none but thee, 
 
 Sweet maid of Pascagoula! 
 I breathe her name, I feel the flame, 
 Thro' all life's changes still the same, 
 A pang which silent tears my breast, 
 Come weal or woe; life's direst curse, 
 Of Fortune's blows the very worst, 
 Or tortured seek some lonely grave, 
 
 Maid of Pascagoula! 
 
 Mine is a flame may not be known, 
 A wretchedness I dare not own; 
 Deep in my heart the secret lies, 
 But thou canst read it in my eyes, 
 Dear Maid of Pascagoula! 
 
56 MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 
 
 MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 
 
 Mrs. Dimitry, the daughter of Justice Cotesworth P. Smith, 
 of the Supreme Court of Mississippi, is now a resident of Innis, 
 Louisiana. She was educated at the College of Notre Dame, of 
 Maryland, at Baltimore, and in 1880-1881 was editor of The 
 New Idea, at Jackson, Mississippi. 
 
 Cupid and Psyche 
 
 BUTTERFLY poised on thy golden wing, 
 Child of the Springtime's Sun! 
 
 Knowest thou art but the fleeting type, 
 Of a fairer, brighter one? 
 
 Of one in the olden, golden days, 
 Who lived to be loved and to love, 
 
 And who drew by her beauty, and wonderful 
 
 smile, 
 The fairest of Gods from above. 
 
 He bore her to realms in the far off skies, 
 He crowned her with stars, bright stars, 
 
 The rainbows of Heaven her jewels were, 
 The clouds of the sunset her cars. 
 
MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 57 
 
 But doubt came into this Heaven of love, 
 And she fell from her high estate, 
 
 And wearily wandered the wide world o'er, 
 Bitterly mourning her fate. 
 
 Till Cupid his Psyche forgiving for aye, 
 
 Loved as he loved of yore, 
 
 And they dwell 'mid the stars, in the beauti- 
 ful sky, 
 And will live, and will love evermore. 
 
 Wilt Thou Return? 
 
 IT is the magic time, the mystic hour, 
 
 When the day, wearied by her golden flight, 
 Droops her bright head, like some dew-laden flower, 
 And sighs for rest. Star inwrought, thy spirit 
 
 of soft light, 
 
 The evening herald of the approach of night, 
 Walks o'er the Western wave. The moon is up, 
 And, with a soft and tender grace, reigns o'er high 
 
 heaven ; 
 One lonely star, trembling with timid awe, is by her 
 
 side, 
 
 Its soft shame adding but another charm of beauty 
 in her pride. 
 
 The shadows lengthen o'er the distant sea, 
 Flushes the west with rosy fleeting beams 
 
 That came before the parting day glides to eternity. 
 It scarce is night, tho' Jove in beauty streams; 
 
58 MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 
 
 Those soft alluring charms of dark-eyed nights, 
 Mingling with day's far merrier delights, 
 Till this dim vale on this bright even 
 " Seems less of earth than does of heaven." 
 
 A silence such as settles o'er the heart 
 
 "When some deep thought holds us in thrall, 
 And pausing spellbound, strange, wild feelings start 
 Into existence. A breathless pause, such as call 
 The angel natures from our stirred souls and 
 
 tempt them to their fall, 
 Broods over all. From yon high mountain flows the 
 
 gliding stream, 
 Under the Banyan's sacred shade, where bloom young 
 
 flowers, 
 
 The sweet spell lingereth yet, and, lingering, seems 
 As still as death, as lovely and as fleeting as our 
 dreams. 
 
 But hark! dost thou not hear a soft step fall upon 
 
 the dreamy scene? 
 The flowers lift up their heads, the cloudlets 
 
 bright 
 Take on a softer tint. She comes, the star-eyed 
 
 queen, 
 The shadow of a golden dream; a perfect being 
 
 robed in light 
 Of her own loveliness. 'Tis Hilda, fairest daughter 
 
 of the sun; 
 
MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 59 
 
 Of all the East; nay, of all the world, most lovely 
 
 and loveliest one. 
 
 Her form is beauty's own; her gentle heart 
 Is like the lute that love has learned to play, 
 Making sweet music all the livelong day. 
 
 But now her dark eyes dreaming woe, 
 
 Her cheeks as pale as flowers that blow, 
 
 Ere winter's breath has gone, 
 
 Bespeak a heart where joy is dead, 
 
 A soul whose brightest dreams have fled. 
 
 youth ! hope ! fleeting hours ! 
 
 All, all are fragile, fading flowers. 
 
 A look too long, or a word too much, 
 
 An idle thought or a careless touch, 
 
 And the joy we have held to our hearts to-day 
 
 Has withered and died and passed away. 
 
 So, in gentle Hilda's breast, 
 
 There dwells a vague and sad unrest. 
 
 But yestereve she roamed this dell, 
 
 With one beloved and loving well. 
 
 Too well, alas! for joy to stay 
 
 When her soul's idol's far away. 
 
 Last eve he lingered by her side; 
 
 To-night the sea's bright, treacherous tide 
 
 Bears him away. 
 
 Like some neglected and forsaken lute, 
 
 Its chords unstrung, its sweetest music mute, 
 
 The hand whose touch could bid all sorrow fly, 
 
 No more is near: 'twere happiness to die. 
 
6o MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 
 
 Sighing, she wanders on to where he stood, 
 Beside this stream, beneath this spreading wood; 
 Here, where he breathed his last fond, sad farewell, 
 She's come to ask by magic charm or spell: 
 "Wilt thou return ?" 
 
 Bearing within her trembling hands, 
 Here to the bank of this great river, 
 
 That, flowing o'er its golden sands, 
 Buns onward to the sea forever, 
 
 A soft-hued shell, a trembling light, 
 
 Wreathed round with flowers as fair and bright 
 
 As thoughts and prayers that hover over 
 
 The distant path of her dear lover. 
 
 She kneels, and with her soft, dark eyes 
 
 Raised suppliant to the far-off skies, 
 
 Like some bright, sainted spirit of even, 
 
 Commits her fondest hopes to heaven ; 
 
 To try by this, the Hindoo's spell, 
 
 Whether the one she loves so well 
 
 Will come from the land of the setting sun, 
 
 Back to the home of his cherished one. 
 
 Blow softly, all ye winds of even, 
 
 Ye stars that with your mellow light 
 Shine like the beacons of kind heaven, 
 
 Oh, guide her bark o 'er the waters bright ! 
 It glides along to the night-birds' song; 
 
 The golden waves embrace it; 
 By the track of light, in its wake so bright, 
 
 Her timid eyes can trace it. 
 
MAUD L. S. DIMITRY 61 
 
 The blue waves dance 'neath the chaste moon 's glance, 
 
 The stars on their far thrones burn, 
 Faltering, she stands, her trembling hands 
 
 Clasped o'er her heart's wild beating, 
 Watching the shell as, with rise and swell, 
 
 It sails o'er the waves retreating. 
 One moment's doubt, then joy! then bliss! 
 
 Her lord, her lover returneth, 
 For as long as her sight can track the light, 
 
 The glimmering lamp still burneth. 
 And she sighs as of yore, to her glad heart o'er, 
 
 "My love, my life, will return !" 
 
 Each soul hath a hope, each life hath a star, 
 
 Like this Hindoo maid of yore, 
 
 That we wreath with flowers from our heart's fair 
 bowers, 
 
 And murmur soft prayers o'er. 
 A bark whose fate we long to know ; 
 
 That we watch from the golden strand, 
 With tears that start from a beating heart, 
 
 Set sail for a far-off land. 
 Would you know the prayer of my soul to-night? 
 
 It is that the coming hours 
 May bring your bark from the distant seas, 
 
 Piled high with blushing flowers. 
 
62 LOUISE ELEMJAY 
 
 LOUISE ELEMJAY 
 
 Miss Elemjay, the author of "Censoria Lictoria of Facts and 
 Folks, " "Kising Young Men and Other Tales," and "Letters 
 and Miscellanies," is credited to Virginia by Mr. Davidson, in 
 his ' ' Living Writers of the South. ' ' However, she spent much 
 time in Mississippi, and in her "Letters and Miscellanies" 
 will be found considerable matter in reference to this state. 
 Her home was in Madison county. Miss Elemjay was an in- 
 valid, unable to walk. 
 
 "They May Deem 'Tis the Love of Another" 
 
 THEY may deem 'tis the love of another 
 
 Wakes the tear that is falling from me; 
 But my heart's "one love," my brother! 
 
 Was given, in life's dawning, to thee! 
 
 Its darkening shadow o'er the soul 
 
 No other love had power to cast; 
 For thou wert to existence's goal 
 
 My guiding star through all the past. 
 
 In thy grave there have perished 
 
 The glad tones of my mirth, 
 
 And the hopes I had cherished 
 
 From the hour of thy birth. 
 
 Proudly thy image rose before me; 
 
 But life is dim since thou art gone, 
 And one, in thought, is bending o'er thee, 
 
 Who mourns that morning vision flown! 
 
LOUISE ELEMJAY 63 
 
 Light smile and careless jest may seem 
 
 A lighter spirit's echoing tone; 
 
 But, my soul! thy wandering dream 
 Is not of earth, to thee 'tis lone ! 
 
 Yes, "the last link is broken" 
 
 That could bind me to earth; 
 
 For the death dirge is spoken 
 
 O'er thy genius and worth. 
 
64 A. H. ELLETT 
 
 A. H. ELLETT 
 
 This author was for many years a leading teacher in Missis- 
 sippi, and at the time of his death, which occurred in 1913, was 
 connected with Blue Mountain College. He wrote "The Fed- 
 eral Union and Mississippi, ' ' "Outlines of U. S. History/' 
 "Outlines of Mississippi History, " and many poems, which 
 since his death have been published in book form, under the 
 title "Ellett's Poems. " 
 
 Faith 
 
 As I lead my baby home 
 'Neath the silent stars of night, 
 With her little hand in mine, 
 Silently I clasp it tight 
 And I pray: 
 
 "Father, when my way is dark, 
 E 'en the star of hope is lost, 
 
 As the clouds of sin o'ercast, 
 And my bark is tempest tossed, 
 Show the way. 
 
 "As my little one with faith, 
 Doubting not, relies on me, 
 
 So I may with willing heart 
 Gladly put my trust in thee, 
 Till at last, 
 
 
A. H. ELLETT 65 
 
 " When my ship has gained the shore, 
 And I've come to sleep awhile, 
 
 I may slumber sweet as she, 
 Saying, with a trusting smile : 
 ' Toil is past!'" 
 
66 ISRAEL FOLSOM 
 
 ISRAEL FOLSOM 
 
 This minister was a Choctaw Indian. An interesting sketch 
 of the Folsom family of Indians may be found in Cushman's 
 "History of the Choctaw, Chickasaw and Natchez Indians," 
 published in 1899. The quaint selection that appears below, 
 a poem that was written just before the Indians were removed 
 from Mississippi to the Indian Territory, is from that volume. 
 
 The Indian's Song 
 
 Their lands had been promised to the Choctaws "as long as 
 water should run and grass should grow." 
 
 LAND where brightest waters flow, 
 Land where loveliest forests grow, 
 Where warriors drew the bow, 
 Native land, farewell! 
 
 He who made yon stream and tree, 
 Made the White, the Red man free ; 
 Gave the Indian's home to be 
 'Mid the forest's wilds. 
 
 Have the waters ceased to flow? 
 Have the forests ceased to grow? 
 Why do our brothers bid us go 
 From our native home? 
 
ISRAEL FOLSOM 67^ 
 
 Here in infancy we played, 
 Here our happy wigwams made, 
 Here our fathers' bones are laid 
 Must we leave them all? 
 
 White men tell us God's on high, 
 So pure and bright in yonder sky, 
 Will not then His searching eye 
 See the Indian's wrong? 
 
68 VIRGINIA FRANTZ 
 
 VIRGINIA FRANTZ 
 
 Mrs. Frantz was long a resident of Brandon, Miss., and for 
 many years was connected with the press of the state. Her 
 published book, "Ina Greenwood and Other Poems," made 
 its appearance in 1885. The volume does not, however, contain 
 all her verses. She contributed many poems to the papers of 
 the state. 
 
 Hungry Hearts 
 
 Is there no hunger on this earth, 
 Save that in want of bread has birth ? 
 And only lurketh famine where 
 Walks Poverty, all gaunt and bare ? 
 Yes, many a spirit starves and dies, 
 For want of life's sweet harmonies, 
 In wealthy mansions, grand and fair, 
 "With sumptuous viands rich and rare. 
 
 How many starving hearts do hide 
 Beneath the silken folds of pride; 
 And bosoms bright with gems and gold, 
 For want of loving faith, grow cold : 
 Yes, hearts so starved all wealth would give 
 For crumbs of love on which to live ; 
 Yes, with all earthly treasure part 
 For balm to soothe the aching heart. 
 
VIRGINIA FRANTZ 69 
 
 Why must hearts ache? They cannot buy 
 The food for which they pine and die ; 
 And yet, so very small's the cost, 
 That he who gives hath nothing lost. 
 What brings to life so much sure blessing, 
 As low, sweet tones, and love's caressing? 
 By what, as by a gentle word, 
 Is all the heart's deep music stirred? 
 
 All ye who do the bodies feed, 
 Of hungry, starving hearts, take heed, 
 And scatter crumbs of sympathy 
 For every lonely one you see. 
 "Give us this day our daily bread," 
 Means more than it doth seem when read ; 
 For all our wants the Saviour knew, 
 And He provided for them, too. 
 
 "Man shall not live by bread alone," 
 Saith Jesus, who such love hath shown ; 
 He kindly draws us to His breast, 
 For bread of life, comfort, and rest. 
 If hungering for righteousness, 
 Through sin and sorrow and distress, 
 We'll find relief in Jesus' arms, 
 From all earth's shadows and alarms. 
 
70 J. M. GIBSON 
 
 J. M. GIBSON 
 
 J. M. Gibson, now a resident of Houston, Tex., was born 
 in Warren county in 1856. He did not attend college, but 
 studied law in St. Louis, returning later to his native state, 
 and beginning the practice of law at Vicksburg. He served 
 two terms in the Legislature, and in 1887 was elected District 
 Attorney, which office he held for four years. While he has 
 written much, in both prose and verse, his poems have not yet 
 been issued in book form. 
 
 The Violets 
 
 EIFTS of April here and there, where the frost has 
 lost its hold, 
 
 Where the sparkling little stream sings into the som- 
 ber wold, 
 
 Only here a spot of green where wild violets unfold. 
 
 Not as yet a threstle's song, not the wooing note of 
 
 dove, 
 Not as yet the blackbird's call singing from the boughs 
 
 above, 
 Not an oriole, or finch, warbling softly to his love. 
 
 Tender, modest violets, long before the Spring is 
 
 near, 
 Bringing back with gentle beauty mem Vies of a 
 
 yesteryear, 
 Bringing back with lips of purple, words of music 
 
 spoken here. 
 

 J. M. GIBSON 71 
 
 Violets, as now you seemed while as from a censer 
 
 swung 
 Floating up your fragrance sweet, where no mockbird 
 
 mocking sung, 
 And no harsh foreboding note croaked from any raven 
 
 tongue. 
 
 Ah, your perfume brings me now memories of sweeter 
 
 things ; 
 And within my heart of hearts love its unseen censer 
 
 swings, 
 And my soul its prayer uplifts to a face fair as the 
 
 Spring's. 
 
 Soft the cascade 's music spoke down in yonder lovely 
 dell, 
 
 Soft those limpid eyes of blue where a soul's bright 
 shadow fell, 
 
 Sweet the violets gathered there, pulsing on her bos- 
 om's swell. 
 
 Fair the hair upon her brow, plump the arms around 
 
 my neck, 
 Fair the cheeks with sunset's kiss, beauty without 
 
 flaw or fleck, 
 God, that thou shouldst give me these and that these 
 
 my life should wreck! 
 
 Red the lips to mine upturned, long and sweet the 
 
 rapturing kiss, 
 Tender heart that wildly beat back to mine the surge 
 
 of bliss, 
 God! is there a joy above like the memory of this? 
 
72 J. M. GIBSON 
 
 Not a word was needed then, there are languages un- 
 heard, 
 
 Understood from heart to heart both to man and 
 beast and bird, 
 
 That are eloquent and sweet without any wistful 
 word. 
 
 What have hearts to do with words, when young lips 
 
 to lips repeat 
 Burning messages of fire thrilling one from head to 
 
 feet! 
 All the world is but a sigh then, and all the world is 
 
 sweet. 
 
 Eif ts of April in the sky ; fresh and pure the morning 
 air; 
 
 Lonely wanderer in the wold, lonely grave in wood- 
 land bare; 
 
 And the violets bloom again and a heart grieves with 
 despair. 
 
JAMES GORDON 73 
 
 JAMES GORDON 
 
 Colonel Gordon was born in Monroe county in 1833, and died 
 in CMckasaw county in 1915. He was graduated from the 
 State University. He was a participant in many battles of the 
 Civil War, rising to the rank of colonel in the Confederate 
 Army. Colonel Gordon was prominent in state politics, and 
 served several terms in the Legislature. In 1910 he was ap- 
 pointed United States Senator, to serve an unexpired term. A 
 volume of his poems was published in 1909, under the title 
 "The Old Plantation and Other Poems. " l ' Lochinvar ' ' was 
 the name of his country home. 
 
 Lochinvar 
 
 OLD Lochinvar, Old Lochinvar, 
 Thou dearest spot on earth to me, 
 
 Tho' I may roam in lands afar, 
 My heart will fondly turn to thee. 
 
 Old Lochinvar, loved are thy hills, 
 Thy fields and meadows ever dear; 
 
 Dear to my heart thy sparkling rills, 
 Thy gushing fountains bright and clear. 
 
 Oh ! for a sigh from Lochinvar 
 I've sighed when in a prison cell; 
 
 A Lethe to the prison bar, 
 Would be a draft from thy sweet well. 
 
74 JAMES GORDON 
 
 Old Lochinvar, sweet are the flowers 
 % That cluster 'round thy walls so gay, 
 There I have played in childhood 's hours, 
 And dreamed my boyhood years away. 
 
 Old Lochinvar, Old Lochinvar, 
 
 Thy song-birds sing the sweetest lay ; 
 
 Never shone sun or moon or star 
 Elsewhere with half so bright a ray. 
 
 Old Lochinvar, Old Lochinvar, 
 
 Long may thy tall oaks o 'er me wave, 
 
 And may the smiling vesper star 
 
 Peep through thy shadows on my grave. 
 
MARY A. GREER 75 
 
 MARY A. GREER 
 
 In the second volume of "A Memoir of Jefferson Davis/' 
 by his widow, Mrs. Davis refers, with approval, to the follow- 
 ing lines, by "Mrs. Mary A. Greer of Mississippi, ' ; as " ex- 
 plaining the causes of failure " of Mr. Davis. 
 
 Why Jefferson Davis Failed 
 
 HE failed because he was so great ; his duty 
 Lay in Presidency, not Dictatorship. 
 And he was one that would not enter Paradise 
 By treachery, fraud, and usurpation. 
 He held his lightest promise as a sacred thing, 
 How much more his oath of office sworn. 
 The law had circumscribed and set his bounds, 
 The law he'd sworn to keep he would not break. 
 He had within him strength to cope with all 
 The fearful issues of the time, the stern volition, 
 Steadfast purpose, and the ceaseless watch ; 
 Strength to gather up the scattered slender means, 
 To bind, to weld, to rivet firm in one, 
 And name the force so formed "Success." 
 All this within him lay, but power to do 
 This was withheld, and power not freely 
 Given he scorned to rudely seize. 
 Patient sorrowing, much enduring soul, 
 
76 MARY A. GREEK 
 
 God strengthen thee; in all His strength, 
 Christ comfort thee; in all His love, 
 Angels tend thee ; in all thy ways 
 Nobly thou hast wrought and overcome. 
 
DAVID E. GUYTON 77 
 
 DAVID E. GUYTON 
 
 Professor Guyton is in charge of the Department of History 
 in Blue Mountain College, Miss. 
 
 Triolets 
 
 WHILE thou art near, 
 
 As now thou art, 
 I feel no fear, 
 While thou art near, 
 That others, Deax, 
 
 May win thy heart, 
 While thou art near, 
 
 As now thou art. 
 
 When thou art far, 
 
 As thou shalt be, 
 No jealous jar, 
 When thou art far, 
 Shall ever mar 
 
 My faith in thee, 
 When thou art far, 
 
 As thou shalt be. 
 
 Till saints deceive 
 
 And truth is trite, 
 Sweet Genevieve, 
 Till saints deceive, 
 
78 DAVID E. GUYTON 
 
 I shall believe 
 
 And trust thee quite, 
 
 Till saints deceive 
 And truth is trite. 
 
 Yesterday 
 
 You stabbed my soul with the words you said, 
 Though you meant most kind, I know. 
 
 The sunlight out of my soul-life fled, 
 
 And my dreams were dust, and my hopes were dead, 
 And the world was a world of woe. 
 
 I had built us a castle with golden spires, 
 
 In the land where the sirens sing ; 
 With high halls jeweled with dream desires, 
 And rife with the music of rhythmic lyres, 
 
 Like the waft of an angel's wing. 
 
 I had delved us fountains with dimpling sprays, 
 
 In a girdle of gardens and lawns, 
 The gladsome haunts of the fair-haired fays 
 And the sprites that sport in the woodland ways 
 
 And the blythe-souled satyrs and fauns. 
 
 I had fashioned a bower of roses red, 
 
 Still bright with the shimmer of dew; 
 With snow-white blossoms, I had softly spread 
 A fragrant couch for the curl-crowned head 
 And lily-white heart of you. 
 
DAVID E. GUYTON 79 
 
 With the gift of a Midas, I had touched with gold 
 
 Every trace of the base in your fate ; 
 I had framed you a future with triumphs untold 
 And every delight of the blythe and the bold, 
 Unmixed with the griefs of the great. 
 
 I had found you, a child, in the valley at play, 
 
 Content with the charms of the plain; 
 I had plead with your spirit to wander away 
 To the shimmering heights where the stout-hearted 
 
 stay, 
 But my words of entreaty were vain, 
 
 For you stabbed my soul with the words you said, 
 
 Though you meant most kind, I know, 
 The sunlight out of my soul-life fled, 
 And my dreams are dust, and my hopes are dead, 
 And the world is a world of woe. 
 
8o LAFAYETTE R. HAMBERLIN 
 
 LAFAYETTE R. HAMBERLIN 
 
 Professor Hamberlin was born in Hinds county in 1861, and 
 died in 1902. He was educated at Mississippi College (Clinton) 
 and at Richmond College, Virginia. After graduation he was 
 engaged in teaching, sometimes in High Schools, sometimes in 
 Colleges. At the time of his death he held a place in the 
 faculty of Vanderbilt University. His poems have been pub- 
 lished in seven collections: "Lyrics," "Seven Songs," 
 "Alumni Lilts," "A Batch of Rhymes," "In Colorado," 
 "Rhymes of the War," and "Verses." 
 
 She Kissed My Violets 
 
 I STOOD in waiting there before her, 
 
 My heart athrob, aglow; 
 I ne'er had told the love I bore her, 
 
 And yet, ah, did she know? 
 
 She held a moment in her fingers 
 
 Some violets I'd bought 
 Ah, sometimes Time all breathless lingers 
 
 To view the scene he's wrought! 
 
 A moment paused she; then, a-seeming 
 
 Like one who half forgets, 
 Like one who sighs in gentle dreaming, 
 
 She kissed my violets. 
 
LAFAYETTE R. HAMBERLIN 81 
 
 My heart shall ne'er know joy completer, 
 
 However fortune pets, 
 Than when, with lips than roses sweeter, 
 
 She kissed my violets. 
 
 When hours are heavy grown with toiling, 
 
 And duty's routine frets, 
 I sing, care's teasing fingers foiling: 
 
 "She kissed my violets." 
 
 The Woman in the Moon 
 
 WITH wax and wane of yonder fickle moon, 
 There comes and goes a vision known to few: 
 Deft o'er the disc, with hand and chisel true, 
 
 Some god, whose love and fancy were in tune, 
 
 Hath carved the features of his mistress there. 
 The lifted profile speaks a noble mind, 
 Yet claims, withal, a woman 's heart there shrined ; 
 
 The full, dark wealth of wondrous-gathered hair 
 Proves woman's glory matching charms within; 
 Below, the almost-heaving bosom swells 
 
 In shapely fairness 'neath the chisel's trace. 
 And ever, as that orb doth fullness win, 
 Its widening growth each day to me outspells 
 
 The bright medallion of that classic face. 
 
82 LIZZIE HAMLETT 
 
 LIZZIE HAMLETT 
 
 Mrs. Hamlett was born in Mississippi in 1842. She was 
 graduated from college in 1860, and in 1876 her volume of 
 poems was published. For many years she has lived in Texas, 
 where she has been prominent in literary work. Her poem 
 ' ' Shall We Divide the State I ' ' is exceedingly popular in Texas. 
 
 Maternity 
 
 THERE came to me, 'neath holy autumn skies, 
 
 A bud, a tender, glorious germ 
 From out the very walls of Paradise ! 
 With all its tiny petals folded close, 
 
 And fed by sunshine bright and warm ; 
 Pure as the lily, painted like the rose, 
 A beauty rarer did my bud disclose. 
 
 Needless to say I loved it ! Needless tell, 
 
 Oh, mystery of motherhood! 
 How sacredly I prized my babe; how well, 
 How patiently I bore my pain, that he 
 
 Might blended in him have all good, 
 That he, my precious boy, might live and be 
 All that my destiny denied to me. 
 
 And when spring came, and other buds blew out, 
 
 And filled the air with fragrance; when 
 The wandering bee buzzed busily about 
 
LIZZIE HAMLETT 83 
 
 Lured to the orchard by its faint perfume 
 
 And flowering regalia, then 
 His eye 'gan brighter, and his cheek to bloom, 
 My truant blossom from his Eden home! 
 
 The violets in the woods are not more blue 
 
 And gladsome than my baby's eyes; 
 Nor softer spring's first dove-notes than the coo 
 Of his sweet voice. I breathe upon the chords 
 
 And my uiEolian harp replies! 
 As inarticulate as warbling birds, 
 As musical, as matchless, are his words. 
 
 And springtime blossoms ever in my heart, 
 
 And love's own gladness therein lies; 
 A nearer heaven of which he seems a part 
 Above me bending, smiling and serene, 
 
 I see, deep in my baby's eyes. 
 Sure, heaven is not so far from earth, I ween, 
 While I can hold this treasured link between ! 
 
84 ASA HARTZ 
 
 ASA HARTZ 
 
 This was the pen name of Major McKnight, an officer on 
 the staff of General Loring of the Confederate Army. Being 
 captured and confined on Johnson 's Island, he wrote many 
 poems from this prison. His poems have never been published 
 elsewhere than in newspapers. 
 
 My Love and I 
 
 MY love reposes on a rosewood frame ; 
 
 A bunk have I; 
 A couch of feathery down fills up the same; 
 
 Mine's straw, but dry; 
 She sinks to rest at night with scarce a sigh; 
 With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by. 
 
 My love her daily dinner takes in state, 
 
 And so do I ; 
 The richest viands flank her silver plate; 
 
 Coarse grub have I; 
 
 Pure wines she sips at ease, her thirst to slake ; 
 I pump my drink from Erie's limpid lake. 
 
 My love has all the world at will to roam ; 
 
 Three acres I; 
 She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home ; 
 
 So cannot I; 
 
 Bright angels watch around her couch at night; 
 A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight. 
 
ASA HARTZ 85 
 
 A thousand weary miles now stretch between 
 
 My love and I. 
 To her this wintry night, cold, calm, serene, 
 
 I waft a sigh, 
 
 And hope with all my earnestness of soul, 
 To-morrow's mail may bring me my parole. 
 
 There's hope ahead; well one day meet again, 
 
 My love and I. 
 We'll wipe away all tears of sorrow then; 
 
 Her love-lit eye 
 
 Will all my many troubles then beguile, 
 And keep this wayward Reb from Johnson's Isle. 
 
86 ELLEN E. HEBRON 
 
 ELLEN E. HEBRON 
 
 Mrs. Hebron, whose maiden name was Ellington, was born 
 in 1839, and died in 1904. Her husband was Dr. John L. 
 Hebron, a prominent physician and planter. A woman of deep 
 religious convictions, she was a leader in the work of the 
 W. C. T. U. in Mississippi. She was an honorary member of 
 the State Press Association. Her published works are : ' ' Songs 
 from the South, " which appeared in 1875, and "Faith, or 
 Earthly Paradise, and Other Poems, " published in 1890. Her 
 home was in Vicksburg. 
 
 To My Brother 
 
 A SISTER'S heart goes out with thee ! In the din 
 
 Of life's great battle when the fiendish foe 
 Hath well-nigh compassed thee in nets of sin, 
 
 And ready stand to give thee deadly blow ; 
 When friendship's voice no longer greets thine 
 ear, 
 
 And sorrow's cloud hangs heavily above; 
 When thou wouldst give thine all of earthly store 
 
 To hear one cheering word of unfeigned love, 
 Oh ! may her prayer find entrance into heaven ; 
 
 And to thy heart fresh courage then be given. 
 
 She Would not have thee wear the Victor's wreath, 
 Unless true Merit placed it on thy brow. 
 
 She would not have thee great, if love of fame 
 To mean Hypocrisy thy soul could bow. 
 
ELLEN E. HEBRON 87 
 
 But, oil ! if patriot sacrifice can raise 
 
 An humble boy to high and honored place ; 
 
 If to the Good and True the meed is given, 
 Of those who run in glory's toilsome race, 
 
 Oh ! then mayst thou drink deep of earthly fame, 
 
 And leave on Freedom 's page a fadeless name. 
 
88 GRACE HYER HEMINGWAY 
 
 GRACE HYER HEMINGWAY 
 
 Mrs. Hemingway is a resident of Jackson, in which city her 
 husband is a prominent lawyer. 
 
 The Seekers 
 
 A LITTLE brook came wandering down 
 
 From mountain nook secluded ; 
 A comrade joined it, where the rocks 
 
 From fern and moss protruded, 
 And tempted it to linger there 
 
 Where leafy shadows quiver. 
 "Nay," said the brook, "we must away 
 
 To join the shining river." 
 
 They wandered on, a happy pair, 
 
 O'er wood and vale and meadow, 
 Gay comrades joined them, one by one, 
 
 To haste mid shine and shadow, 
 Through narrow gorge, o'er rocky bed, 
 
 Where ripples shine and shiver; 
 While ever rose that clear refrain, 
 
 "We go to seek the river." 
 
 The narrow banks could not confine 
 
 So many hurrying rovers, 
 They spread afar, 'neath sun and star, 
 
 And soon, for happy lovers 
 
GRACE HYER HEMINGWAY 89 
 
 They bore small rowboats ; later on, 
 
 Fair ships with sails a-quiver. 
 ship and sail, star and sun, 
 
 How far to seek the river ! 
 
 One bright, one glorious day, the brooks, 
 
 The river ever seeking, 
 A vast expanse of water viewed ; 
 
 With mournful voices speaking, 
 "The sea! The sea!" they cried aloud, 
 
 "And not our shining river. 
 We've sought the river far, sea, 
 
 And shall we see it never?" 
 "Now rest ye, rest ye, little brooks; 
 
 Ye are the mighty river!" 
 
go LAURA F. HINSDALE 
 
 LAURA F. HINSDALE 
 
 Mrs. Hinsdale was, for several years, a resident of Biloxi. 
 In 1896 her volume of verse, "Legends and Lyrics of the Gulf 
 Coast, " was published. 
 
 Mysterious Music of the Gulf Coast 
 
 THERE is a time when summer stars are glowing, 
 
 And night is fair along the Southern shore, 
 The sailor, resting where the tide is flowing, 
 
 Hears somewhere near, below his waiting oar, 
 A haunting tone, now vanishing, now calling, 
 
 Now lost, now luring like some elfin air; 
 In murmurous music fathoms downward falling, 
 
 It seems a dream of song imprisoned there. 
 
 The legend tells, a phantom ship is beating 
 
 On yonder bar, a wanderer evermore, 
 Its rhythmic music, evanescent, fleeting, 
 
 Stirs the lagoon and echoes on the shore. 
 phantom ship, dost near that port Elysian 
 
 Where radiant rainbow colors ever play? 
 Shall hope's mirage return a blessed vision; 
 
 And canst thou find a joy of yesterday? 
 
LAURA F. HINSDALE 
 
 The legend tells of a pale horseman fleeing, 
 
 Whose steed the gnomes with metals strange have 
 
 shod, 
 Who, on and on, a distant summit seeing, 
 
 His way pursues, in ocean paths untrod. 
 His spectral hoofs by the Evangel bidden 
 
 In far carillons beat in measures low, 
 Elusive tone! dost near where that is hidden 
 
 Which made the music of the long ago? 
 
 The legend tells of syrens of the ocean 
 
 That wander singing, where the sea palms rise, 
 And through the song's intense and measured motion 
 
 I seem to hear their soft imprisoned sighs. 
 They lure me, like the spell of a magician, 
 
 Once more I see the palaces of Spain, 
 I feel the kindling thrill of young ambition, 
 
 The tide sweeps on the song is lost again. 
 
 The legend tells of vocal sea-sands sifting, 
 
 With vibrant forces, resonant and strong, 
 And on the surging sand-dunes fretting, drifting 
 
 Like broken hearts that hide their griefs in song. 
 Tell me, white atoms, in your sad oblation 
 
 Of drift that lies so deep that none may scan, 
 Is it forgotten in God's great creation, 
 
 Who formed the fleeting, hour-glass life of man? 
 
 The legend tells of those who long have slumbered, 
 
 A forest race too valorous to flee, 
 Who, when in battle by their foes outnumbered, 
 
 With clasping hands came singing to the sea. 
 
92 LAURA F. HINSDALE 
 
 The ocean drew them to her hidden keeping, 
 The stars watched over them in the deeps above, 
 
 Their death-song lingers, but the tones of weeping 
 Tell the eternity of human love. 
 
 Spanish Moss 
 
 WHERE forest oaks as sentries stand 
 
 Outstretching to the distant seas, 
 The gray moss of the Southern land 
 
 Waves softly in the evening breeze. 
 Its tiny roots their life-strings draw 
 
 From ancient bough and tender stem, 
 And, fed by nature's mystic law, 
 
 Like a gray mist doth compass them. 
 
 As by some fairy fingers spun 
 
 It trembles to the wind's soft sigh, 
 It sways to kisses of the sun 
 
 As cloud-wreaths mingle in the sky. 
 The wild bird gathers for her brood 
 
 The floss to line her sylvan nest, 
 It screens her tender solitude 
 
 And softly veils her bed of rest. 
 
 Such fragile root the moss hath won 
 And yet it seems divinely fed, 
 
 And can it be from sun to sun 
 
 A hungry heart may lack for bread ? 
 
LAURA F. HINSDALE 93 
 
 So little fills our earthly store, 
 
 gray moss of the Southern land! 
 
 May one go missing evermore 
 The clasping of a vanished hand? 
 
94 WILLIAM WALTON HOSKINS 
 
 WILLIAM WALTON HOSKINS 
 
 Born in Holmes county in 1856, Mr. Hoskins has been a 
 lawyer, a minister, and an editor, in which last capacity he 
 had control of papers at Lexington and Corinth. His volume, 
 entitled "Atlantis and Other Poems, " was published in 1881. 
 "Atlantis" is a long and interesting story of the fabled island 
 or continent known in legend by that name. 
 
 Prologue of "Atlantis" 
 
 COME, reader, go with me unto the sea's dark caves, 
 And let us solve the secrets of its hidden graves. 
 
 Thence let us lift the solemn pall that shrouds 
 The lifeless forms of its imprisoned crowds. 
 
 Whole empires we will raise from out their silent 
 
 tomb, 
 Where they have lain, long centuries, in gloom; 
 
 Eehuild their cities that have crumpled to decay, 
 And people them again as in their olden day. 
 
 The same tall trees shall lift their heads again, 
 The same rich fruits shall bloom on hill and plain ; 
 
 The same bright streams shall irrigate the soil, 
 And the same harvests bless attentive toil. 
 
WILLIAM WALTON HOSKINS 95 
 
 The same wild birds shall thrill the listening air, 
 And the same flowers shed their fragrance there ; 
 
 The pulseless dead shall wake again to life, 
 And know the old contentment, and the strife. 
 
 The man, who, in his golden pride and prime, 
 Seemed lost to earth before the needful time; 
 
 The woman, who, with matron-face, sedate, 
 Bowed her meek face and yielded to her fate; 
 
 The boy, who, in his thoughtless, careless glee, 
 Smiled a sweet smile, and smiling, ceased to be; 
 
 The girl, who, in her radiant summer years, 
 Took flight amid fair Nature's sighs and tears; 
 
 The infant, which, scarce welcomed to the earth, 
 Was nursed by Death the moment of its birth; 
 
 The passions, same, shall sway the human breast: 
 Love, Envy, Hate, Revenge, and all the rest! 
 
g6 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY 
 
 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY 
 
 This author was born at Natchez in 1828, and died in Lex- 
 ington, Ky., in 1894. Her published works consist of two 
 novels, "Woodburn" and "Marsh, " and three volumes of 
 verse: "Poems by Bosa," "Daisy Dare," and "The Crimson 
 Hand and Other Poems. " Her poems have been very popular. 
 An interesting sketch of her life may be found in "Women of 
 the South Distinguished in Literature/' published in 1861. 
 
 Angel Watchers 
 
 ANGEL faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my 
 
 sleep, 
 And upon the winds of midnight shining pinions 
 
 round me sweep; 
 Floating downward on the starlight two bright infant 
 
 forms I see, 
 They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from 
 
 Heaven to visit me. 
 
 Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones 
 
 above 
 Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's 
 
 deathless love; 
 And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft 
 
 eyes on me shine, 
 God forgive a mortal yearning still to call His angels 
 
 mine. 
 
ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY 97 
 
 Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice 
 
 can seem 
 Sweet as those that whisper " Mother!" 'mid the 
 
 glories of my dream; 
 Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance 
 
 to lisp my name, 
 But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the 
 
 same. 
 
 And the bright band now around us from their home 
 
 perchance will rove, 
 In their strength no more depending on my constant 
 
 care and love; 
 But my first-born still shall wander from the sky, in 
 
 dreams to rest 
 Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly 
 
 mother's breast. 
 
 Time may steal away the freshness, or some whelming 
 grief destroy 
 
 All the hopes that erst had blossomed in my summer- 
 time of joy; 
 
 Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends per- 
 haps betray, 
 
 Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass 
 away. 
 
 But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest 
 
 immortal home, 
 Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened 
 
 dreams shall come. 
 
g8 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY 
 
 And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of 
 
 earthly love, 
 Angel children call me "Mother!" and my soul will 
 
 look above. 
 
S. A. JONAS 99 
 
 S. A. JONAS 
 
 This veteran editor of the Aberdeen Examiner died in that 
 city in 1913. He was long a prominent citizen of Mississippi. 
 
 A Confederate Note 
 
 EEPRESENTING nothing on God's earth now, 
 And naught in the water below it, 
 
 As the pledge of a nation that's dead and gone, 
 Keep it, dear friends, and show it. 
 
 Show it to those who will lend an ear, 
 To the tale that this trifle will tell 
 
 Of liberty born of a patriot's dreams, 
 Of a storm-cradled nation that fell. 
 
 Too poor to possess the precious ores, 
 And too much of a stranger to borrow, 
 
 She issued to-day her promise to pay, 
 And hoped to redeem on the morrow. 
 
 We knew it had hardly a value in gold, 
 Yet as gold our soldiers received it; 
 
 It gazed in our eyes with a " promise" to pay, 
 And each patriot soldier believed it. 
 
 Keep it, it tells our history o'er, 
 
 From the birth of the dream to the last, 
 
 Modest, and born of the angel Hope, 
 Like our hope of success, it passed ! 
 
ioo S. A. JONAS 
 
 Only a Soldier's Grave 
 
 ONLY a soldier 's grave! Pass by; 
 For soldiers, like other mortals, die. 
 Parents he had they are far away ; 
 No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay; 
 No brother comes, with a tearful eye : 
 It's only a soldier's grave, pass by. 
 
 True, he was loving, and young, and brave, 
 Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave ; 
 No proud recital of virtues known, 
 Of griefs endured or of triumphs won ; 
 No tablet of marble or obelisk high ; 
 Only a soldier's grave, pass by. 
 
 Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight, 
 And he gave his life in the cause of right ! 
 When his hope was high and his youthful 
 
 dream 
 
 As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream; 
 His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh ; 
 Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave, pass by. 
 
 Yet, should we mark it, the soldier's grave, 
 Some one may seek him in hope to save ! 
 Some of the dear ones, far away, 
 Would bear him home to his native clay : 
 'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh, 
 Find not the hillock, and pass him by. 
 
ROBERT JOSSELYN 
 
 ROBERT JOSSELYN 
 
 A native of Massachusetts, where he was born in 1810, Robert 
 Josselyn, after being licensed to practice law in Virginia, re- 
 moved to Mississippi, where he made his home. He served as 
 an officer under Jefferson Davis in the Mexican War, and was 
 the Confederate President's secretary during the first year of 
 the Civil War. He was the author of three volumes: "The 
 Faded Flower and Other Poems/' "A Satire on the Times/' 
 and "The Coquette." His death occurred in Texas, to which 
 state he moved from Mississippi, where he was connected with 
 several papers. 
 
 The Young Widow 
 
 SHE is modest, but not bashful; 
 
 Free and easy, but not bold; 
 Like an apple ripe and mellow, 
 
 Not too young and not too old. 
 Half -inviting, half-repulsing ; 
 
 Now advancing, and now shy; 
 There is mischief in her dimple ; 
 
 There is danger in her eye. 
 
 Are you sad? How very serious 
 Will her handsome face become! 
 
 Are you angry? She is wretched, 
 Lonely, friendless, tearful, dumb. 
 
'ROBERT JOSSELYN 
 
 Are you mirthful? How her laughter, 
 Silver-sounding, will ring out! 
 
 She can lure, and catch, and play you, 
 Like the angler does the trout. 
 
 She has studied human nature, 
 
 She is schooled in all her arts, 
 She has taken her diploma 
 
 As the mistress of all hearts ; 
 She can tell the very moment 
 
 When to sigh and when to smile, 
 Oh, a maid is sometimes charming, 
 
 But a widow all the while. 
 
 Ye old bachelors of forty, 
 
 Who have grown so bald and wise ; 
 Young Americans of twenty, 
 
 With the love-looks in your eyes, 
 You may practice all the lessons 
 
 Taught by Cupid since the fall, 
 But I know a little widow 
 
 Who could win and fool you all. 
 
JOHN S. KENDALL 103 
 
 JOHN S. KENDALL 
 
 Professor Kendall is a member of the faculty of Tulane 
 University. He was born at Ocean Springs. 
 
 Requiem 
 
 LAY him low beneath the pines, 
 
 "Where he loved to be; 
 There the mating birds will come, 
 
 And the drowsy bee ; 
 But he will not hear them, now, 
 
 And he will not see. 
 
 Sweet the scent of flowers there, 
 
 And of hay new-mown, 
 From the half -reaped fields below 
 
 By the breezes blown ; 
 But he will not know of them 
 
 When the day is done. 
 
 If at twilight's peaceful hour 
 
 Friendly shadows keep 
 Vigil by the narrow bed 
 
 "Where he lies asleep, 
 Will it soothe his spirit there, 
 
 In the earth asleep? 
 
io 4 JOHN S. KENDALL 
 
 Who shall read the riddle right, 
 Underneath the grass, 
 
 All the brave ambition stilled 
 Like a dream that was, 
 
 All the high joy at an end 
 Ere it came to pass? 
 
 Yet how near an answer is 
 
 In the heaven's blue, 
 In the calyx of a flower, 
 
 Or a drop of dew: 
 Strange, if we should cease to know 
 
 Him whom once we knew ! 
 
 Somewhere each unfinished song 
 Finds a perfect close; 
 
 Somewhere each defeated hope 
 Full fruition knows; 
 
 And what seems a broken life 
 Shall be one with those. 
 
 Leave him there beneath the pines! 
 
 Shall we count it gain, 
 We, who watch confusedly 
 
 In the gates of pain, 
 Asking for we know not what, 
 
 All our asking vain ? 
 
JOHN S. KENDALL 105 
 
 We who loved him know his peace 
 
 Waits not on our will, 
 And the anguish in our hearts 
 
 Cannot work him ill: 
 Let him sleep beneath the pines, 
 
 There upon the hill ! 
 
 Aspiration 
 
 THE bird that limps on a wounded wing, 
 Lost in the hedgerow's shadow deep, 
 Yet aches with the desire to sing, 
 
 To sing and soar on tireless sweep 
 Of pinion through unbounded sky, 
 Is you 
 
 And I. 
 
 The flow 'ret blooming in the shade 
 Of forests long forgot and old, 
 That fain a moment would be laid 
 
 In Beauty's hair of shining gold, 
 For that brief triumph glad to die, 
 Is you 
 
 And I. 
 
 heart that beats unsatisfied, 
 
 spirit gyved with petty care, 
 shattered hope and stricken pride, 
 We in the common burden share, 
 For all things that aspire too high 
 Are you 
 And I. 
 
106 WILL H. KERNAN 
 
 WILL H. KERNAN 
 
 Almost immediately after Kernan became editor of The 
 States, a newspaper published at Okolona, in 1876, that paper 
 sprang into national prominence. In prose and verse the editor 
 set down the sentiments of the ' ' unreconstructed ; ' people of 
 the South. The circulation of this country weekly soon reached 
 ten thousand, and its utterances became the subject of debate 
 in Congress. Born in Ohio, Kernan was graduated from the 
 University of Michigan in 1869, and immediately began news- 
 paper work. In 1875 he came South. He has been connected 
 with papers in a half-dozen or more states. His poems, which 
 appeared under the title "The Flaming Meteor/' were pub- 
 lished in 1892. 
 
 Questionings 
 
 I WONDER when the spirit 
 Leaves the flesh and bone that bound it 
 To the passions of our planet 
 
 And the raptures of our race, 
 If it sees its poor lost body, 
 With the loving arms around it; 
 If it quivers with the kisses 
 On the pure and pallid face! 
 
 I wonder if it listens 
 
 To the praises of the pastor; 
 Hears him say the dead has risen 
 To the Sunland of the Soul, 
 
WILL H. KERNAN 107 
 
 While it knows the secret sinnings 
 Of the thing that was its master 
 Eise with flaming swords to drive it 
 From the glory and the goal ! 
 
 I wonder if it watches 
 
 Till it sees the dead forgotten, 
 Sees new friends usurp the favor 
 Of the hearts that were its own ; 
 If it looks below the daisies 
 
 Where the grave-worm is begotten, 
 Where the eyeless skull is grinning 
 At a jest to us unknown ! 
 
 I wonder if the truth is 
 That the spirit can remember 
 All its pains and all its passions, 
 
 All its terrors and its tears, 
 Stealing swiftly on its vivid 
 Summer visions, as November 
 
 Crashes down in storm and darkness 
 On the splendor of the years ! 
 
 No ! ah, no ! Far better for us 
 That we die, and die forever, 
 That we slip into the shadows 
 
 And the silences eterne, 
 Than be hunted down and haunted, 
 When the soul and sense dissever, 
 With the memories that mock us 
 In this lower life inf erne ! 
 
io8 HERBERT LAMPE 
 
 HERBERT LAMPE 
 
 Mr. Lampe is a resident of Los Angeles, Cal. Born in 
 Ohio, in his early youth he came to Mississippi, where he 
 made his home in Jones county, until he moved to the West 
 four or five years ago. His poems have been written either for 
 his own amusement or for the entertainment of his friends. 
 
 It Is Spring in My Heart 
 Song with Irish Accent 
 
 IT is Spring in my heart : and the sunlight is dancing 
 Where sparkles and glistens the new fallen dew; 
 
 And its radiance bright, through the foliage glancing, 
 With its smiles and its tears sure reminds me of 
 you. 
 
 It is Spring in my heart: and all nature is calling; 
 
 So, blushing demurely, the maple inclines; 
 And shy yellow blossoms, confused, now are falling 
 
 As the jessamine true the red maple entwines. 
 
 It is Spring in my heart : and the mocking bird, sing- 
 ing, 
 
 Sure changes his tune as occasion demands; 
 And his melody now through the woodland is ringing ; 
 
 Sure, his tune every bird in the woods understands. 
 
HERBERT LAMPE 109 
 
 It is Spring in my heart: and the brook, running 
 
 wildly, 
 
 Sure, gleefully, mirthfully dashes its spray; 
 With a laugh and a song, sure, I'm putting it 
 
 mildly, 
 Makes love to the flowers it meets by the way. 
 
 It is Spring in my heart : and the sun is yet shining, 
 The maple and jasmine still covered with dew; 
 
 Sure, the murmuring brook and the birds are di- 
 vining 
 That my heart, altogether, belongs now to you. 
 
no ELEANOR PERCY LEE 
 
 ELEANOR PERCY LEE 
 
 Mrs. Lee was born in Adams county in 1820, and died in 
 Natchez in 1849. She was the sister of Catherine Anne War- 
 field, and was, with her sister, co-author of two volumes of 
 poetry: "The Wife of Leon and Other Poems " and "The 
 Indian Chamber and Other Poems. " 
 
 Locust Trees 
 
 LEAD me beneath the locust trees, 
 
 Where grass and violets spring, 
 And whence the gentle summer breeze 
 
 Bears fragrance on its wing. 
 I sicken in this shadowed room, 
 
 This place of grief and pain ; 
 Ah, let me greet the scent and bloom 
 
 Of those loved trees again! 
 
 Those blossoms slight and delicate, 
 
 Are fraught with many a dream ; 
 They shadowed o'er my father's gate, 
 
 With their white sunny gleam: 
 They hung around the lowly eaves; 
 
 They drooped above the door, 
 With their small green and fluttering leaves, 
 
 In motion evermore. 
 
ELEANOR PERCY LEE 111 
 
 We wove their blooms upon our brows, 
 
 The young, bright month of June ; 
 And all beneath their sheltering boughs, 
 
 We shunned the heat of noon. 
 They bear with them a holy spell 
 
 Of long departed years; 
 What marvel that I love them well, 
 
 Although I give them tears! 
 
 Lay me beneath the locust trees, 
 
 When life hath passed away, 
 With all its bitter mysteries, 
 
 Its sorrows and decay. 
 If foreign skies must shade my grave 
 
 With gray and cheerless gloom, 
 Oh, let, at least, above me wave 
 
 These trees of glorious bloom ! 
 
 And they with branches heavenward cast 
 
 Shall shield my silent dust : 
 Familiar friends, that to the last 
 
 Were faithful to their trust! 
 Alas! how lone, how desolate 
 
 Must be that heart, which clings 
 With love that baffles time and fate, 
 
 To still and senseless things! 
 
 My heart, across that gulf of grief, 
 That waste of care and pain, 
 
 That marked its sojourn dark and brief, 
 Goes back to youth again. 
 
ii2 ELEANOR PERCY LEE 
 
 I, who have trodden palaces, 
 And known a proud command, 
 
 Find all my comfort traced in these 
 Trees of my native land! 
 
MUNA LEE 113 
 
 MUNA LEE 
 
 Miss Lee was born in Raymond, Miss., in 1895, and when 
 eighteen received her bachelor 's degree from the University 
 of Mississippi. She has spent most of her life in Oklahoma. 
 The selections from her verse here made first appeared in 
 Poetry, a Magazine of Verse published in Chicago. 
 
 Compensation 
 
 I SHALL not grieve that you are dead. 
 
 I sing to you when the stars hang low; 
 And though I sang till dawn were red, 
 
 You still must hear, you could not go. 
 
 You are contented, being dead 
 You who were used to wander far. 
 
 Now I plant flowers at your head, 
 And steal out nightly where you are. 
 
 Ah, once you wandered far and long, 
 And left me waiting hopeless here. 
 
 Though I sent you my breaking heart in a song, 
 You were too far you could not hear. 
 
 Now it is I could go oversea, 
 
 And though I stayed till years were sped, 
 You would lie peaceful, waiting me. 
 
 I shall not grieve that you are dead. 
 
ii4 MUNA LEE 
 
 Magdalen 
 
 GOD made my body slim and white 
 To be men's torture and men's delight. 
 
 God made my heart a wayside inn, 
 And there the guests keep merry din. 
 
 God left my soul a lamp unlit 
 But only God ever thinks of it. 
 
W. B. LOCKWOOD 115 
 
 W. B. LOCKWOOD 
 
 Mr. Lockwood is a lawyer who makes his home in Crystal 
 Springs. His poem "Nail the Flag to the Plow" achieved 
 immediate success upon its publication. 
 
 Nail the Flag to the Plow 
 
 NAIL the flag to the plow ! 
 
 The country needs grain, 
 "While the sailor boys guard 
 
 The tracks of the main. 
 God gave you the fields 
 
 And the sun with its light; 
 Then double their yields 
 
 While the sailor boys fight. 
 
 Nail the flag to the plow ! 
 
 The soldiers must eat 
 While defending the trenches 
 
 Or suffer defeat. 
 You can help the brave soldier 
 
 At this time of his need 
 By increasing your acres, 
 
 And planting more seed. 
 
n6 W. B. LOCKWOOD 
 
 Nail the flag to the plow ! 
 
 Your children and wife 
 Must be saved from starvation 
 
 While the world is in strife. 
 Your duty is plain ; 
 
 Your mission is grand; 
 Each man is a hero 
 
 Who's tilling the land. 
 
 You say you're too old 
 
 To fight with a gun ; 
 Then work in the fields 
 
 Till the setting of sun, 
 And show to the world 
 
 By the sweat on your brow, 
 That you're serving your country 
 
 With a flag on your plow. 
 
MARGARET ANN LOGAN 117 
 
 MARGARET ANN LOGAN 
 
 Miss Logan, who lives at Pass Christian, has published one 
 volume of verse, "Sweet Alyssum." 
 
 Success 
 
 I FANCIED her a fair and flower-crowned maid 
 
 Compassed with rosy light, 
 And at her shrine youth, hope, and fortune laid 
 
 She never blessed my sight. 
 
 So passed the years, and I, grown old and gray, 
 Thought not her wreath to wear, 
 
 For death had borne the loving friends away 
 Who joyed my joy to share. 
 
 'Twas then a calm-eyed, low- voiced woman came 
 
 That dreary hour to bless ; 
 I gently greeted, and besought her name: 
 
 Smiling, she said: f * Success. " 
 
n8 WILLIAM WILBERFORCE LORD 
 
 WILLIAM WILBERFORCE LORD 
 
 For many years Mr. Lord though a native of New York 
 state was rector of an Episcopal church in Vicksburg; and 
 was also a chaplain in the Confederate Army. He was a close 
 friend of Jefferson Davis. After the Civil War he returned 
 North and died in the state of his birth. He was the author 
 of three volumes of verse: " Andre, " "Christ in Hades/' 
 and "Poems." 
 
 A Dirge 
 
 IT falls to one, it falls to all ! 
 He that we bear but goes before, 
 Goes from his door beneath the pall, 
 And comes no more. 
 
 From roof and hearthstone, one by one, 
 We bear the neighbors whom we love, 
 The bearers are the borne full soon. 
 Ah! Softly move; 
 
 And shrink not from the harmless dead, 
 For ye hasten to their company ; 
 Loathe not, for in the same low bed 
 We all must lie. 
 
BOOTH LOWREY 119 
 
 BOOTH LOWREY 
 
 As a platform lecturer of great ability Mr. Lowrey is well 
 known throughout the United States. He has written many 
 poems, the majority of which have been published either in 
 newspapers or magazines. His home is at Blue Mountain. 
 
 The Red-Haired Girl 
 
 You may sing your song to the queenly grace 
 
 Of the raven-haired brunette, 
 To the faithful soul of the blue-eyed blonde 
 
 With her pose of a statuette; 
 You may pine and die over hazel eyes, 
 
 You may rave o'er the chestnut curl, 
 But for all the charms of the world combined, 
 
 Just give me a red-haired girl. 
 
 The eyes of jet and the raven locks 
 
 Are a source of rare delight, 
 And the moonbeam curls of the meek-eyed blonde 
 
 Are a soul-bewitching sight ; 
 But the peach-like cheeks and the rosy lips 
 
 And the teeth of chiseled pearl, 
 Are the outward sparks of an inward light, 
 
 The soul of the red-haired girl. 
 
120 BOOTH LOWREY 
 
 Her cheeks are fresh as the blushing rose 
 
 That blooms in the joyous spring; 
 Her eyes are bright as the summer's beams 
 
 That dance on the blue-bird's wing; 
 Her hair is like to the autumn leaves 
 
 That glisten, and dance, and whirl; 
 And the seasons, all but the winter's chill, 
 
 Are found in the red-haired girl. 
 
 The blush of spring, and the summer's calm, 
 
 And the autumn's sober truth, 
 The placid candor of sweet old age 
 
 And the fire of ardent youth, 
 O, Nature's casket of rarest gems, 
 
 Of rubies and gold and pearl, 
 Of diamonds, onyx and evening stars, 
 
 0, royal, red-haired girl! 
 
PERRIN HOLMES LOWREY 121 
 
 PERRIN HOLMES LOWREY 
 
 This author is a member of the well-known Lowrey family 
 of Mississippi. His home is at Blue Mountain. His poems 
 have appeared in the leading magazines. 
 
 War Dogs of the Sea 
 
 THE bulldog battleships are chained 
 
 At anchor, kenneled in the bay; 
 The swift, sleek cruisers doze and dream, 
 
 Lank, supple-sinewed, graceful, gray; 
 The restless beagle gunboats go 
 
 From point to point and sniff the sea; 
 Torpedo boats lie long and low, 
 
 The watch dogs of our liberty. 
 
 The wireless purrs approaching doom. 
 
 The pack awakes. The beagles leap, 
 The slender cruisers race the gloom; 
 
 The bulldogs plunge along the deep ; 
 The mastiff dreadnoughts breast the wind ; 
 
 The scent is caught. The quarry flees, 
 The ranging dogs in hot pursuit, 
 
 In eager anger, hunt the seas. 
 
122 PERRIN HOLMES LOWREY 
 
 Their searchlight eyes descry the game, 
 
 Their savage voices tear the night. 
 A froth of fury flecks the main, 
 
 The pathway of the running fight. 
 The baying thunder of the guns, 
 
 The tangled growls, the brutal bark 
 Of all the dogs of war are heard 
 
 Across the distance and the dark. 
 
 The panting pack limps home at last 
 
 Along a star-filled, silent sea, 
 Their huge hearts throbbing proudly past, 
 
 Their wet flanks grim with victory. 
 The carcasses of mangled prey 
 
 Are, stripped and ghastly, flung afar; 
 A great flag stiffens in the wind, 
 
 Defended by the dogs of war. 
 
 Song of the Flag 
 
 OH, sing we the song of the flag, 
 
 Of the banner that billows and beats 
 As it rips through the wind on the roofs of the towns 
 
 And whips at the top of the fleets. 
 
 It tears through the rage of the blast, 
 
 In a fury it tugs to be free, 
 As it swings in the teeth of the storms of the land 
 
 And sings in the gales of the sea. 
 
PERRIN HOLMES LOWREY 123 
 
 It runs in the winds of the plains, 
 
 It steadies and stiffens and thrills, 
 It streams in the smoke of the scattering clouds, 
 
 And gleams on the bayonet hills. 
 
 Oh, sing we a song of the flag, 
 
 As it bellies and flutters and flings, 
 As it leaps to a home in the arms of the air, 
 
 And laughs at the lusts of the Engs. 
 
 It flames with the red of the dawn, 
 
 And the white of the breakers that race ; 
 
 It burns with a beacon of wonderful stars 
 On a banner of infinite space. 
 
i2 4 JAMES D. LYNCH 
 
 JAMES D. LYNCH 
 
 Mr. Lynch was for years a citizen of West Point, Miss., 
 where he was engaged in the practice of law. He died in 
 Texas. His best known poem is the one entitled "Columbia 
 Saluting the Nations' '; his poems have, however, never been 
 published in book form. He was the author of "Kemper 
 County Vindicated " and "The Bench and Bar of Mississippi/' 
 as well as of two or more books that were published after he 
 went to Texas. 
 
 The Fall of the Alamo 
 
 UPON the western borders, under Bexar's amber skies, 
 
 Where the sparkling earth-born Pedro emerges from 
 its rise, 
 
 And, dancing through the copses and sunny margin 
 charms, 
 
 Spreads its grass-leashed tresses in San Antonio's 
 arms: 
 
 Amid a scenery glowing with soft Elysian beam 
 
 A castled convent nestled fast beside the limpid 
 stream, 
 
 Where heaven and nature mingled their joint prime- 
 val sway 
 
 And orison and carol were wont to wake the day. 
 
 But now the sacred fortress, embattlement and shrine, 
 
 Was girt about by darkness and Santa Anna's line; 
 
JAMES D. LYNCH 125 
 
 While Travis held his Texans in daring firm array, 
 And manned the fated ramparts without the least 
 
 dismay, 
 
 Five thousand Mexic soldiers began their fierce as- 
 sault; 
 Less than two hundred Texans compelled their line 
 
 to halt; 
 
 The vengeful missiles battered and dinned the fort- 
 ress' walls, 
 While ever its fiery casements returned a shower of 
 
 balls. 
 Ten days and nights the assailants renewed their 
 
 fierce attack; 
 Ten days and nights the Texans as fiercely beat them 
 
 back, 
 And spread around a purple destruction far and 
 
 wide ; 
 Yet their thin line was weakened by every beating 
 
 tide; 
 But their brave leader called and their dauntless 
 
 spirits fired 
 
 To meet a death as votive as knighthood e'er inspired. 
 "Who'll not say 'Die' and never a coward's breath 
 
 resign?" 
 He asked, as with his sword-point he calmly drew a 
 
 line. 
 All leaped the test of courage and pledged their 
 
 dying might, 
 Save one weak soul who sought to escape by means 
 
 of flight. 
 
126 JAMES D. LYNCH 
 
 The morning came and once more was heard at rise 
 of sun 
 
 Far o'er the plains the pealing of their last signal 
 
 gun- 
 List, Houston, 'tis a farewell, the last sad word of 
 fate! 
 
 Haste, double-quick, bring succor! Alas! too late! 
 too late! 
 
 For at the midnight hour of that ensanguined day 
 
 The foe, with fury raging, advanced upon their prey ; 
 
 And pressing through the scanty and dwindling 
 fusillades, 
 
 O'erleaped the feeble bastions and forced the barri- 
 cades. 
 
 "Blow up the fort!" the wounded but dauntless 
 Travis cried, 
 
 The sweet death-triumph gladdened the dying sol- 
 dier's pride. 
 
 A faithful comrade hastened, delighted to obey, 
 
 But fell before his fagot could crown the immortal day. 
 
 Within the breach the remnant of freedom's martyrs 
 stood 
 
 And grappled with their victors to dearly sell their 
 blood 
 
 A clang, a shout, a silence, and living there were 
 none: 
 
 Alamo's valiant struggle and tragic work were done. 
 
 Live on, grow old uadimming, thou glorious Alamo ! 
 Grow old in years and memories, for thou canst never 
 grow 
 
JAMES D. LYNCH 127 
 
 Too old for fame ; its radiance will ever blazon thee 
 And ever wreathe with glory its New Thermopylae. 
 Thy blood will cry forever (of messengers thou had'st 
 
 none), 
 
 And tell thy patriot story to every clime and sun 
 Old memories ever quicken a breathing in thy stones 
 And ring thy hoary walls with sound of thrilling 
 
 tones ; 
 
 For when I listen reverently, an echo of the years 
 Recalls the battle shout, and I hear Jacinto's cheers: 
 "Forward, forward, comrades, remember the Alamo! 
 And let its fee of vengeance be death to every foe!" 
 
 Live, Travis, Bonham, Bowie, and Crocket, live in 
 name ! 
 
 Death quenched your patriot spirits, but freedom 
 caught the flame; 
 
 Let honor shine forever on all the hallowed band 
 
 Who fell at the Alamo birth-offering of a land. 
 
 Ah, they died blessed, for heaven decreed the patri- 
 ot's prize 
 
 That from their martyr ashes the bright Lone Star 
 should rise. 
 
 All praise to the noble "Daughters," whose zeal of 
 soul sublime 
 
 "Would shield the sacred relic from wasting blasts 
 of time ! 
 
128 WALTER MALONE 
 
 WALTER MALONE 
 
 Malone was born in De Soto county in 1860, and died in 
 Memphis, Tenn., in 1914. When he was seventeen years of age 
 his first book of poems was published, and his second when he 
 was nineteen. He was educated at the University of Missis- 
 sippi; was licensed to practice law; went to Memphis and there 
 entered into practice. In that city he held high judicial posi- 
 tion. His published works comprise ten volumes: "Claribel 
 and Other Poems, ' ' ' ' Narcissus, ' ' ' ' The Outcast, ' ' ' ' The Com- 
 ing of the King, ' ' ' ' Dusk and Dawn, ' ' ' ' December and June, ' ' 
 " Songs of North and South," "Poems," "Songs of East and 
 West," and "Hernando De Soto." 
 
 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. 
 
 Wail not for precious chances passed 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 pleasures 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. 
 
WALTER MALONE 129 
 
 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 the 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. 
 
 The World Is My Home 
 
 I TRAVEL to East, I wander to West; 
 
 Each land that I see is dear to my breast. 
 I greet the green hills as I float down the Rhine, 
 
 The vineyards of France I love as if mine. 
 With rapture, the castles of England I see, 
 
 And Switzerland's peaks are old friends to me; 
 A freeman of Athens, a tribune of Rome, 
 
 All men are my brothers, the world is my home. 
 
 Wherever we meet, on sea or on sod, 
 
 We are brethren of Christ, we are children of God. 
 They may prattle of codes, or prate of their creeds, 
 
 I care not for these, but for brotherly deeds. 
 
130 WALTER MALONE 
 
 They may boast of their church, their clique, or their 
 clan 
 
 I but yearn for the touch of a true fellow-man. 
 So my heart still repeats, wherever I roam: 
 
 "All men are my brothers, the world is my home." 
 
 "He Who Hath Loved" 
 
 HE who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain, 
 
 And worn the royal purple of a king; 
 
 Hath shuddered 'neath the icy Winter's sting; 
 Then reveled in the golden Summer's reign; 
 He hath within the dust and ashes lain, 
 
 Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing; 
 
 A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, 
 And hath been lord of castle-towers in Spain. 
 He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell, 
 
 Then in Aladdin's jeweled chariot driven; 
 He hath with passion roamed, a demon fell, 
 
 And had an angel's raiment to him given; 
 His restless soul hath burned with flames of hell, 
 
 And winged through ever-blooming fields of heaven. 
 
 The Graveyard 
 
 ONCE I feared thee, mournful Monarch, with thy sad 
 and solemn dells, 
 
 Haunted by the vesper shadows and the sobbing fu- 
 neral bells; 
 
WALTER MALONE 131 
 
 Haunted by the spectral roses, in their silken robes 
 
 of white, 
 And the mock-bird 's mystic singing in the dim and 
 
 dusky night; 
 
 Haunted by the tombstones ghastly gleaming through 
 magnolia leaves, 
 
 And the restless moonlight figures where the grave- 
 mound dimly heaves. 
 
 But my loved ones gather with thee in the fading, 
 
 fleeting years, 
 And I lay within thy caverns all my joys and hopes 
 
 and fears. 
 
 Thou hast treasures in thy bosom richer than the 
 
 ocean's caves, 
 Where the lustrous pearls are beaming and the coral 
 
 forest waves, 
 
 Where the mermaid gathers amber filled with mellow 
 
 golden light, 
 And the silver-weighted galleons glimmer through 
 
 the emerald night; 
 
 Thou hast hearts of gold within thee, hearts all price- 
 less pearls above, 
 
 Eich with sweetness, rich with kindness, rich with 
 never-dying love ; 
 
WALTER MALONE 
 
 Thou hast dreams and aspirations sleeping with thy 
 
 sheeted dead, 
 Wondrous visions, grand ambitions, from the earth 
 
 forever fled. 
 
 Thou hast beauties in thy bosom, blooming under- 
 
 neath our feet, 
 Lovelier than our purple lilacs and our jasmine soft 
 
 and sweet; 
 
 Thou hast blue-eyed, dimpled children, with their 
 
 mazy golden hair, 
 Thou hast maids with brows of beauty, manly figures 
 
 sleeping there. 
 
 Thou hast wisdom in thy bosom greater than the lore 
 
 of earth, 
 Gathered by its gray-haired sages from the dim crea- 
 
 tion's birth; 
 
 Thou hast infants in thy bosom, learned in secrets 
 
 whispered low, 
 Which our wise men seek forever, never find, and 
 
 never know. 
 
WALTER D. MARTIN 133 
 
 WALTER D. MARTIN 
 
 Though born at West Point, Miss., in 1870, Mr. Martin was 
 for several years a resident of Tennessee. In 1906 a volume 
 of his work appeared, ' ' Lenora and Other Poems. ' ' He died 
 at Clarksville, Tenn., in 1916. 
 
 Not There 
 
 I ATTENDED the ball last night, sweetheart, 
 
 And the music that thrilled the air 
 "Was sweet as of yore. Yet, oh, what a bore 
 
 "Was the dance, for you were not there ! 
 
 And the girls, young and fair, were there, sweet- 
 heart, 
 
 All happy and gay as could be; 
 And right from the start through kindness of heart 
 
 The fairest one oft favored me. 
 
 Yet as I wheeled o'er the smooth wax floor, sweet- 
 heart, 
 
 'Neath the light shades of purple and blue, 
 My heart was elsewhere, not there, oh, not there, 
 
 'Twas with you, sweetheart, with you. 
 
134 ALEXANDER K. McCLUNG 
 
 ALEXANDER K. McCLUNG 
 
 Born in Virginia, a nephew of Chief Justice John Marshall, 
 McClung came to Mississippi in 1832. He was a lawyer and 
 an editor. He served as an officer in the War with Mexico. 
 His death, which occurred in Jackson, was self-inflicted. 
 
 1 'As an evidence of the genius of Col. McClung, his ' Invo- 
 cation to Death ' is here subjoined, and remembering that he 
 died by his own hand in the June of life, it will be read with 
 melancholy interest by his early friends who still linger upon 
 the shores of time." " History of Mississippi, " by Lowry 
 and McCardle. 
 
 Invocation to Death 
 
 SWIFTLY speed o'er the wastes of time, 
 
 Spirit of Death. 
 In manhood's morn, in youthful prime, 
 
 I woo thy breath. 
 For the glittering hues of hope are fled 
 
 Like the dophin's light; 
 And dark are the clouds above my head 
 
 As the starless night. 
 Oh, vainly the mariner sighs for the rest 
 
 Of the peaceful haven, 
 The pilgrim saint for the shrines of the blest, 
 
 The calm of heaven; 
 The galley slave for the night wind's breath, 
 
 At burning noon; 
 But more gladly I 'd spring to thy arms, Death, 
 
 Come soon, come soon ! 
 
DAVID MOORE 135 
 
 DAVID MOORE 
 
 A native of western Tennessee, Moore came to Mississippi 
 about 1870. He is a lawyer by profession, and has practiced 
 in the southeastern part of the state. He now makes his home 
 in Jackson. His poems, under the title ' ' Fallen Leaves, ' ' were 
 published in 1914. 
 
 Take Courage 
 
 THO' hostile might array to fight, 
 
 And hitter is life 's cup ; 
 Tho' oft defeat compels retreat, 
 
 And hides the sun of hope; 
 Be glad with joys, for tima employs 
 
 Thy griefs to guide thee right; 
 For happy lays shall cheer thy days, 
 
 And love shall hring thee light. 
 
 Tho' thorny crown, and fortune's frown, 
 
 Be thine to take and wear; 
 Tho' dregs and dross, and suffering's cross 
 
 Be thine to hold and bear; 
 Take courage up, and, brave with hope, 
 
 Go forth subduing strife; 
 The truth defend, and in the end 
 
 Thou 'It have a crown of life. 
 
136 CLAUDIA BODDIE MONEY 
 
 CLAUDIA BODDIE MONEY 
 
 Mrs. Money was the wife of Hon. H. D. Money, who served 
 for two terms as United States Senator from Mississippi, and 
 who had also been a member of the House of Eepresentatives 
 before entering the upper house of Congress. She was a woman 
 of great culture and of decided literary ability. After her 
 death a memorial volume of some of her writings, entitled 
 "Prose and Verse/' was published by Senator Money for dis- 
 tribution among relatives and friends. 
 
 To a Violinist 
 
 HARMONIOUS sounds that fill me with delight 
 There's sure no passion of the human heart 
 
 But is entangled in those trembling notes, 
 
 The sweetest, saddest strains within the reach of 
 art. 
 
 Alas, its charm ! Each tender, melting air 
 
 Hath wondrous power o'er weary hearts like mine. 
 
 It seems as if the quivering strings would break 
 'Neath all the mighty weight of happiness divine. 
 
 Thou sacred Muse, who lends to human thought 
 Such mystic joy, such subtle grace and fire, 
 
 To Thee I leave no avenue of sense unclosed, 
 When artist-fingers touch th' immortal lyre! 
 
ELIZA JANE NICHOLSON 137 
 
 ELIZA JANE NICHOLSON 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson was a native of Hancock county, where she 
 was born in 1849. She died at New Orleans in 1896. Of the 
 many poems she wrote, but a few, comparatively, are included 
 in her only published volume, "Lyrics," which appeared in 
 1877. Much of her verse was written under her nom de plume, 
 "Pearl Rivers." 
 
 Only a Heart 
 
 ONLY a heart, a woman's heart! 
 
 Step on it, crush it so! 
 Bravely done, like a man, and true, 
 
 Turn on your heel and go. 
 
 Only a heart ! Do not fear, my lord, 
 
 Nobody on earth is near 
 To come to the cry of the wounded thing, 
 
 And God is too far to hear ! 
 
 Only a heart ! What matters it, pray, 
 
 My lord of the iron heel; 
 Crush it again, with a pitiless smile ; 
 
 'Tis weakness, my lord, to feel. 
 
i 3 8 ELIZA JANE NICHOLSON 
 
 Nay, stoop not to touch it, my lord, 
 With the balm of a gentle word. 
 So so coldly turn from the crushed, bleed- 
 ing thing; 
 It is only a heart, my lord. 
 
 Only a heart! What harm is done? 
 
 Let it bleed in the dust, and moan, 
 Or stifle its anguish as best it may, 
 
 Or stiffen, my lord, into stone. 
 
 Only a heart ! It was fresh, and young, 
 And tender and warm, I know; 
 
 As pure as the spirit of chastity, 
 My lord, and it loved you so. 
 
 But nothing is lost. Let it die, my lord, 
 Let its death be quiet or slow. 
 
 Such hearts are plenty as summer leaves ; 
 We find them wherever we go. 
 
 Only a heart ! and for loving you so, 
 The cup that you gave let it drain 
 
 To the bitterest dregs. Let it quiver and 
 
 bleed, 
 Let it beat a full rhythm of pain. 
 
 Nay ! Stay not to make it a grave, my lord ; 
 
 But back to your pleasures depart, 
 No blood on your hand, no stain on your soul ; 
 
 It was only a weak woman 's heart ! 
 
ELIZA JANE NICHOLSON 139 
 
 The Soldier's Grave 
 
 TREAD lightly, 'tis a soldier's grave, 
 
 A lonely, mossy mound, 
 And yet, to hearts like mine and thine, 
 
 It should be holy ground. 
 
 Speak softly ; let no careless laugh, 
 
 No idle, thoughtless jest, 
 Escape thy lips, where sweetly sleeps 
 
 The hero in his rest. 
 
 For him no reveille shall beat, 
 
 When morning beams shall come; 
 
 For him at night, no tattoo rolls 
 Its thunder from the drum. 
 
 No costly marble marks the place 
 
 Recording deeds of fame; 
 But rudely on that bending tree 
 
 Is carved the soldier's name. 
 
 A name not dear to us, but, ah ! 
 
 There may be lips that breathe 
 That name as sacredly and low 
 
 As vesper prayers at eve. 
 
 There may be brows that wear for him 
 The mourning cypress vine ; 
 
 And hearts that make this lonely grave 
 A holy pilgrim shrine. 
 
140 ELIZA JANE NICHOLSON 
 
 There may be eyes that joyed to gaze 
 
 With love into his own, 
 Now keeping midnight vigils long 
 
 With silent grief alone. 
 
 There may be hands now clasped in prayer 
 This soldier's hand has pressed; 
 
 And cheeks washed pale by sorrow's tears, 
 His own cold cheek caressed. 
 
 Tread lightly; for a man bequeathed, 
 
 Ere laid beneath this sod, 
 His ashes to his native land, 
 
 His gallant soul to God ! 
 
 Waiting 
 
 DOWN the golden shores of Sunset, 
 On the silver Twilight strand, 
 
 For my dark-eyed poet-lover 
 I in dreamy waiting stand; 
 
 O'er the waters deep that part us, 
 In the fairy barque of Thought, 
 
 Winged with silken sails from Dreamland, 
 By the hand of Fancy wrought, 
 
 He is floating, floating softly, 
 Floating straight to love and me. 
 
 Hark! the mellow, mellow music 
 Of his voice upon the sea. 
 
ELIZA JANE NICHOLSON 141 
 
 Reason guides the fairy shallop, 
 And his heart-throbs dip it low; 
 
 "With a dreamy, dreamy motion, 
 Rock it gently to and fro. 
 
 He has passed the shoals of Pleasure, 
 Though the sirens singing there 
 
 Sought to bind him to their bosoms 
 With their golden, golden hair. 
 
 And he brings a precious freightage, 
 
 Sparkling gems of Poesie, 
 Gathered from the Isles of Beauty, 
 
 And this wealth is all for me. 
 
 All for me! his chaste, his chosen, 
 
 Standing by the Sunset-land, 
 Like the spirit of a Lily 
 
 On the silver Twilight strand! 
 
142 MARY H. M. ODUM 
 
 MARY H. M. ODUM 
 
 Mrs. Odum whose volume, "Lenare and Other Poems, " ap- 
 peared in 1866 was a resident of Vicksburg before her removal 
 to Texas, a few years after the close of the Civil War. She 
 was born in Kentucky. Her writings were usually produced 
 under the pen name " L 'Eclair. ' ? 
 
 THE PICKET 
 
 From "Lenare" 
 
 TWAS night; on old Potomac's shore, 
 The stars ne'er shone so bright before, 
 The soldier slept upon the ground; 
 His single blanket wrapped him round; 
 The steady watch-fire's ruddy glow 
 Threw lurid light upon the snow, 
 And save the picket's measured tread, 
 The camp was silent as the dead. 
 As slowly o'er the frozen ground 
 He walks his weary midnight round, 
 His thoughts to bygone pleasures roam, 
 His lone heart wanders back to home : 
 The father, on whose noble brow 
 The snows of age are sprinkled now, 
 Who breathed a prayer that he might be 
 True to the cause of liberty ; 
 
MARY H. M. ODUM 143 
 
 The mother, who, in infancy, 
 
 Had nursed him all so tenderly ; 
 
 Ah! well her boy remembers now 
 
 Each furrow on her aged brow, 
 
 While o'er him steals, with thrilling power, 
 
 The memory of that parting hour ; 
 
 The moment of her last good-by, 
 
 When, with a sadly filling eye, 
 
 She bade farewell to him and joy, 
 
 And said: "God bless my soldier boy!" 
 
 Then o'er his heart a softness steals, 
 
 That every gallant soldier feels, 
 
 A feeling manhood cannot smother, 
 
 When thinking of his absent mother. 
 
 Another form, to memory dear, 
 
 Drew from his eye the rising tear; 
 
 A face to his fond heart more fair 
 
 Than tenants of the upper air. 
 
 With sigh suppressed he fondly drew 
 
 From near his heart, so warm and true, 
 
 Where, e'en in battle it was laid, 
 
 The image of the lovely maid. 
 
 He stooped beside the vivid blaze, 
 
 That he might for a moment gaze 
 
 With love, with adoration, on 
 
 The eye that beamed for him alone. 
 
 That girlish face was passing fair, 
 
 And beautiful that curl of hair; 
 
 Dearer than aught this side of heaven, 
 
 Save her by whom they both were given. 
 
 Long gazed he on that senseless thing, 
 
144 MARY H. M. ODUM 
 
 The imaged maiden of the Spring, 
 That rises in the lonely dell, 
 Where fairies future visions tell. 
 Then, with a quick, convulsive start, 
 He pressed it to his lips and heart. 
 * ' Oh, happy home ! beloved Lenare ! 
 When will thy Walter meet thee there? 
 When shall around his heart entwine 
 The echoes of that voice divine, 
 Where every well-remembered tone 
 Around this dreary hour has thrown 
 A spell of quiet, pure delight, 
 To cheer his lonely heart to-night ?" 
 Once more he gazed upon her face, 
 And then resumed his weary pace. 
 
JAMES MCCARTY OLIVER 145 
 
 JAMES MCCARTY OLIVER 
 
 While teaching at Lake, Scott county, Oliver brought out a 
 volume entitled "The Battle of Franklin, The Little Girl at 
 Spanish Fort, and Other Poems." That was in 1869. He 
 died in Mississippi a few years later. Before living at Lake 
 Mr. Oliver had lived at Madisonville. He was educated at the 
 University of Virginia, and was an officer in the Confederate 
 Army. 
 
 To Hattie 
 
 THERE is an eye, whose glowing light, 
 All sweetly pure and purely bright, 
 Has made my spirit sigh to think 
 What draughts of splendor it could drink 
 Fore'er, if in affection free 
 That jeweled orb beamed but for me! 
 
 There is a lip, whose rosy hue 
 
 Has searched my very being through, 
 
 As Modesty and Virtue, there 
 
 In silence said : 1 1 Forbear ! Forbear ! ' ' 
 
 Christ ! how happy I could be, 
 
 If that sweet lip bloomed but for me ! 
 
 There is a hand, whose living white, 
 And touch of softness exquisite, 
 Has made my breast, in silence, own 
 A throb, which was before unknown ; 
 
146 JAMES MCCARTY OLIVER 
 
 Ohl could that hand my beacon be, 
 "What honors yet might wait for me ! 
 
 There is a heart, within whose well 
 Of deep, rich blood, commingling dwell 
 Virtues, whose throbbing tines declare 
 A world of love and rapture there ! 
 Oh ! could my head forever be 
 But pillowed there, what joy for me! 
 
 There is an eye, a lip, a hand, 
 
 And gentle heart, at One 's command, 
 
 Whose tender light, smile, touch, and love 
 
 Some manly soul's delight shall prove. 
 
 My fondest prayer, whoe'er he be, 
 
 Is, lady, that he 11 live for thee ! 
 
JOHN W. OVERALL 147 
 
 JOHN W. OVERALL 
 
 A native of Virginia, Mr. Overall, at an early age, came to 
 Mississippi. He studied law at Columbus in the office of Gov. 
 Tucker, and practiced his profession successfully in that city. 
 Later he made his home in Mobile, and still later in New 
 Orleans, in which cities he was connected with newspapers. 
 
 To a Miniature 
 
 'Tis strange that Art can weave a face 
 
 So radiant and divine, 
 So eloquent with thought and grace, 
 
 So beautiful as thine. 
 I almost see the warm blood seek 
 
 The blue veins on thy brow, 
 And glow upon thy pearly cheek, 
 
 So life-like seemest thou. 
 
 I love thy dark eye's sunny glee; 
 
 There's something in its glance 
 That tells thy heart is fond and free, 
 
 And full of love's romance. 
 The dimpled lake, the sky's soft glow, 
 
 Can no such charms impart, 
 As those which thou dost mutely throw 
 
 Around the burning heart. 
 
148 JOHN W. OVERALL 
 
 And o'er that bosom, white as snow, 
 
 Entwined in thy fair finger, 
 Dark, dreamy silken ringlets flow, 
 
 As if they loved to linger; 
 And blest as heaven are they blest, 
 
 Rocked in their sea-wave motion, 
 Like shadows on the tiny breast 
 
 Of some sweet mimic ocean. 
 
 Oh! could 'st thou break the silent spell 
 
 That binds thy lips so long, 
 Each soft, enchanting tone would tell 
 
 That thou wert born for song. 
 To me, Art's melody but mocks 
 
 For, in the gilded South, 
 The softest, sweetest music-box 
 
 Is woman's rosy mouth! 
 
 How fair these daughters of the sun, 
 
 These black-eyed, sparkling things, 
 These jewels of the Holy One, 
 
 These angels without wings! 
 One golden look, one crystal tear, 
 
 One sweet, emphatic word, 
 Is worth the wealth of Ind, so dear, 
 
 Or all we've seen or heard. 
 
 Lo! dreams of love fled by, yet sweet, 
 
 Come back to me again, 
 Like parted angels when they meet 
 
 In Aiden's dear domain. 
 
JOHN W. OVERALL 149 
 
 And gazing in those orbs of light, 
 
 Did I but know thee, girl, 
 I'd brave the battle's fiercest fight 
 
 For one bright smile or curl! 
 
ISO WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 Mr. Percy is a member of a family long distinguished in the 
 social, political, and literary history of Mississippi. He is a 
 lawyer, and is engaged in the practice of his profession in 
 Greenville, of which city he is a native. A volume of his po- 
 etry, ' l Sappho in Levkas and Other Poems, ' ' was published in 
 1915. 
 
 For Music 
 
 SINGER, canst thou summon up 
 
 The early blue-bird's wing? 
 The pang of those uncertain days 
 
 That swoon with unborn spring? 
 
 singer, canst thou summon up 
 
 The crimson of the rose, 
 The silver gloom of April dawns, 
 
 The breathless unrepose; 
 
 The yearning in the dark, divine, 
 Deep woods, abloom and dumb, 
 
 The starry, tear-blurred nights of May 
 That bring delirium? 
 
 singer, canst thou summon up 
 
 In music all the spring 
 Whose crowding incense caught my heart 
 
 So long ago ? Then sing ! 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 151 
 
 To the Mississippi 
 
 THEY came from fierce burnt Spain to seek for gold 
 
 Upon thy shores, and with superb, strange prows 
 
 Dazzled the wilderness. Their proud swarth brows 
 
 With gorgeous lust of gems and trove made bold 
 
 The river folk feared as the gods of old. 
 
 But, lo! thy gods awaking, the deep drowse 
 
 Of death their chief assuaged of quests and vows, 
 
 And him, not disillusioned, thou didst fold. 
 
 No dreams of gold of jeweled glebe now force 
 
 Thy stream with ships adventuring ; and though 
 
 Thy yellowed opulence doth flow, 
 
 'Tis not from stain of deep, corroded treasure. 
 
 Imperial indolence is thine and pleasure 
 
 Of hot, long listlessness and moody course. 
 
 To a Mocking-Bird : From Taormina 
 
 THE nightingale has a golden heart, 
 And a silver heart the wren; 
 
 But, oh for me the bold, bright bird 
 That sings with the heart of men ! 
 
 His music is not of seas forlorn, 
 
 His magic is not of tears; 
 From titled throat his raptures float 
 
 And tumble in laughter and jeers. 
 
152 WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 
 
 He does not cease when daylight dies, 
 But he sings right on to the dark; 
 
 The stars or moon may die or swoon, 
 In the drip of the rain hark! 
 
 He does not cease when spring is done, 
 And his mate with love is fled; 
 
 A fairer thing than love or spring 
 Is life. And the fall is red. 
 
 Sing, nightingales and silver wrens 
 And fairy throats that can; 
 
 But the bird I love is the darling bird 
 With the free proud heart of a man. 
 
HAL M. PERKINS 153 
 
 HAL M. PERKINS 
 
 For several years Mr. Perkins was a citizen of Senatobia. 
 In 1913 he published a small volume entitled "Heart Songs 
 and Other Poems." 
 
 When I Depart 
 
 WHEN I bid thee farewell, let no burning tear-drops 
 
 start. 
 When I've weighed life's anchor, or the corded 
 
 cables part, 
 
 No; when I am leaving, let there be no grieving, 
 Nor heaving of the heart. 
 
 When my eyes no longer turn a loving look to thee, 
 When my bark is drifting out upon the darkling sea, 
 Let there be no wailing, when begins my sailing 
 Over the unknown sea. 
 
 When I've passed the portals, gone beyond the har- 
 bor light, 
 
 My mast the circle dipt, and my ship is lost to sight, 
 Lament not the parting, only, as I am starting, 
 Simply say: 
 
 "Good-night!" 
 
154 SUSAN THORNTON PRICE 
 
 SUSAN THORNTON PRICE 
 
 Born in Hinds county, Miss., in 1838, Mrs. Price is now a 
 resident of Texas, in which state she has been prominent in the 
 work of the W. C. T. U. A collection of her verse was pub- 
 lished in 1912, under the title " Sunset Vale and Other Poems." 
 
 The Sunset Vale 
 
 MORNING and noon have passed and gone, 
 
 My feet are in the sunset vale; 
 I tread its mystic paths alone, 
 
 And walk amid its shadows pale. 
 Around my feet the sear leaves lie, 
 
 Like joys and hopes they once were fair 
 Around my head the bleak winds sigh, 
 
 About my heart a weight of care. 
 
 Ah, busy life! I love thee yet, 
 
 Thy music lingers still with me; 
 Sometimes it breathes a vague regret, 
 
 Sometimes the sweetest melody. 
 Along the heights which I have passed, 
 
 Its notes come floating down to me, 
 And when my heart is overcast, 
 
 Awakes the sweetest minstrelsy. 
 
SUSAN THORNTON PRICE 155 
 
 Ah, weary heart ! sigh not for rest, 
 
 Yield not thy soul to vain regret; 
 I see a gleaming in the West, 
 
 I know my. sun will soon be set. 
 Back on the hills a glorious light 
 
 Illumes the darkness of the vale, 
 Ah, setting sun; thy radiance bright, 
 
 In death's deep shadows soon must pale. 
 
 I hear the surging of the waves, 
 
 Of that majestic, mystic sea; 
 To me its seething waters rave 
 
 Of death and of eternity. 
 The light of faith is beaming bright; 
 
 Beyond that restless rolling sea 
 A home of love, a home of light, 
 
 A home of peace, awaiteth me. 
 
156 EVELYN M. PURVIS 
 
 EVELYN M. PURVIS 
 
 Miss Purvis is a teacher. Her home is at Eden, Yazoo 
 county. In 1902 she published a volume, "Poems." 
 
 One of the Reapers 
 
 Dedicated to John G. Paton, D.D., Missionary to the South 
 Sea Islands 
 
 THEY dwelt in loving confidence in a cot by the Scot- 
 tish sea ; 
 
 She looked into his eyes and said : "A secret I've for 
 thee; 
 
 'Tis of a joy for which we both have yearned and 
 prayed for long, 
 
 It fills my days with gladness and my heart with 
 sweet, new song; 
 
 Within my being, strong and deep, a love so won- 
 drous lives; 
 
 For God, in answer to our prayer, a little child now 
 gives. 
 
 "E'en now my thought grows strangely bold, in 
 
 longing for the hour, 
 When I shall clasp the little one, and feel the mighty 
 
 power 
 
EVELYN M. PURVIS 157 
 
 Of mother-love grown deep; how sweet to bear the 
 
 child, to be thy wife ! 
 The little child will teach me more the meaning of 
 
 my life." 
 
 They knelt that night together, not to pray for gold 
 nor land, 
 
 But even then, to give their child, to God's own lov- 
 ing hand, 
 
 To use for good to human kind: "Thou, Lord, 
 mayst take Thine own; 
 
 For Thine it is, not ours: to us, it is from Thee a 
 loan. 
 
 Then watch us, Lord, and give us grace to lead the 
 child aright, 
 
 That, some day, unto heathen lands, he'll bear Thy 
 Word of Light." 
 
 To-day, that child of theirs in power walks by the 
 
 Southern Sea, 
 Like the son of humble Hannah, teacher and judge 
 
 is he; 
 
 And angels o'er his reaping, sing praises from above, 
 While the mother, watching it from heaven, is filled 
 
 with thankful love. 
 
158 LULAH RAGSDALE 
 
 LULAH RAGSDALE 
 
 Miss Eagsdale is a resident of Brookhaven, and is a native 
 of Mississippi. Her poems, though they have been contributed 
 to leading magazines in the East and North, have never been 
 published in book form, her only published book being a novel, 
 ''Miss Dulcie from Dixie, " which appeared in 1917. 
 
 Impennate 
 
 BIRD in the lucent height, 
 Cleaving the silver light 
 "With mounting wing, 
 Why didst thou come my way? 
 Thou hast disturbed my day; 
 I, too, would sing. 
 
 Thou, with one passing strain, 
 Thrilled with the pulse of pain, 
 
 Yet sweet and strong, 
 Thou hast shamed all my art; 
 Bird, thou hast hurt my heart, 
 That aches with song. 
 
 Thou, Bird, afar canst fly, 
 Poising in sapphire sky, 
 
 Sick of Earth's sin: 
 Folding thy wings so near 
 
 Thou canst the heaven-harps hear, 
 Losing Earth's din. 
 
LULAH RAGSDALE 159 
 
 I, plodding day by day, 
 
 Sing, with my feet in clay, 
 
 Impotently. 
 
 Music of upper spheres 
 By drip of human tears 
 Is drowned for me. 
 
 Bird, lost in far, fair shine, 
 If once thy wings were mine, 
 
 I'd sing thy strain. 
 But give those wings to me 
 
 Those songs would henceforth be 
 Earthly and vain. 
 
 Birdling, one raptured day 
 I shall be freed from clay, 
 
 Winged as thou; 
 Cleaving the crystal sky, 
 As angels sing shall I, 
 Songs I dream now. 
 
 The Mother's Son 
 
 AH Son, my only one, my errant son, 
 Who wanders somewhere on the earth's big breast 
 But who can say ? to east or else to west, 
 Whatever way the fever leads you on, 
 
 And fearful of the straight-set eyes at home, 
 The way-bound feet, that know no tingling need 
 Of wide white road or sparkling open mead, 
 Keeps silent lip to every pleading "Come" 
 
i6o LULAH RAGSDALE 
 
 Tour quiet mother, with the busy hands 
 
 So full of duties' dull, uncolored thread, 
 
 And feet that round and round the circle tread, 
 
 Nor ever break its bound she understands! 
 
 Hush! by the safe red hearth how oft at night 
 Has she a-sudden listed in the wind 
 The call the call ! and guilty, turned to find 
 Calm eyes a-wonder at her look of flight. 
 
 Ah, son, who wanders as the wild wind blows, 
 From what full vein you drew that vagrant blood, 
 From what winged soul you took that tameless mood, 
 Your mother, in her narrow boundary, knows. 
 
 The Illiterate 
 
 JOHN'S paper crackles like a bean; 
 
 Ann's novel back is bent; 
 
 Irl holds his precious magazine; 
 
 Dave has his Testament. 
 
 Their faces wreathed around the light 
 
 Like torches seem to me 
 
 Who sits back in the room's half night 
 
 I do not need to see! 
 
 John mutters, "W-e-1-1 ! that is the worst! 
 
 This is a rotten age." 
 
 But Irl is laughing fit to burst; 
 
 Ann's eyes from page to page 
 
LULAH RAGSDALE 161 
 
 Flash like two restless stars ablaze, 
 
 And David pays no heed; 
 
 He seems a-wandering Heaven's own ways 
 
 I wonder what they read? 
 
 There 're things they know I have not heard; 
 
 They're hid away from me. 
 
 Locked fast in every printed word, 
 
 And I I have no key. 
 
 I grope in dimness blank and cold 
 
 How do they know who've read? 
 
 Perhaps they have not even told 
 
 Me all my Saviour said! 
 
 I sit for hours when they're away, 
 
 Their books within my hand; 
 
 I stare, I strive, I strain, I pray 
 
 So hard to understand. 
 
 As if to eat the secret's heart 
 
 My eyes the pages burn; 
 
 But when I cry ' ' Give me a start ? ' ' 
 
 All smile, "TOO OLD TO LEAKN!" 
 
 I'd burn each old eye to a coal; 
 
 I'd work a-twenty year 
 
 If I might, after death's dark roll, 
 
 But stand my Saviour near 
 
 And say, "My heart in darkness broke; 
 
 Light came, dear Christ who bled, 
 
 And there is not one word you spoke, 
 
 My own eyes have not read!' 9 
 
162 JOHN W. ROBB, JR. 
 
 JOHN W. ROBB, JR. 
 
 Mr. Eobb was born at Raymond, Hinds county, in 1856, and 
 died at Eosedale in 1878. He was an editor. A beautiful 
 tribute to his memory may be found in the poems of Will H. 
 Kernan. 
 
 Come unto Me 
 
 WHEN darkness and sorrow encompass the mind, 
 And Hope breaks the garland of flowers she twined; 
 When friends have forsaken the heart they caressed ; 
 Oh, what may dispel the dark gloom in the breast? 
 'Tis the voice of the Mighty speaks softly and free: 
 "Ye weary and laden, oh! come unto me." 
 
 Dark winter of sorrow, unfeeling, may roll, 
 And earthly misfortune sink deep on the soul, 
 And life's timid billows may break o'er the breast, 
 Till it longs for a haven, secure in its rest; 
 Then, then to the spirit its comfort will be: 
 "Ye weary and laden, oh! come unto me." 
 
 The pleasures of life are but fleeting at best, 
 And sorrows, more lasting, still fade with the rest; 
 Then why should the shadowy wings of despair 
 E'er blight the sad spirit by hovering there? 
 Far better to think beyond life's troubled sea 
 There waits the sweet welcome : " Oh ! come unto me. ' ' 
 
JOHN W. ROBB, JR. 163 
 
 'Tis the buoy of hope that will ride on the blast, 
 And anchor in safety beyond them at last, 
 Where no more the chill breath of the gale shall pur- 
 sue, 
 
 Nor clouds wrap the day's shining glory from view; 
 Then fulfilled the glad spirit that promise shall see: 
 "Ye weary and laden, oh! come unto me." 
 
164 EMMETT L. ROSS 
 
 EMMETT L. ROSS 
 
 This author was for many years the editor of a paper at 
 Canton. The poem here reproduced was written in January, 
 1879, after the epidemic of yellow fever in 1878. 
 
 The Lieutenant Benners referred to in this poem was in the 
 service of the United States, fell a victim to the fever, and 
 died while trying to alleviate the sufferings of those already 
 stricken by the plague. 
 
 The Solid South 
 
 AWAKE! awake, sluggish Muse! 
 
 If only for a while. 
 And tune my harp to Homer's lyre, 
 
 Blind bard of Scio's Isle, 
 That I may sing in fitting words 
 
 Songs of enduring praise 
 To willing hands and noble hearts 
 
 Who in affliction's days, 
 Poured out upon our sunny land 
 
 Their stores of love and wealth 
 That brought surcease to pestilence, 
 
 And wooed back joyous health. 
 
 The Solid South pours out her heart this bright, this 
 
 glad New Year, 
 And sends a message to all men, and nations far and 
 
 near; 
 
EMMETT L. ROSS 165 
 
 A message draped with willow leaves, bedewed with 
 
 holy tears 
 Of widowed wife and orphaned child, sad youth, 
 
 and tottering years; 
 A message from her palaces, from cottage, hill, and 
 
 glade, 
 From council halls, from field and farm, and busy 
 
 marts of trade; 
 A message freighted down with love, with gratitude 
 
 as great 
 As ever waked a soul to arms, or bared a breast for 
 
 State; 
 A love that throbs in every heart, a gratitude that 
 
 thrills, 
 And breaks its bounds like waves that rush to sea 
 
 from swelling rills. 
 
 Some mother bending o'er the tomb that holds her 
 
 cherished boy, 
 Some stricken wife beside the grave where rests her 
 
 girlhood's joy, 
 Some maiden weeping o'er the mound where troth 
 
 and lover lie, 
 
 Press back their sobs and in their prayers call bless- 
 ings from on high 
 Down on the heads, the hearts, the homes, of those 
 
 whose helping hand 
 Brought succor to our stricken ones and saved our 
 
 suffering land. 
 The Southron's hand that erstwhile drew his saber 
 
 from its sheath 
 
166 EMMETT L. ROSS 
 
 And dipped its blade in brother's blood to win the 
 patriot's wreath, 
 
 Now presses on a throbbing breast in pledge to self 
 and God 
 
 That Peace and Love shall ever reign where hostile 
 armies trod. 
 
 The fires of hate that lit his soul, nor sword nor 
 gun could quell, 
 
 These yield to Love's bewitching wiles, to Love's all- 
 conquering spell: 
 
 Deep in his heart is writ the name, the pure un- 
 selfish zeal 
 
 Of him who dared the Saffron Foe, to conquer woe 
 with weal. 
 
 More holy task was never borne than that brave 
 Benner tried; 
 
 No loss more great, no grief more deep, than when 
 brave Benner died; 
 
 No gift in all the bounty sent, more rich, more rare 
 in price, 
 
 No words can compensate the boon, our Nation's 
 sacrifice ! 
 
 Ten million grateful hearts enshrine his memory in 
 their breast, 
 
 Ten million tongues his deed extol, invoke his spir- 
 it's rest; 
 
 A Solid South reveres his name, his valor unde- 
 filed 
 
 One common country's love will shield the Martyr's 
 wife and child. 
 
EMMETT L. ROSS 167 
 
 O Great Jehovah, King of Kings! 
 
 Whose mighty hands control 
 The fate of worlds, the works of men, 
 
 And Time's unceasing roll, 
 Let blessings follow in the path 
 
 Of Sorrow's fading tread; 
 Let comfort come to those who mourn 
 
 And weep above their dead; 
 Pour down unmeasured blessings, Lord, 
 
 Thy choicest and thy best, 
 To crown our brothers of the North 
 
 And far-off East and West; 
 Blot out the lines that would divide 
 
 And desecrate our sod; 
 Bind close our States; give us one law, 
 
 One Union, and one God ! 
 
168 ERON OPHA ROWLAND 
 
 ERON OPHA ROWLAND 
 
 Mrs. Eowland is the wife of Dr. Dunbar Eowland, who has 
 charge of the Mississippi Department of Archives and History. 
 She has written many poems. She is a native of the state, and 
 makes her home at Jackson. 
 
 A Prayer for 1918 
 
 BE with us, Lord, we need Thy guidance sorely 
 To point the rugged pathway this New Year; 
 
 The road is steep and wrapped in blinding shadows, 
 And but for Thee we would be filled with fear. 
 
 Grant that we bring Thee in our daily service 
 No gift unworthy of our creed and race, 
 
 And that our candles may be ever lighted 
 At the clear flame of Thy pure altar-place. 
 
 Be with our men who fight for Truth and Justice, 
 Their beautiful, clear faces shine so bright 
 
 That our poor eyes can scarcely stand the glory 
 Of those who give themselves to die for Eight. 
 
 Be very near, God. Death lurks so closely; 
 
 Though they are Thine, they are to us most dear; 
 Fill them with strength to meet the foe in battle, 
 
 And in dark hours take away their fear. 
 
ERON OPHA ROWLAND 169 
 
 Be with our women ; with a firm, pure purpose 
 Before their tasks, oh, may they stand alway; 
 
 Help them to keep the hearthstone warm and worthy 
 Of that high cause for which men die to-day. 
 
 Be with them, Lord, the brave and saintly mothers, 
 As with hearts breaking 'neath their calm, pure 
 eyes 
 
 They climb Calvary's rough pathway, bringing 
 Their beautiful, their own in sacrifice. 
 
 Be with us in the springtime of our sowing; 
 
 Let no seed fall on unresponsive ground; 
 Grant that of wheat and corn, to feed the hungry 
 
 Of earth, a full sufficiency be found. 
 
 Bind closer, Lord, each allied heart and spirit ; 
 
 On land and sea their noble strength increase; 
 That they may free mankind from dark oppression 
 
 And save Thy world for Liberty and Peace! 
 
 Biloxi 
 
 BILOXI! other tongues may sing 
 
 Of your rich stores and fresher bays, 
 But all along your streets I feel 
 
 The witchery of older days; 
 Across yon blue gulf's restless waves 
 
 The white-winged questing ships advance, 
 And from each masthead proudly streams 
 
 The lillied banners of fair France. 
 
170 ERON OPHA ROWLAND 
 
 Far-led by dreams that to the last 
 Bright fantasy have been fulfilled, 
 
 Bold heroes came with hope elate, 
 
 New thrones and empires vast to build: 
 
 Here by this sheltered, land-locked bay, 
 
 A kingdom great, whose realms reached where 
 The Rockies rear their cold white brows, 
 
 Was planted 'mid wild flowers fair; 
 Here where a savage people's hope 
 
 But dimly lit the paths they trod, 
 Diviner love and holier faith 
 
 Raised altars to the living God. 
 
 Through risk and loss the dream was hugged; 
 
 With snare and lure and mock it spread 
 Its mirage fair for those who won, 
 
 For others feast and vintage red; 
 But every high, heroic deed 
 
 Of those who starved and perished here 
 Makes sweeter still a people's hope 
 
 Of peace and freedom void of fear. 
 
 Time has, in vain, City, sought 
 
 With veer and shift and brazen glare 
 To dim the glory of your youth, 
 
 To raze its wall and temple fair; 
 But while these waves break on your shores 
 
 Your legends will delight the heart, 
 Your venturous, chivalrous days 
 
 Be of yourself the nobler part. 
 
ERON OPHA ROWLAND 171 
 
 Men will not let your glory fade, 
 
 Your olden charm still binds them fast; 
 Far dearer than rare gems they hold 
 
 The ancient emblems of your past; 
 Your history lives in every bloom 
 
 That stars your vales and shores and meres; 
 Its luster will forever gild 
 
 The garnered treasures of your years. 
 
172 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 Born at Port Gibson, Claiborne county, in 1853, Eussell died 
 at New Orleans in 1879. Sadly afflicted physically, his life 
 was a pitiable and forlorn one. He was educated at a Catholic 
 school at St. Louis; went to New York to engage in literary 
 work; returned South, and spent his last years in New Orleans. 
 After his death a volume of his poems was published; but it is 
 doubtful whether it contains all his verses. 
 
 Nebuchadnezzar 
 
 You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sab! 
 Whar is you try in ' to go, sab? 
 I'd hab you fur to know, sab, 
 
 I's a-holdin' ob de lines. 
 You better stop dat prancin'; 
 You's pow'ful fond ob dancin', 
 But I'll bet my yeabs advanein' 
 
 Dat I'll cure you ob yo' sbines. 
 
 Look heab, mule! Better min' out; 
 Fus' t'ing you know you'll fin' out 
 How quick I'll wear dis line out 
 
 On your ugly, stubbo'n back. 
 You needn't try to steal up 
 And lif dat precious beel up; 
 You's got to plow dis fiel' up, 
 
 You has, sab, fur a fac'. 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 173 
 
 Dar, dat's de way to do it. 
 He's comin' right down to it; 
 Jes watch, him plowin' troo it. 
 
 Dis nigger ain 't no fool. 
 Some folks dey would V beat him; 
 Now dat would only heat him, 
 I know jes how to treat him: 
 
 You mas' reason wid a mule. 
 
 He minds me like a nigger. 
 If he wuz only bigger 
 He'd fotch a mighty figger, 
 
 He would, I tell you. Yes, sah. 
 See how he keeps a-cliekin'. 
 He's as gentle as a chickin' 
 And nebber thinks o' kickin', 
 
 Whoa, dar, Nebuchadnezzah ! 
 
 Is dis heah me, or not me? 
 Or is de debbil got me? 
 Wuz dat a cannon shot me? 
 
 Hab I laid heah more'n a week? 
 Dat mule do kick amazin'. 
 De beast wuz sp'iled in raisin' 
 But now I 'spect he's grazin' 
 
 On de oder side de creek. 
 
174 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 Selling a Dog 
 
 H'YAR, Pot-liquor! What you at? You heah me 
 
 callin' you? 
 H'yar, sa h! Come an' tell dis little gemmen 
 
 howdy-do ! 
 
 Dar, sah, ain't dat puppy jes as fat as he kin roll? 
 Maybe you won't b'liebe it, but he's only six mon's 
 
 ol' I 
 
 'Coon dog? Lord! young marster, he's jes at 'em all 
 
 de while; 
 
 7 b'liebe dat he kin smell a 'coon fur half-a-mile. 
 I don't like to sell him, fur he's wuf his weight in 
 
 gol'; 
 If you didn't want him, sah, he nebber should be sol'. 
 
 If you takes him off wid you, I'll feel like I wuz lost. 
 He's de bes' young fightin'-dog I ebber come acrost. 
 Jes look at dem eyes, young marster; what a sab- 
 
 bage face! 
 He won't let no stranger nigger come about de place. 
 
 You know Henry Wilson's Bob, dat whipped your 
 
 fader's Dan? 
 Pot-liquor jes chucked dat dog so bad he couldn't 
 
 stan'! 
 Well, sah, if you wants him, now I'll tell you what 
 
 I'll do 
 You <?an hab him fur a dollar, seein' how it's you. 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 175 
 
 Now, marster Will, you knows it, he's wuf mo'n 
 
 dat, a heap; 
 
 R'al'y, I's a-doin' wrong to let him go so cheap. 
 Don't you tell nobody, now, what wujz de price you 
 
 paid 
 My ol' woman gwine to gib me fits, sah, I's afraid! 
 
 T'anks you, sah! Good-mornin' sah! You tell yo' 
 
 ma, fur me, 
 
 I has got de fines' turkeys dat she ebber see; 
 Dey is jes as good as any pusson ebber eat, 
 If she wants a gobbler, let her sen' to uncle Pete. 
 
 Dar! I's done got rid ob dat ar wretched dog at las M 
 Drownin' time wuz comin' fur him mighty precious 
 
 fas'! 
 Sol' him fur a dollar, well! An' goodness knows 
 
 de pup 
 Isn 't wuf de powder it 'd take to blow him up ! 
 
 The Origin of the Banjo 
 
 Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o r hearing 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 la- 
 dies, listen! 
 
 About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is 
 missin': 
 
176 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 "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 gwine to build a boat to beat the 
 steamah Natchez. 
 
 01' 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'. 
 
 Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort ob 
 
 beas 'es, 
 
 Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! 
 He had a Morgan colt an' seberal head ob Jarsey 
 
 cattle, 
 An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heard 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 drownded out, 'cep' Noah an' de 
 
 critters, 
 An' men he'd hired to work de boat, an' one to 
 
 mix de bitters. 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 177 
 
 De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an 9 a-sailin'! 
 De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palm'; 
 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 he-se'f, he steamed some wood 
 
 an' bent it, 
 An' soon he had a banjo made, de fust dat wuz 
 
 invented. 
 
 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 wash-day-dinner 
 
 graces ; 
 An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to 
 
178 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, 'twuz "Neb- 
 
 ber min' de wedder," 
 She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all to- 
 
 gedder ; 
 Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called 
 
 de figgers; 
 An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob 
 
 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 nigger's ways: his people neb- 
 
 ber los' 'em 
 Fur whar you finds de nigger, dar's de banjo an' 
 
 de 'possum! 
 
 An Exchange 
 
 DEATH seizeth not the soul; 
 When life is past control, 
 
 No power left to hold it, 
 
 When we have lost or sold it, 
 Why care we for the loss of lives 
 
 Of suffering and sinning, 
 Well knowing that, for what survives, 
 
 A life is just beginning? 
 
 So, when our day arrives, 
 Why cling we to our lives? 
 
 Though they be clean and fair, 
 
 Or stained with sin and care, 
 
IRWIN RUSSELL 179 
 
 The bargain cannot be adverse; 
 
 An old life for a new one; 
 Death cannot make a false soul worse, 
 
 Or ever change a true one. 
 
i8o EDMUND G. SHANNON 
 
 EDMUND G. SHANNON 
 
 Mr. Shannon is a lawyer who makes his home in the city of 
 Jackson. In 1912 he published a volume of verse, " Along the 
 High way, " The Neale Publishing Company, New York. 
 
 Two Little Maids 
 
 LAST year four stockings hung at the hearth, 
 Where now there hang but two; 
 
 For two in the attic are folded away, 
 Each in its little shoe. 
 
 Up in the attic, cold and alone, 
 There's a doll with a broken leg, 
 
 That stares in the dark at a little blue dress 
 Hung on a wooden peg. 
 
 One little red dress doffed for the night 
 To be donned on Christmas day; 
 
 Two little knees at the bedside bent, 
 Two chubby hands folded to pray. 
 
 One little girl lisping her prayers, 
 
 Looking up with eyes of brown, 
 One little girl that heavenward went, 
 
 With blue eyes looking down. 
 
BARNARD SHIPP 181 
 
 BARNARD SHIPP 
 
 Born in Natchez in 1813, Mr. Shipp died in Florida a few 
 years ago. He was educated in Vermont, and adopted the 
 profession of teaching. He was the author of two volumes: 
 "Fame and Other Poems " and "The Progress of Freedom 
 and Other Poems/' the one published in 1843, the other in 
 1852. He was also the author, or compiler, of two or more 
 prose works. 
 
 Concluding Lines of Poem "Reflections 
 on the Year 1848" 
 
 MAY this New Year to earth new blessings bring, 
 New hopes and pleasures as the buds of spring; 
 And these new fruits for future nations bear, 
 Who shall our triumphs and our bounties share. 
 May hallowed Peace her heavenly influence shed, 
 Where'er the footsteps of our race shall tread; 
 And teach mankind there's bliss for mortals here, 
 Which Heaven will sanction in their wise career; 
 And still impart with an unbounded grace 
 To all the offspring of the human race. 
 May Wisdom guide and Justice rule the world; 
 The sword be sheathed, the bloody standard furled; 
 Fair Commerce prosper, and productive Art ; 
 New cities rise, and flourish every mart; 
 Young Freedom's reign to earth's extreme extend; 
 Oppression cease, and wars for ever end! 
 
i8a J. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO 
 
 J. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO 
 
 For several years following the Civil War Mr. Signaigo was 
 prominent as an editor in Mississippi. Many of his poems were 
 published in the Memphis papers. His home was in Grenada, 
 where he was editor of the local newspaper. 
 
 On the Heights of Mission Ridge 
 
 WHEN the foes, in conflict heated, 
 
 Battled over road and hridge, 
 While Bragg sullenly retreated 
 
 From the heights of Mission Ridge, 
 There, amid the pines and wildwood, 
 
 Two opposing colonels fell, 
 Who had schoolmates been in childhood, 
 
 And had loved each other well. 
 
 There, amid the roar and rattle, 
 
 Facing Havoc's fiery breath, 
 Met the wounded two in battle, 
 
 In the agonies of death. 
 But they saw each other reeling 
 
 On the dead and dying men, 
 And the old time, full of feeling, 
 
 Came upon them once again. 
 
J. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO 183 
 
 When that night the moon came creeping, 
 
 "With its gold streaks, o'er the slain, 
 She beheld two soldiers, sleeping, 
 
 Free from every earthly pain. 
 Close beside the mountain heather, 
 
 Where the rocks obscure the sand, 
 They had died, it seems, together, 
 
 As they clasped each other's hand. 
 
184 J. F. SIMMONS 
 
 J. F. SIMMONS 
 
 Mr. Simmons was for many years a resident of Sardis, where 
 he was engaged in newspaper work. For a time he held the 
 office of Chancellor. He was the author of two books of verse, 
 "The Welded Link and Other Poems " and "Kural Lyrics. " 
 
 The Undecorated Graves 
 
 AH, many a fallen hero sleeps 
 
 Among the valleys, hills, and plains, 
 
 O'er whom no eye fond vigil keeps, 
 Though memory's casket still retains 
 
 Each well loved name, and o'er it weeps, 
 And will while love or life remains. 
 
 When springtime, with its fragrance, comes, 
 And smiling woods and fields are clad 
 
 In brightest buds and sweetest blooms, 
 And nature joyous seems and glad, 
 
 Naught then should darken loving homes; 
 Yet lingers still one mem'ry sad: 
 
 We seek the spot where loved ones sleep 
 Our cherished, unforgotten dead, 
 
 Whose mem'ries still we fondly keep, 
 
 And o'er them sweetest blossoms spread, 
 
 Which tell of love, sincere and deep, 
 For each one in his lowly bed. 
 
J. F. SIMMONS 185 
 
 And then we turn, with deep-drawn sigh, 
 "With mind oppressed and saddened heart, 
 
 With laden breath and drooping eye, 
 From which the heavy tear-drops start, 
 
 And think of other friends who lie 
 In graves unknown and far apart. 
 
 We think of those, and think with pain, 
 Which time has given calmer tone, 
 
 That, though they fell on hill and plain 
 Where they their heroism had shown, 
 
 Fell bravely, 'mong the hapless slain, 
 Their graves, alas, are all unknown! 
 
 In summer morning's misty light, 
 While dew the tender herbage laves, 
 
 Or through the spring day, softly bright, 
 While corn its silken tassels waves, 
 
 The cattle in their dumb delight, 
 Browse o'er those long-neglected graves. 
 
 And yet the sleepers all were true; 
 
 No truer, braver men than they; 
 Brave those who wore the Union blue 
 
 And those who wore the Southern gray; 
 Though we may know not, never knew, 
 
 Where they are sleeping, far away. 
 
 My loving muse would, for those braves, 
 
 For all, and not my friends alone, 
 Glad that one banner only waves 
 
 And fratricidal war is done, 
 A tribute spread upon the graves 
 
 Undecorated and unknown. 
 
i86 ALBERTA ODELL SMITH 
 
 ALBERTA ODELL SMITH 
 
 Mrs. Smith is a resident of Jackson, in which city she is 
 prominent both in social life and in the various activities of 
 the Women's Clubs. 
 
 The Mother 
 
 I WONDER if the Virgin wore 
 
 A soft and faded gown, 
 I wonder if her eyes were blue, 
 
 And if her hair was brown; 
 
 I wonder if she sat and held 
 
 Her child upon her breast, 
 And gazed with eyes so sad and sweet, 
 
 Upon the golden West; 
 
 I wonder if she thought so deep 
 
 She did not seem to hear 
 The other children playing 'round, 
 
 Though they were very near; 
 
 I wonder if she pressed her lips 
 
 Upon His shining hair, 
 As if she thought that she could hide 
 
 Their gentle trembling there; 
 
ALBERTA ODELL SMITH 
 
 I wonder if she sat quite still 
 Out where the air was sweet, 
 
 As mother sometimes sits and holds 
 Our Ted with twisted feet. 
 
 I cannot see Sweet Mary's face 
 Although I try my best ; 
 
 I only see how Mother looks, 
 With Teddy on her breast. 
 
i88 STEVE W. SMITH 
 
 STEVE W. SMITH 
 
 This author a Mississippian by birth died at Guntown in 
 1917. He was a teacher. His volume of verse, " Rhymes, " was 
 published in 1912. 
 
 My Four Little Scamps 
 
 WHEN came to me, in years gone by, 
 A jewel bearing Heaven's stamp, 
 
 My heart rejoiced as I looked on 
 Each beautiful little scamp. 
 
 During the time they've been with me, 
 Wherever I've pitched my camps, 
 
 I've smiled their happiness to see, 
 And loved my four little scamps. 
 
 The dark clouds are over me now, 
 Soon must I, like earth-tired tramps, 
 
 To the mighty King of Shadows bow 
 And leave my four little scamps. 
 
 When, at the close of my life's day, 
 The Death Angel lights the lamps, 
 
 With my last, dying breath I'll pray: 
 "God bless my four little scamps." 
 
OLIVIA TULLY THOMAS 189 
 
 OLIVIA TULLY THOMAS 
 
 The best known poem by Olivia Tully Thomas, ''A Southern 
 Kepublic, ' ' is too long for insertion here. It was very popular 
 during the Civil War. The poem here published first appeared 
 in the Grenada Picket. 
 
 "When Peace Returns" 
 
 WHEN "war has smoothed his wrinkled front," 
 
 And meek-eyed peace returning, 
 Has brightened hearts that long were wont 
 
 To sigh in grief and mourning 
 How blissful then will be the day 
 
 When, from the wars returning, 
 The weary soldier wends his way 
 
 To dear ones that are yearning, 
 
 To clasp in true love's fond embrace, 
 
 To gaze with looks so tender 
 Upon the war-worn form and face 
 
 Of Liberty's defender; 
 To count with pride each cruel scar, 
 
 That mars the manly beauty, 
 Of him who proved so brave in war, 
 
 So beautiful in duty. 
 
igo OLIVIA TULLY THOMAS 
 
 And when, again, in Southern bowers 
 
 The ray of peace is shining, 
 Her maidens gather fairest flowers, 
 
 And honor's wreaths are twining, 
 To bind the brows victorious 
 
 On many a field so gory, 
 Whose names, renowned and glorious, 
 
 Shall live in song and story, 
 
 Then will affection's tear be shed, 
 
 And pity's, joy restraining, 
 For those, the lost, lamented dead, 
 
 Who are beyond our plaining; 
 They fell in manhood's prime and might: 
 
 And we should not weep the story 
 That tells of Fame, a sacred light, 
 
 Above each grave of glory! 
 
ADA REEDY VANCE igi 
 
 ADA REEDY VANCE 
 
 Mrs. Vance was born in Alabama, but in childhood moved to 
 Mississippi, making her home at Lexington. Sketches of her 
 may be found in "Women of the South Distinguished in Liter- 
 ature/' by Mary Forrest, and in Davidson's "Living Writers 
 of the South. " 
 
 Death by the Wayside 
 
 THIS life is stranger than the tales we read, 
 
 Or dreams that poets have ere yet they sleep ; 
 If truth were written we would have no need 
 
 To turn to fiction when we wish to weep. 
 If we might place the ear close to each heart 
 
 And hear the dull pulsation grief has stirred, 
 No swift compulsion enmity might start 
 
 Could force the lips to frame an unkind word. 
 
 You may have tears, I do not ask them now; 
 
 Enough of these have been already shed 
 For him who wore perchance as fair a brow 
 
 As ever found repose amid the dead. 
 His was a face that one would strive to read, 
 
 And then rejoice to find the task in vain; 
 Because a failure brought the pleasant need 
 
 Of looking on those features once again. 
 
ig2 ADA REEDY VANCE 
 
 And yet when joy or passion's tide ran high 
 
 There was a sudden flush a fever breath; 
 A restless flashing of the brilliant eye 
 
 That told of madness, or an early death; 
 That something which the heart cannot define, 
 
 But knowing fears, and fearing loves the more. 
 We know a heart in love with things divine 
 
 Oft finds the earth no hospitable shore. 
 
 But to my story, and it should be brief 
 
 As that young life it dares to speak of here, 
 Or yet despair may whisper through a grief 
 
 That long since shed its last remaining tear. 
 He left his home and sought another sky, 
 
 Perhaps as blue, but, oh ! not half so kind, 
 As one that held its stars serenely high 
 
 Above the troubled hearts that watched behind. 
 
 But from the depths of that unholy wild 
 
 Unto his home he never came again, 
 For Fate pursued the footsteps of her child, 
 
 And eyes that watched his coming, watched in 
 
 vain. 
 In the cold bosom of that stranger land 
 
 There is a grave from other graves apart; 
 On God's green earth there is a blood-red hand 
 
 Stained with the crimson of that high young 
 heart. 
 
ADA REEDY VANCE 193 
 
 And this is all. The fearful cloud of wrath 
 
 That folds within the lightning's fiery breath, 
 With burning eye marks out its downward path, 
 
 And in one moment scatters it with death. 
 The stars may come with evening's tranquil air; 
 
 And beam as brightly as their wont before, 
 But from some fragrant bower we've reared with 
 care 
 
 Is snatched a fragrant flower that blooms no 
 more. 
 
 ye who have a brother, lover, friend, 
 
 Faint on the threshold of an unknown land, 
 If ye may come and o'er that death-couch bend, 
 
 And close the eyes and fold the nerveless hand, 
 Ye have no cause for tears. He might have died, 
 
 His fair brow pressed to some unholy sod, 
 With none to weep, and none to watch beside, 
 
 Save one whose steel had sent that soul to God. 
 
194 JEANNETTE H. WALWORTH 
 
 JEANNETTE H. WALWORTH 
 
 The author of the following poem was born in Mississippi in 
 1838. She died in 1917. She wrote several novels and books 
 of sketches. 
 
 My Litany 
 
 FROM envy of those whom God has blest 
 With all that this world can give at its best, 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
 From vision so dim it can see but a cloud 
 Enwrapping the world in a sinister shroud, 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
 From hatred and malice, Cain's dark brood, 
 Who can see nothing bright, know nothing good, 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
 From a heart grown hard with struggle long 
 In the battle of life, which is to the strong, 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
 From a folding of hands and a standing still 
 To whimper feebly about " God's will," 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
JEANNETTE H. WALWORTH 195 
 
 From watching afar, while the race is run, 
 The race that my soul and I could have won, 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
 From the blighting of hopes in life's broken plan, 
 From saying "I can't," when I had said "I can," 
 Good Lord, deliver me. 
 
 From a looking backward with cowardly mien 
 To the endless pain of what might have been, 
 Good Lord, deliver me! 
 
ig6 WILLIAM WARD 
 
 WILLIAM WARD 
 
 William Ward was born in Connecticut in 1823, and died at 
 Macon, Noxubee county, in 1887. He came to Mississippi 
 before he was grown; lived for a time at Columbus, and in 
 1850, or thereabouts, went to Macon, where he made his home 
 until his death. In 1870 he became the editor of a paper at 
 Macon, The Beacon; his connection with this paper continuing 
 until he died. For a period that covered many years he con- 
 tributed poems to the leading papers both North and South. 
 
 The Dying Year 
 
 THE year is dying as the dolphin dies, 
 
 Not with the ashen hue, 
 Death's signal color, ere the fading eyes 
 
 See dimly, darkly through 
 The waxen lids. No pallor creeps along 
 The earth and sky; no tone 
 Floats through the air like a funeral song, 
 
 Or like a dying groan. 
 
 The warm rich sunlight gilds the autumn trees 
 
 Whose gorgeous tints are spread, 
 Each toning each, and fringed with heraldries 
 
 Of purple, gold, and red. 
 The crimson myrtle burns upon its stem 
 
 As though a heart of fire, 
 The yellow maple, like an oriflamme, 
 
 Lifts up its banner higher. 
 
WILLIAM WARD 197 
 
 The oak is rich with russet, bronze, and brown, 
 
 And there a purple crest 
 Gleams o'er the forest like a lifted crown 
 
 Some color-god has blest. 
 Loosed by the frost, the sumac's pallid leaves 
 
 Like yellow lance-heads fall, 
 While lights and shadows ever shifting weave 
 
 A net-work over all. 
 
 queenly autumn ! though you proudly lead 
 
 The old year to its death, 
 A glory comes and goes where'er you tread 
 
 With every dying breath, 
 The year is dying, dying as a king 
 
 Dies in his purple. Now 
 His shroud is woven, and its colors fling 
 
 A glory o'er his brow. 
 
ig8 CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD 
 
 CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD 
 
 Mrs. War field was born in Natchez in 1816, and died near 
 Louisville, Kentucky, in 1877. With her sister, Eleanor Percy 
 Lee, she published two books of verse "The Wife of Leon 
 and Other Poems 7 ' and "The Indian Chamber and Other 
 Poems. ' ' During the Civil War and in the years that followed, 
 Mrs. Warfield wrote many stirring Southern poems. Between 
 1860 and the time of her death she published ten or more 
 novels. 
 
 I Have Seen This Place Before 
 
 I HAVE seen this place before 
 
 'Tis a strange, mysterious truth; 
 Yet my foot hath never pressed this shore, 
 
 In childhood or in youth; 
 I know these ruins gray, 
 
 I know these cloisters dim 
 My soul hath been in these walls away, 
 
 When slumber chains each limb. 
 
 In a dream, a midnight dream, 
 I have stood upon this heath, 
 
 And beyond this blue and winding stream, 
 And the lonely vale beneath ; 
 
CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD 199 
 
 The same dark sky was there, 
 "With its bleak shade on my brow, 
 
 The same deep feeling of despair 
 That clings about me now. 
 
 Friend, 'tis a fearful spell, 
 
 That binds these ruins gray; 
 Why came my spirit here to dwell, 
 
 When my frame was far away? 
 Can the wild and soaring soul 
 
 Go out on its eagle sweep, 
 And traverse earth without control, 
 
 While the frame is wrapped in sleep? 
 
 Hath memory caught a gleam 
 
 From a life whose term is o'er, 
 And borne it back in that mystic dream 
 
 Say, have I lived before? 
 Or was prophetic power 
 
 To that midnight vision lent? 
 Is my fate bound up in this ruined tower? 
 
 Speak! thou art eloquent. 
 
200 JENNIE NOONAN WHELESS 
 
 JENNIE NOONAN WHELESS 
 
 Mrs. Wheless, the author of a volume of poems entitled * ' The 
 Wayside Flower/ 7 is a resident of Yazoo City. 
 
 Faint-Hearted 
 
 THEY linger out on the vine-wreathed porch, 
 
 Where clambering roses grow, 
 Where the moonlight slips through dancing leaves, 
 
 With the shadows that come and go; 
 While the night is rare with the jasmine's breath, 
 
 And gently the breezes blow. 
 
 He envies the zephyrs that boldly touch 
 
 The waves of her soft, brown hair, 
 And the moonbeam seeking her rounded cheek, 
 
 Caressing the dimple there; 
 But he only says the day has been long, 
 
 And the evening is wondrous fair. 
 
 He thinks, as her girlish laughter rings, 
 
 That never the song of bird 
 Was filled with such rippling melody, 
 
 And dear is her every word; 
 But he only says the sounds of the night 
 
 Are the sweetest he ever heard. 
 
JENNIE NOONAN WHELESS 201 
 
 He notes each charm of her changeful face, 
 
 And he wonders if her clear eyes 
 Discover that Love is standing near, 
 
 Though he lurks in a coward 's guise; 
 And his own heart weakens in sudden fear, 
 
 And he falters in his replies. 
 
 poor, little, timorous, trembling god ! 
 
 Lay down your arrows and bow. 
 No weapons are needed to vanquish him, 
 
 Who dreads neither peril nor foe, 
 But who stands afraid of a slender maid, 
 
 As she smiles in the moonlight's glow. 
 
202 STARK YOUNG 
 
 STARK YOUNG 
 
 Stark Young was born at Como, Panola county, in 1881, and 
 was educated at the University of Mississippi. For a time he 
 held a chair in the University of Texas; at present, however, 
 he is a member of the faculty of Amherst College, Amherst, 
 Mass. He is the author of three volumes: "The Blind Man 
 at the Window," ' ' Guenevere, M and "Addio, Madretta, and 
 Other Plays." 
 
 Love and Sleep 
 
 A SILENT castle on a gloaming hill, 
 Dark cypresses against a sky that fades, 
 And drowsy homing birds that circling fill 
 The air with wings, from out the shades 
 Chirps and low flutterings and the stir of leaves, 
 The droning choir of flies above the moat, 
 Dull-dropping water and a pasture bell, 
 Lone calling dove with sorrow-laden throat, 
 I thought on all but sleep wrought not her spell. 
 Then came a blank before mine eyes, a flight, 
 And lo! I saw a fairer land, the moon, 
 Watched o'er a pathless sky of summer night, 
 And one sang softly that the hills did swoon, 
 And drew her nearer and smiled and beckoned 
 
 me 
 And then I knew I slept and dreamed of thee. 
 
STARK YOUNG 203 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 I SAW a blind man at his window sitting 
 
 At dusk, and always his poor eager face 
 
 Turned upward where the sweepers voiced the 
 
 space 
 
 And rustled all the dim air with their flitting. 
 He could not see the wind move o 'er the ground, 
 Nor the faint yellow light upon the hill, 
 But only leaned his poor hands on the sill 
 To draw the lovely evening from the sound. 
 Dear God, within this window to the sky, 
 From shadowed chamber of our life we watch, 
 Likewise eager and blind, and haply catch 
 Now airy strain or angel wing brushed by, 
 Or silence rich from the glory of thy day, 
 And, sightless, only hear and feel and pray. 
 
 Reaper's Song 
 
 THE sunlight breaks across the waste, 
 And lights the purple-shadowed fen, 
 Oho, my reapers, reapers, wake, 
 And swing the scythe with me again ! 
 
 "What though to merchants be the gain, 
 And labour starve to fatten trade, 
 To richen us the golden sheaves 
 And music of the clanging blade. 
 
204 STARK YOUNG 
 
 What though the money make the man, 
 And conscience knuckle in to wrong, 
 To us the majesty of toil, 
 And God within the sunrise song. 
 
 So up, my reapers, with the sun, 
 4nd follow me across the fen, 
 Oho, my reapers, reapers wake, 
 
 swing the scythe with me again ! 
 
 The Choice of Death 
 
 IN the deep night to fall asleep 
 With thee in dreams beside me here ! 
 Beyond thy face I see the fields 
 In shadowy starlight far and near, 
 Beyond thy breath I hear the wind 
 Move far-off like some wanderer 
 That with his soaring passion sets 
 The wide wings of the world astir. 
 To look at last on thy still face 
 Even as the dark seals up mine eyes 
 And keep thee yet, though I shall walk 
 Amid the stars of Paradise. 
 
YB 78069 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY