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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 558.K4D55 
 
 Blades o' bluegrass:cholce selections of 
 
 3 1924 021 973 759 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021973759 
 
(t- 'I ^--1' 
 
 
Blades a- Bluegrass 
 
 CHOICE SELECTIONS Or KENTUCKY 
 POETRY, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 AND PORTRAITS OE AUTHORS.^^ 
 
 COnPlLED BY 
 
 A\RS. Fannie Porter Dickey 
 
 MM 
 
 LOUISVILLE 
 
 dOHN P. /NORTON & CO/nPANY 
 
 1892 
 
Copyright by 
 MRS. FANNIE PORTER DICKEY. 
 
 1892 
 
Colonel H. C. Dumtt, 
 
 For his love of Literature, liis pride in the preservation of 
 Kentucky History, and the service he has rendered 
 the State in these things, this Volunne is dedi- 
 cated with the highest respect and 
 esteem of the Connpiler, 
 
PREPACE. 
 
 This volume is offered as a miniature representation of 
 Kentucky verse for the one hundred years that it has been 
 a State. 
 
 The whole field of poetry has been traversed from the 
 pioneer days to the present time, and an effort made to have 
 every known poet of merit represented. 
 
 Besides selections made from published books, there are 
 also many fugitive verses that never went beyond the " Poet's 
 Corner" in a newspaper, while some are here in print for 
 the first time. 
 
 That such a book has been made is due to the courtesy 
 and promptness with which the living writers have responded, 
 and to the friends of literature throughout the State who have 
 assisted and encouraged the work, and it is hoped that the 
 collection mirrors a variety of sentiment that will touch a 
 heart in every household and leave a pleasing influence. 
 
 Thanks are due The Century Company, Belford's Maga- 
 zine, The Round-Table, and Detroit Free Press for privilege 
 
 of poems. 
 
 F. P. D. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 *AiNSi,iE, Hew, 299 
 
 The Ingleside, . 281 
 
 Ai,i<EN, James Lane, Lexington .... 299 
 
 Beneath the Veil, ... 254 
 
 In Looking on the Happy Autumn Fields, 276 
 
 Ai,i,MOND, Marcus B., Louisville, . . 299 
 
 A Consolation, .... 77 
 
 A Sabbath in Autumn .... 83 
 
 Allgood, Joseph, Louisville, 300 
 
 Uncle Pete's Plea, 169 
 
 *AsHTON, Eugene, 
 
 The Dead Past, ... • • • 54 
 
 Diity 35 
 
 Bangs, S. K., Louisville 
 
 The Old Church Bell 74 
 
 *Barrick, J. R . . . 300 
 
 The Beautiful .268 
 
 *Betts, Mary E., 301 
 
 A Kentuckian Kneels to None but God ... 94 
 
 Boi,TON, Sarah T., Indianapolis, Indiana, . ... 300 
 
 Left on the Battle-iield, 241 
 
 Brother, Ai,i,ine, Fort Spring, ... . ... .... 300 
 
 Castles in the Air 180 
 
 *Brown, Mattie N., 301 
 
 Crysanthemums . . 273 
 
 God's Poem ... 225 
 
 Brown, Nei<i-iE La Rue, Louisville 
 
 Japanese Wall Paper, . 32 
 
 Bryan, Stanton P., Brownsboro, 301 
 
 The Wedge, 71 
 
 Aspiration, 93 
 
 *BuTl,ER, WlHIAM O ... . 301 
 
 The Boatman's Horn, 290 
 
 *BuTi,ER, Noble 301 
 
 The Bluebird 293 
 
 Carr, Ai,ice H., Louisville, 
 
 "Sweet Girl Graduate," 36 
 
 '■'Deceased. 
 
VlU CONTENTS. 
 
 Casseday, Miss Jennie, Louisville 301 
 
 A Night-time Song 258 
 
 Cawein, Madison, Louisville 302 
 
 Noera, 167 
 
 Aiidalia 159 
 
 Chords, 151 
 
 Chii,dress, Rufus J., Louisville, , . 302 
 
 The Moods of You 329 
 
 Ode to A Robin 213 
 
 In the Air, 202 
 
 Clark, Florence A., Austin, Texas 303 
 
 A Christmas Pansy 274 
 
 Collins, Mrs. W. Leslie, Frankfort, 303 
 
 A Thought 192 
 
 The Leaf, 233 
 
 *COSBY, FORTUNATUS, 3O3 
 
 A Song, 292 
 
 ■»CosBY, J. v., 304 
 
 Song ■ 289 
 
 Crockett, Ingram, Henderson, 304 
 
 At Yuletide, 152 
 
 Late Afternoon in November, 175 
 
 We Fade as a Leaf, 172 
 
 Cunningham, Mrs. J. J., Louisville, 303 
 
 Cupid's Arrow . . 174 
 
 Yon Tiny Stream 157 
 
 *CuTTER, George W., 304 
 
 The Song of Steam 284 
 
 Davie, George M., Louisville 304 
 
 A Yearn for the Romantic 84 
 
 Night in Venice 78 
 
 Davis, William J., Louisville 304 
 
 Gentleness: A Sonnet 296 
 
 Downes, May Smith, Somerset, 305 
 
 April 126 
 
 The Bird's Song, 114 
 
 Duke, Basil W., Louisville, 305 
 
 Song of the Raid, 243 
 
 David and Goliath, 248 
 
 Durrett, R. T., Louisville 305 
 
 The Old Year and the New in the Coliseum at Rome, ... 98 
 
 To My Sweetheart, 112 
 
 Dyer, Sydner, Indianapolis, Indiana, 307 
 
 Song of The Sunbeam, .... ... . . . . 68 
 
 '-Deceased. 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 Evans, Alexander, Louisville, 307 
 
 My Lute So Loved is Now Unstrung, 191 
 
 Where the Beautiful River, 183 
 
 Fields, W. H., Louisville 
 
 Yesterday, 199 
 
 FiTzHUGH, Nannie Mayo, Lexington 307 
 
 Meeting Rivers, 256 
 
 Answered , 257 
 
 Flippin, M. T., Tompkinsville 307 
 
 Rome, , 43 
 
 The Days of Other Years 51 
 
 Ford, Thomas B., Frankfort, 307 
 
 My Violin, 67 
 
 The Siren, 75 
 
 Dusk, 61 
 
 Ford, Laura C, Owenton 308 
 
 The Household Minstrel 81 
 
 ♦FOSDICK, W. W., 308 
 
 Light and Night, 62 
 
 •Foster, S. C, 308 
 
 My Old Kentucky Home, 64 
 
 Gallagher, W. D., Pewee Valley, . . 308 
 
 The Mothers of The West 76 
 
 May 65 
 
 Woman — Extract, . , 58 
 
 Four Score and One 82 
 
 " Geraldine," 
 
 What Is It? 39 
 
 Hagner, Laura S., Buckner 
 
 The Butterfly 15 
 
 Hamilton, Anna J., Louisville, 309 
 
 Death — A Living King, 275 
 
 At Set of Sun 215 
 
 *Harney, John M., 309 
 
 Echo and The Lover 129 
 
 Harney, Will Wallace, Pine Castle, Florida, 309 
 
 The Stab 95 
 
 In Exile, 107 
 
 The Buried Hope 138 
 
 The Bergamot Blossom, no 
 
 South Florida Night, 121 
 
 The Twilight of the Heart — Extract ... 115 
 
 Harris, Alfred W., Louisville, 309 
 
 Building Castles, 277 
 
 '■'Deceased. 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 »Hart,Joei- T 310 
 
 Invocation to the Coliseum at Rome, 23 
 
 Hays, Wili, S., Louisville, 310 
 
 The Last Hail, 113 
 
 The Faithful Engineer, .... 165 
 
 Hopkins, Edwin S., Jacksonville, 310 
 
 Convolvuli, 63 
 
 After Frost .... . . 70 
 
 The Old Violin, 57 
 
 HosKiNS, John, Louisville .... 311 
 
 A Lullaby, ^ 97 
 
 When Loving Heart's the Goat, . . 92 
 
 Good Morning, ... .80 
 
 JEFFRBY, Rosa V., Lexington ... -311 
 
 A Summer Idyl, 28 
 
 Owl in Church, 7 
 
 Grecian Poetry Versus Modern Science, 19 
 
 jESSEi,, Katie . 
 
 "Earth Has no Sorrow that Heaven Can Not Heal," ... .106 
 
 Johnston, J. Stoddard, Louisville, . 311 
 
 A Dream, 116 
 
 Parting, 122 
 
 To a Marguerite, 108 
 
 *Kei,LEY, a. W. (Parmenas Mix) , 313 
 
 The Old Scissors' Soliloquy 227 
 
 The Bore 224 
 
 Ketchum, Annie Chambers, 314 
 
 A Sea Shell 223 
 
 Amabere Me , 229 
 
 KiNKEAD, NEI,I,IE Tai,boT, Lexington, . . 
 
 Coquette, . . 31 
 
 Last Night, 27 
 
 "Knei<m," 
 
 Solitude 109 
 
 *Littei,i„ Wilwam, . . 
 
 Raptures, .... 287 
 
 Lucas, Owver (Poet of the Asfaltus), Louisville, .... 314 
 
 The Immortal Three, 209 
 
 Tobogganing Down the Hill, ... . . 221 
 
 McAboy, Mary T., 314^ 
 
 A Sonnet 131 
 
 McAfee, Nei,i,y Marshai<i„ Louisville, 314. 
 
 To-morrow 155 
 
 Hills Look Blue When Far Away, 145 
 
 Antithesis . . i^g 
 
 '■'Deceased. 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 McBeath, Tom F., Daleville, Mississippi, 315 
 
 Biopsis — Extract, 134 
 
 McDowELi*, Kate Goldsborough, Louisville, 315 
 
 To Whittier -294 
 
 McHenry, Jennie T 315 
 
 Evening Thoughts 288 
 
 *McIi,VAiN, Ci<ARA L 315 
 
 Love, 218 
 
 Wedding Bells 206 
 
 McKlNNEY, Mrs. J. J. (Katydid), Montgomery, Alabama, .... 316 
 
 Twilight in Kentucky, 291 
 
 Two Songs, 295 
 
 A Bunch of Magnolias, 286 
 
 Spring and Summer, . . . 239 
 
 Mercer, S. C, Hopkinsville 316 
 
 The Strawberry Bowl, .... . . 261 
 
 The New South, . 53 
 
 Blonde and Brunette, 50 
 
 MlI<I,ER, HOVSTARD, 
 
 True Greatness, 147 
 
 To Poesy 204 
 
 Mii,i,ER, Elvira Sydnor, Louisville, ... .... 316 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe, 219 
 
 A Dash Through the Lines, 279 
 
 A Ballad of Poets, ... 212 
 
 *MoRRis, Robert, 317 
 
 The Level and the Square, . . 203 
 
 Memories of Galilee, 255 
 
 Morris, Ida Goldsmith, Glasgow, 317 
 
 My Lady Sleeps 149 
 
 Morton, Jennie C, Frankfort, 
 
 Frankfort, . 141 
 
 The Sweetest Day, . . 158 
 
 Mudd, Alice Havs^Thorne, Louisville, .... 316 
 
 Marble Heart, 205 
 
 MURPHEY, Elizabeth LEE, Dallas, Texas 317 
 
 A Letter of To-day, 123 
 
 Dixie Land, 132 
 
 Murray, Henry C, Frankfort 
 
 In Days to Come, 34 
 
 Murray, Stuart, Danville, 
 
 George Moore, 198 
 
 Noble, Virginia F., Paducah 317 
 
 A May-time Memory 139 
 
 At Dawn of Day 154 
 
 "Deceased. 
 
xu CONTENTS. 
 
 *0'Hara, Theodore 318 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 4° 
 
 0'Mai,i<ey, Chari<es J., Hitesville 319 
 
 Worthiness, 181 
 
 His Birds, 188 
 
 A Kentucky Twilight, 193 
 
 Enceladus 177 
 
 0'Mai,i,ey, Sai<i,ie M., Hitesville, 320 
 
 The Child Singer 162 
 
 0'Sui,LivAN, Daniei< E., Louisville, 320 
 
 To Adelina Patti 211 
 
 Margery, i79 
 
 Death, l6o 
 
 To a Pin, 186 
 
 A Song, 194 
 
 Parham, Eugenia, Paducah, 320 
 
 Vanished, .... 192 
 
 A Happy Woman, * • 182 
 
 Parker, Jo. A., Lagrange, 320 
 
 As in the Long Ago 208 
 
 The Kiss I Stole, 187 
 
 Patterson, J. L., Frankfort, 
 
 To Silence 30 
 
 Piatt, John J., Queenstown, Ireland, 320 
 
 Night Thoughts 260 
 
 The Sight of Angels 245 
 
 The Buried Organ, 259 
 
 Piatt, Sarah M. B., Queenstown, Ireland, 321 
 
 A Doubt, 13 
 
 Stop the Clock '. 6 
 
 The Sermon of a Statue, 24 
 
 Potts, Eugenia Duni,ap, Lexington, 321 
 
 A Reverie, 238 
 
 Pooi,, Arch., Paducah, 
 
 Across the Way, ' 176 
 
 *Prentice, George D., 321 
 
 Mammoth Cave, 9 
 
 To the River in Mammoth Cave— Extract 11 
 
 The Closing Year, 21 
 
 The Dream of Life 26 
 
 A Name in the Sand 35 
 
 On Revisiting Brown University — Extract, 39 
 
 Reynolds, T. T., Glasgow 
 
 To L. B.'s Eyes, 128 
 
 ♦Deceased. 
 
CONTENTS. Xiii 
 
 Rhea, Frank H., Waverly, 322 
 
 The Rock 120 
 
 Love's Trinity 148 
 
 November, 133 
 
 Robertson, Harrison, Louisville, 322 
 
 Aprille, 161 
 
 Perspectives, 118 
 
 An Idle Poet, 150 
 
 The Story of The Gate 130 
 
 Two Triolets 173 
 
 Coquette, 140 
 
 R0l<l,ST0N, Adei,aide D., Paducah, ... 322 
 
 In June, 164 
 
 If I Had Known, 119 
 
 October, 127 
 
 Ruby, Ci,int, Madisonville, 323 
 
 The Violet, 125 
 
 November, 217 
 
 Sempi,e, Patty B., Louisville, 
 
 A Madonna 197 
 
 Sempi<E, Henry C, Louisville 324 
 
 Argumentum, 47 
 
 Maid of Nazareth— Extract, 44 
 
 Faultless, 52 
 
 *Shreve, Thomas H., 323 
 
 Midnight Musings, 230 
 
 Smith, MaTTIe P., Le Sueur, Minnesota, ... ...... 323 
 
 The Prince is Coming 45 
 
 Smith, J. Soui<E (Falcon), Lexington, 
 
 The Modern Tithonus 196 
 
 SPEEri, Thomas, Louisville, 323 
 
 Topping the Locusts, 216 
 
 *Speed, Maj. Thomas, 324 
 
 Autumn Leaves, 222 
 
 Spotswood, p. M., Lexington 324 
 
 I Love You 96 
 
 Dear Old Southern Home, iii 
 
 Stanton, Henry T., Frankfort, 324 
 
 The Moneyless Man, 33 
 
 Drawing It Fine, i 
 
 The Devil's Hollow, 18 
 
 Means to An End, 60 
 
 Sweetheart 49 
 
 Double Life, 25 
 
 Self Sacrifice — Extract, 54 
 
 'Deceased. 
 
XIV CONTENTS. 
 
 Stapp, Bei,i,E Wilson, Buckeye, 324 
 
 Dreamy September, 278 
 
 Swing, Jeannette, Dayton, 325 
 
 The Death of a Soul 38 
 
 Teager, M. M., Flemingsburg 325 
 
 A Valedictory 270 
 
 The Golden Wedding, . . 282 
 
 *Thornton, Sarah C, 325 
 
 Time 174 
 
 Walker, Lizzie, Hartford 326 
 
 How? 47 
 
 The Old Year, 163 
 
 November .... 269 
 
 Walsh, Thomas, Louisville, 326 
 
 The Night Displays the Stars, 226 
 
 *Warpield, Catherine A 325 
 
 Spring Thunder 232 
 
 ♦Washington, William A., ' . . 326 
 
 The Works of Nature 246 
 
 Watterson, Henry, Louisville . . ... 327 
 
 The Cricket, 200 
 
 *Welby, Amelia, 327 
 
 The Rainbow, 14 
 
 Musings — Extract 37 
 
 *WiLS0N, Lizzie, . ... 326 
 
 Leoline — Extract, .... . . 12 
 
 Wilson, Robert Burns, Frankfort .... 327 
 
 A Wild Violet in November 234 
 
 How Spring Comes in the Bluegrass . . 184 
 
 I Shall Find Rest, 195 
 
 The Passing of March, 231 
 
 *WlLSON, FORCEYTHE, 327 
 
 To Hersa, 16 
 
 Wood, Henry Cleveland, Harrodsburg 328 
 
 Completeness, 46 
 
 The Weaver, 55 
 
 Beautiful Hair 36 
 
 Gwendolyne 48 
 
 Reproduction, 12 
 
 Wright, Jean, Louisville, 328 
 
 Ich Liebe Dich 237 
 
 La Glu 240 
 
 5:30 A. M 242 
 
 *Deceased. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY. 
 REUBEN T. DURRETT. 
 HENRY T. STANTON. 
 GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 
 SARAH T. BOLTON. 
 JOHN JAMES PIATT. 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT. 
 ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 
 MADISON CAWEIN. 
 LIZZIE WALKER. 
 HENRY CLEVELAND WOOD. 
 MATTIE P. SMITH. 
 HENRY COOLIDGE SEMPLE. 
 JENNIE JONES CUNNINGHAM. 
 " KATYDID." 
 INGRAM CROCKETT. 
 OLIVER LUCAS. 
 MARCUS B. ALLMOND. 
 STANTON P. BRYAN. 
 M. M. TEAGER. 
 CLINT RUBY. 
 
 EUGENIA DUNLAP POTTS. 
 MRS. FANNIE PORTER DICKEY. 
 
 (Frontispiece.) 
 
- -'-?)-)^ 
 
 DRAWING IT FINE. 
 
 In a shining cloud of meshes, 
 Where a marge of Summer rushes 
 
 To a noisy water dipt, 
 Dwelt a prim, maternal spider. 
 With her grim, brown spouse beside her, 
 
 I^ike two mummies in a crypt. 
 
 And except, perhaps, the shimmer 
 Of a sunset's silver tremor, 
 
 There was not the slightest breath — 
 Not the faintest undulation. 
 In the pendant, hooded station, 
 
 Where they simulated death. 
 
 Every tentacle enfolded. 
 
 Much as if the parts were molded 
 
 Or were carven so from stone; 
 There they sat, without emotion. 
 Staring from a woven ocean, 
 
 From the funnel of their cone. 
 
 When the dry, drawn spider's forces 
 Put its legion pulsate courses 
 
 Thus successfully to rout, 
 Well, indeed, may silence marvel 
 How it is this crimson travel 
 
 Of the venous tide goes out. 
 
BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 We have no such tragic actors 
 As the adept tissue-factors — 
 
 Since they never rant or rave — 
 And there's not a thing in nature 
 Wearing such a perfect feature 
 
 Of the unrelenting grave. 
 
 True, they act this tableau merely, 
 But they mimic death so nearly, 
 
 Being rigid there and still, 
 That the blinded insect rushes 
 Down the silence of their meshes 
 
 To escape some lesser ill. 
 
 So, these consorts sat in quiet, 
 Watching ever for the diet 
 
 To their finished talent due. 
 Waiting patiently and stilly 
 For the winged things and silly 
 
 That were intermitting through. 
 
 By-and-by, upon her vision 
 Came a light of clear decision. 
 
 And the sober matron spoke 
 (She had something like that human, 
 Active impulse of a woman 
 
 In her tongue — the common joke) : 
 
 Having trained our girl and taught her, 
 As a spider should her daughter, 
 
 All the proper things in life, 
 It is time she had our blessing — 
 Though the thought is sore distressing — 
 
 As some decent person's wife. 
 
 I am sure the maid is able 
 Now to run her line of cable. 
 
 Unassisted, from the spool; 
 And as weaver and as spinner. 
 That there's more than common in her, 
 
 I believe, upon my soul ! 
 
DRA WING IT FINE. 
 
 " Only yesterday I saw her, 
 For our neighbor, Mistress Drawer, 
 
 Darning places in her net; 
 Busy there in giving issue 
 To the finest solar tissue 
 
 I have ever noticed yet. 
 
 " She is skilled in all the graces 
 Of the most exquisite laces — 
 
 Quite invisible to me — 
 And I think such work would kill me, 
 With my eyes so very filmy 
 
 I could never, never see. 
 
 " There 's a wanton mass of bushes 
 Just above our line of rushes. 
 
 Where to spread the maiden's net; 
 So, good man, though sad to miss her, 
 Let us bless the child and kiss her, 
 
 Whilst our lives are steady yet." 
 
 And the grim old spider listened, 
 Till upon his optics glistened 
 
 Something not unlike a tear, 
 And with quite a man's agreeing 
 To a woman's way of seeing 
 
 Answered: "As you think, my dear." 
 
 Then the mother called her daughter 
 From a-sporting on the water 
 
 In a little bay below. 
 And the lady-like young spider 
 Came and settled down beside her, 
 
 To the sorrow of her beau; 
 
 For she ceased at once her skating, 
 Left the gallant there awaiting. 
 
 Made a courtesy and flew — 
 Just as every little woman. 
 When she hears her mother summon. 
 
 Ought undoubtedly to do. 
 
BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 It was charming in the tunnel 
 Of their silver-sided funnel 
 
 Thus the family to see; 
 Sitting close to one another 
 Were the father and the mother 
 
 And the daughter — happy three ! 
 
 There their plans were all unfolded, 
 And the maiden's future molded 
 
 In the fancy of the dame ; 
 In the matted brier trellis 
 She should have her silver palace 
 
 And be given up to Fame. 
 
 But alas ! like every other 
 I/iving thing — that has a mother — 
 
 How these fancies went astray! 
 All the goodly things we nurture 
 For the overburdened future 
 
 Pass too fleetingly away. 
 
 So it was, this callow weaver, 
 When her mamma let her leave her. 
 
 Went a little bit too fast; 
 Though she made a fair beginning 
 With her cunning kind o' spinning. 
 
 It was not a kind to last. 
 
 She was full of life, and agile, 
 
 But her shining threads were fragile 
 
 And defective in their length; 
 For she made her woofing wider 
 Than her warping justified her. 
 
 And her fabric wanted strength. 
 
 We have seen a thousand ladies 
 On a rapid way to Hades 
 
 By this very common force. 
 And, exactly like the spinner. 
 They persist in drawing finer. 
 
 When they ought to draw it coarse. 
 
DRA WING IT FINE. 
 
 'Tis peculiar to the human — 
 Where the debutant's a woman — 
 
 To exceed the parent marge; 
 She rejects the frugal spirit 
 She should properly inherit, 
 
 And essays to "go it large." 
 
 And the rule is just as certain, 
 When it's time to lift the curtain 
 
 On the drama of her days. 
 She has found her light ambition 
 At the margin of perdition 
 
 Through the saddest sort o' ways. 
 
 Now, the highest aim that filled her — 
 And the very thing that killed her — 
 
 Was her foolish love for show; 
 For our pulsing spider lady 
 Couldn't keep her palace shady 
 
 In the brier-patch below. 
 
 But she made her nicest hitches 
 On some pendulating switches, 
 
 That her glory might be seen ; 
 And she loitered with her lover 
 All its silver terrace over 
 
 With the leisure of a queen. 
 
 And, as might have been expected, 
 She was readily detected 
 
 By a bandit living near, 
 For the wily robber sparrow. 
 Coming downward like an arrow. 
 
 Made a quiet meal of her. 
 
 And the prim, maternal spider. 
 
 With the grim, brown spouse beside her, 
 
 Sits a silent mummy yet. 
 And the breaking of each morrow 
 Brings her such a meed of sorrow 
 
 As she never can forget. 
 
BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 She is full of sad upheavals, 
 From the crater of her evils, 
 
 For the wrong she did her child, 
 When she taught her only graces 
 In the art of making laces. 
 
 By a vanity beguiled. 
 
 So the two unhappy tenants 
 
 Of the cone are doing penance, 
 
 And their bosoms both are wrung; 
 
 He has chronic gout to bother. 
 
 And this wicked, wicked mother 
 
 Has paralysis of tongue. 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
 STOP THE CLOCK. 
 
 Let this red flower here on the cliffs stay red; 
 
 Let that glad bird sing always in the tree; 
 Let baby keep this pretty yellow head 
 
 And these two dimples, — do you say to me? 
 
 Let these same clouds make this same sky all gold; 
 
 Let these same strawberries last? (You '11 tell me how?) 
 Let's take the world up in our arms and hold 
 
 It where it is, and make forever now? 
 
 Let's sit here always in this wind and sun, 
 And hear the water dripping from the rock? 
 
 Come, then, and tell me how it can be done. 
 What, ho, within there ! some one stop the clock ! 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
OWL IN CHURCH. 
 
 OWI. IN CHURCH. 
 
 In the autumn of 1874 a small gray owl was observed sitting in a 
 niche above the organ of the Episcopal Church, greatly to the amuse- 
 ment of the congregation. 
 
 Fronting us all, 
 
 In a niche of the wall, 
 As if proud of his lofty station, 
 
 lyike a monk in a cowl 
 
 Sat a little gray owl 
 lyooking down on the congregation. 
 
 Hymns and chants as they rose 
 Failed to stir his repose, 
 A grave mien to the holy place suiting. 
 Merely looking surprise 
 With his solemn, round eyes, 
 ' He heard them all through without hooting. 
 
 His feathers he shook. 
 
 And a questioning look 
 On this wise he cast at the people, 
 "You are high-church, 'tis true, 
 
 But I'm higher than you, 
 For my screeching I do in the steeple. 
 
 "If by dropping in here 
 
 Once a week ye appear 
 Thus cleansed from all outward pollution. 
 
 How clean I must be, 
 
 lyiving always, ye see, 
 In the top of this pure institution ! " 
 
 He glanced through the pews, 
 
 As if trying to choose 
 A few from the many, anointed. 
 
 With charity — freed 
 
 From ritual creed (?) 
 I thought that he looked disappointed. 
 
MAMMOTH CAVE. 
 
 MAMMOTH CAVE. 
 
 An, day, as day is reckoned on the earth, 
 
 I 've wandered in these dim and awful aisles, 
 
 Shut from the blue and breezy dome of heaven. 
 
 While thoughts, wild, drear, and shadowy, have swept 
 
 Across my awe-struck soul, like specters o'er 
 
 The wizard's magic glass, or thunder-clouds 
 
 O'er the blue waters deep. And now 
 
 I '11 sit me down upon that broken rock 
 
 To muse upon the strange and solemn things 
 
 Of this mysterious realm. 
 
 All day my steps 
 Have been amid the beautiful, the wild, 
 The gloomy, the terrific. Crystal founts, 
 Almost invisible in their serene 
 And pure transparency; high pillared domes, 
 With stars and flowers all fretted like the halls 
 Of Oriental monarchs ; of rivers dark 
 And drear and voiceless as Oblivion's stream, 
 That flows through Death's dim vale of silence; gulfs 
 All fathomless, down which the loosened rock 
 Plunges until its far-off echoes come 
 Fainter and fainter like the dying roll 
 Of thunders in the distance; Stygian pools 
 Whose agitated waves give back a sound 
 Hollow and dismal, like the sullen roar 
 In the volcano's depths; — these, these have left 
 Their spell upon me, and their memories 
 Have passed into my spirit, and are now 
 Blent with my being till they seem a part 
 Of my own immortality. 
 
 God's hand. 
 At the creation, hollowed out this vast 
 Domain of darkness, where no herb or flower 
 E'er sprang amid the sands, nor dews, nor rains, 
 Nor blessed sunbeams fell with refreshing power, 
 Nor gentle breeze its Eden message told 
 
lO BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Amid the awful gloom. Six thousand years 
 
 Swept o'er the earth ere human footprints marked 
 
 This subterranean desert. Centuries 
 
 Ivike shadows came and passed, and not a sound 
 
 Was in this realm, save when at intervals. 
 
 In the long lapse of ages, some huge mass 
 
 Of overhanging rock came thundering down. 
 
 Its echoes sounding through these corridors 
 
 A moment, and then dying in a hush 
 
 Of silence, such as brooded o'er the earth 
 
 When earth was chaos. The great mastodon. 
 
 The dreaded monster of the elder world. 
 
 Passed o'er this mighty cavern, and his tread 
 
 Bent the old forest oaks like fragile reeds 
 
 And made earth tremble. Armies in their pride 
 
 Perchance have met above it in the shock 
 
 Of war, with shout and groan and clarion blast, 
 
 And the hoarse echoes of the thunder-gun ; 
 
 The storm, the whirlwind, and the hurricane 
 
 Have roared above it, and the bursting cloud 
 
 Sent down its red and crashing thunder-bolt; 
 
 Earthquakes have trampled o'er it in their wrath, 
 
 Rocking earth's surface as the storm-wind rocks 
 
 The old Atlantic ; — yet no sound of these 
 
 E'er came down to the everlasting depths 
 
 Of these dark solitudes. 
 
 How oft we gaze 
 With awe or admiration on the new 
 And unfamiliar, but pass coldly by 
 The lovelier and the mightier ! Wonderful 
 Is this lone world of darkness and of gloom. 
 But far more wonderful yon outer world 
 I,it by the glorious sun. These arches swell 
 Sublime in lone and dim magnificence. 
 But how sublimer God's blue canopy, 
 Beleagured with his burning cherubim 
 Keeping their watch eternal ! Beautiful 
 Are all the thousand snow-white gems that lie 
 In these mysterious chambers, gleaming out 
 
THE RIVER IN THE MAMMOTH CAVE. il 
 
 Amid the melancholy gloom and wild, 
 
 These rocky hills and cliffs and gulfs, but far 
 
 More beautiful and wild the things that greet 
 
 The wanderer in our world of light; the stars 
 
 Floating on high like islands of the blest; 
 
 The autumn sunsets glowing like the gate 
 
 Of far-off Paradise; the gorgeous clouds 
 
 On which the glories of the earth and sky 
 
 Meet and commingle; earth's unnumbered flowers 
 
 All turning up their gentle eyes to heaven; 
 
 The birds with bright wings glancing in the sun, 
 
 Filling the air with rainbow miniatures; 
 
 The green old forests surging in the gale ; 
 
 The everlasting mountains, on whose peaks 
 
 The setting sun burns like an altar-flame; 
 
 And ocean, like a pure heart rendering back 
 
 Heaven's perfect image, or in his wild wrath 
 
 Heaving and tossing like the stormy breast 
 
 Of a chained giant in his agony. 
 
 George D. Prentice. 
 
 O, SOMBER stream, 
 
 Whence comest thou, and whither goest? Far 
 
 Above, upon the surface of old Earth, 
 
 A hundred rivers o'er thee pass and sweep. 
 
 In music and in sunshine, to the sea ; 
 
 Thou art not born of them. Whence comest thou, 
 
 And whither goest? None of earth can know. 
 
 No mortal e'er has gazed upon thy source — 
 
 No mortal seen where thy dark waters blend 
 
 With the abyss of Ocean. None may guess 
 
 The mysteries of thy course. Perchance thou hast 
 
 A hundred mighty cataracts thundering down 
 
 Toward Earth's eternal center; but their sound 
 
 Is not for ear of man. All we can know 
 
 Is that thy tide rolls out, a specter stream. 
 
 From yon stupendous, frowning wall of rock. 
 
1 2 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 And, moving on a little way, sinks down 
 
 Beneath another mass of rock as dark 
 
 And frowning, even as life — our little life — 
 
 Born of one fathomless eternity. 
 
 Steals on a moment and then disappears 
 
 In an eternity as fathomless. 
 
 George D. Prentice. 
 "The River in the Mammoth Cave." 
 
 'TwAS night, and all the burning stars were set 
 Like flaming gems in Nature's coronet- 
 There was a wild wail in the wind's low sigh 
 lyike the last tone of human agony. 
 Odors from myriad flowers were borne along, 
 And wild and sweet arose the night bird's song. 
 'T was midnight, when the awestruck spirit feels 
 That nature her most awful power reveals. 
 
 "Leoline." Lizzie Wii^son. 
 
 REPRODUCTION. 
 
 Two on a sunset gazed in rapturous hush. 
 
 One was a poet, one a child of art; 
 A canvas glowed beneath a master's brush, 
 
 A song divine gushed from the poet's heart. 
 
 Henry Ci,evei,and Wood. 
 
A DOUBT. 13 
 
 A DOUBT. 
 
 It is subtle, and weary, and wide; 
 It measures the world at my side; 
 
 It touches the stars and the sun; 
 It creeps with the dew to my feet; 
 
 It broods on the blossoms, and none, 
 Because of its brooding, are sweet; 
 It slides as a snake in the grass, 
 Whenever, wherever I pass. 
 
 It is blown to the South with the bird; 
 
 At the North, through the snow, it is heard; 
 
 With the moon from the chasms of night 
 It rises, forlorn and afraid; 
 
 If I turn to the left or the right 
 I can not forget or evade; 
 When it shakes at my sleep as a dream. 
 If I shudder, it stifles my scream. 
 
 It smiles from the cradle ; it lies 
 
 On the dust of the grave, and it cries 
 
 In the winds and the waters; it slips 
 In the flush of the leaf to the ground; 
 
 It troubles the kiss at my lips ; 
 It lends to my laughter a sound; 
 It makes of the picture but paint; 
 It unhallows the brain of the saint. 
 
 The ermine and crown of the king, 
 The sword of the soldier, the ring 
 
 Of the bride, and the robe of the priest. 
 The gods in their prisons of stone. 
 
 The angels that sang in the East — 
 Yea, the Cross of my Lord, it has known ; 
 And wings there are none that can fly 
 From its shadow with me, till I die. 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
14 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 I SOMETIMES have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, 
 That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers. 
 Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon. 
 When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; 
 The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers. 
 The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers. 
 While a single white cloud to its haven of rest. 
 On the white wing of peace, floated off" in the west. 
 
 As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze. 
 
 That scattered the raindrops and dimpled the seas, 
 
 Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
 
 Its soft tinted pinions of purple and gold. 
 
 'T was born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth. 
 
 It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 
 
 And, fair as an angel, it floated as free, 
 
 With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 
 
 How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! 
 
 I/ike a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell; 
 
 While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er. 
 
 When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. 
 
 No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer. 
 
 Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there. 
 
 And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 
 
 'Neath the form of an angel that floated above. 
 
 How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! 
 How boundless its circle ! how radiant its rings ! 
 If I looked on the sky, it was suspended in air; 
 If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; 
 Thus forming a girdle, as brilUant and whole 
 As the thoughts of the rainbow that circled my soul. 
 I/ike the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled. 
 It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY. 1 5 
 
 There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
 Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, 
 When the folds of the heatt in a moment unclose 
 I/ike the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. 
 And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky. 
 The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; 
 It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, 
 All fluttering with pleasure and fluttering with love. 
 
 I know that each moment of rapture or pain 
 But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; 
 I know that my form, like the bow from the wave. 
 Must pass from the earth and lie cold in the grave; 
 Yet O ! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, 
 When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, 
 May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold 
 In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold. 
 
 Amelia B. Wei,by. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Sailing so airily over the clover. 
 
 Bending so lovingly over the rose. 
 Who would envy thee, beautiful rover? 
 
 What dost thou know of our life and its woes? 
 
 Thou hast forgotten thy former existence — 
 Wingless and sad 'mid thy mates of the clod — 
 
 So shall our earthly life fade in the distance. 
 When we arise in the likeness of God! 
 
 Laura S. Hagner. 
 
1 6 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 TO HERSA. 
 
 Maiden, there is something more 
 
 Than raiment to adore: 
 
 Thou must have more than a dress, 
 
 More than any mode or mould. 
 More than mortal loveliness, 
 
 To captivate the cold. 
 
 Bow the knightly when they bow, 
 To a star behind the brow: 
 Not to marble, not to dust; 
 
 But to that which warms them: 
 Not to contour nor to bust; 
 
 But to that which forms them: 
 Not to languid lid nor lash, 
 Satin fold nor purple sash; 
 But unto the living flash 
 So mysteriously hid 
 Under lash and under lid. 
 
 But — vanity of vanities — 
 
 If the red rose in a young cheek lies. 
 
 Fatal disguise! 
 For the most terrible lances 
 Of the true, true Knight, 
 Are his bold eyebeams ; 
 And every time that he opens his eyes 
 The falsehood that he looks on dies. 
 
 If the heavenly light be latent. 
 It can need no earthly patent. 
 Unbeholden unto art. 
 
 Fashion or lore. 
 
 Scrip or store, 
 
 Farth or ore 
 
 Be thy heart, 
 Which was music from the start. 
 Music, music to the core. 
 Music, which, though voiceless. 
 
WILLIAM D GALLAGHER, 
 
TO HERS A. 17 
 
 Can create 
 Both form and fate, 
 As Petrarch could a sonnet. 
 That, taking flesh upon it. 
 
 Spirit noiseless, 
 Doth the same inform and fill 
 With a Music sweeter still, — 
 lyives, and breathes, and palpitates, 
 Moves, and moulds, and animates. 
 And sleeps not from its duty 
 Till the maid in whom 'tis pent. 
 From a mortal rudiment. 
 
 From the earth-ceU 
 
 And the love-cell 
 
 By the birth-spell, 
 
 And the love-spell. 
 
 Come to beauty. 
 
 Beauty is music mute. 
 Music's flower and fruit. 
 
 Music's lute: 
 Music's lute be thou. 
 Maiden of the starry brow, 
 (Keep thy heart true to know how!) 
 A I,ute which he alone. 
 As all in good time shall be shown, 
 Shall prove and thereby make his own, 
 Who is god enough to play upon it. 
 
 Happy, happy maid is she 
 
 Who is wedded unto Truth! 
 
 Thou shalt know him, when he comes, 
 
 (Welcome youth!) 
 Not by any din of drums. 
 Nor the vantage of his airs; 
 
 Neither by his crown, 
 
 Nor his gown. 
 Nor by any thing he wears. 
 He shall only well known be 
 By the holy Harmony 
 That his coming makes in thee! 
 
 FoRCEYTHE Wilson. 
 
1 8 BLADES O ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S HOLLOW* 
 
 On Devil's Hill the Day-king still 
 
 His amber robe is trailing; 
 Floats up to sight the Queen of night, 
 
 Her white, sweet face unveiling. 
 In silver cars the courtier stars 
 
 With leal allegiance follow. 
 As kling-go-ling, the cow-bells ring, 
 
 Adown the Devil's hollow. 
 
 How smooth and hard the boulevard 
 
 This Autumn eve for walking; 
 Beneath the cliflfs, in misty skiffs, 
 
 I hear the fishers talking; 
 Above the bridge 'round Devil's Ridge 
 
 Still flits the tardy swallow. 
 And kling-go-ling, the cow-bells ring 
 
 Adown the Devil's Hollow. 
 
 O perfect scene ! The still ravine, 
 
 The bridge, the elm, the river; 
 For love and rhyme the twilight time 
 
 Should linger here forever. 
 No meeter field was e'er revealed 
 
 For Daphne and Apollo, 
 As kling-go-ling, the cow-bells ring 
 
 Adown the Devil's Hollow. 
 
 Though nights to be come fair to me, 
 
 Beyond my fancies' bringing, 
 Where light shall steer some gondolier 
 
 With maids to gittems singing, 
 From distance long shall float the song 
 
 Above their tra-la-la-la. 
 The klang-go-lang the cow-bells rang 
 
 Adown the Devil's Hollow. 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
 *A picturesque ravine near Frankfort, Ky. 
 
GRECIAN POETRY VS. MODERN SCIENCE. 19 
 
 GRECIAN POETRY VERSUS MODERN SCIENCE. 
 
 The startling information is given by a modern chemist of the 
 possibility of preparing alcohol from quartz and flints. — Harper's 
 Scientific Record (old number). 
 
 ThbrE dwelt a youth in ancient Thrace, 
 
 Where voice and lyre entrancing 
 Bewitched with song the human race, 
 
 And set creation dancing. 
 The gods and goddesses above 
 
 Heard him in silent wonder; 
 Juno forgot to lecture Jove, 
 
 And Jove forgot to thunder ; 
 The sea-snakes heard and wagged their tails, 
 
 The porpoise burst with pleasure; 
 The fishes weighed it on their scales, 
 
 And found a perfect measure; 
 The mermaids gathered round in flocks. 
 
 And strewed his path with corals; 
 The sirens heard, and from the rocks 
 
 Cast down their watery laurels ; 
 The trees picked up their trunks and swayed 
 
 About in measures mazy; 
 The rocks rolled 'round and danced and played 
 
 In waltzes wild and crazy. 
 There comes a thrill down listening years 
 
 Throughout creation ringing. 
 Perchance the "music of the spheres" 
 
 Still echoes his sweet singing. 
 Now, Orpheus loved a maid who died 
 
 The day they were united; 
 He wished below to seek his bride. 
 
 And Pluto's realm delighted 
 By striking soft his " golden shell." 
 
 I never have forgiven 
 This seeking for his love in hell 
 
 Before he searched through heaven. 
 
20 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 'Twas like a man to go there first, 
 And scarcely worth remarking — 
 But Tantalus forgot his thirst 
 
 And Cerberus ceased barking. 
 Things without motion swayed about 
 
 While Ixion's wheel stopped turning; 
 And fire was stirred, but not put out, 
 
 And Orpheus left it burning. 
 The vulture even forgot to prey 
 
 While listening to that lyre: 
 Some creatures of the present day 
 
 Might show a like desire. 
 But truth must triumph. 1,0 ! a glance 
 
 Our modern science merits, 
 She says no wonder rocks can dance 
 
 When they're possessed by spirits. 
 A savant gives mysterious hints 
 
 That modern quartz are leaking, 
 And that the fiery hearts of flints 
 
 With vinous streams are reeking. 
 
 *jC #^ ^ 5ji ^ ^j* ^f' *^ 
 
 Let modern humbug still increase : 
 
 I fling with fierce defiance 
 The gauntlet of Poetic Greece 
 
 At prosy modern science. 
 I swear the strains of Orpheus' lyre 
 
 Did cause the stones to frolic, 
 And left them all with hearts of fire 
 
 And nature's alcoholic! 
 O shade of Bacchus ! see with scorn 
 
 Thy purple glories flicker. 
 When mortals, drunk on rye and corn, 
 
 Press rocks for stronger liquor. 
 
 Rosa Vertner Jeffrey. 
 
THE CLOSING YEAR. 21 
 
 THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 'T IS midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
 
 Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 
 
 The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds 
 
 The bell's deep tones are swelling. 'Tis the knell 
 
 Of the departed Year. 
 
 No funeral train 
 Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood. 
 With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, 
 I/ike a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred 
 As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, 
 That floats so still and placidly through heaven. 
 The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 
 Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, 
 And Winter with his aged locks — and breathe 
 In mournful cadences, that come abroad 
 I/ike the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
 A melancholy dirge o'er the dead Year, 
 Gone from the earth forever. 
 
 'Tis a time 
 For memory and for tears. Within the deep. 
 Still chambers of the heart, a specter dim. 
 Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time 
 Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
 And solemn finger to the beautiful 
 And holy visions that have passed away 
 And left no shadow of their loveliness 
 On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts 
 The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love. 
 And, bending mournfully above the pale 
 Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
 O'er what has passed to nothingness. 
 
 The Year 
 Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng 
 Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow. 
 Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course 
 It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful. 
 
22 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
 Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 
 Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
 It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
 The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 
 Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 
 And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 
 The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield 
 Flashed in the light of midday — and the strength 
 Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
 Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
 The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, 
 And fadeth like a wreath of mist at eve; 
 Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air. 
 It heralded its millions to their home 
 In the dim land of dreams. 
 
 Remorseless Time! 
 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
 His iron heart to pity? On, still on 
 He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
 The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
 Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
 The fury of the northern hurricane 
 And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
 Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
 To rest upon his mountain-crag. — But Time 
 Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
 And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
 His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
 O'er earth, hke troubled visions o'er the breast 
 Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink, 
 I/ike bubbles on the water ; fiery isles 
 Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back 
 To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear 
 To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
 Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise. 
 Gathering the strength of hoary centuries. 
 And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
 
INVOCATION TO THE COLISEUM AT ROME. 23 
 
 Startling the nations; and the very stars, 
 Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
 Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, 
 And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. 
 Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away 
 To darkle in the trackless void : yet Time, 
 Time the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
 Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
 Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path. 
 To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
 Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
 
 George d. Prentice. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE COIvISEUM AT ROME. 
 
 A THOUSAND years ago, and thou 
 
 "Wert then a thousand old; 
 The mightiest wreck of splendor now 
 
 Time lingers to behold. 
 And, like thy victims, torn and pale. 
 And falling thou wouldst tell thy tale. 
 
 Thy subject realms from zone to zone. 
 
 Their trophies sent each sea. 
 The suppliant from the shrine, the throne, 
 
 Their tributes borne to thee. 
 While Parian throngs in forms divine 
 
 And gods were ministers of thine. 
 
 And Time hath writ upon thy brow 
 
 Pride and ambition's fall; 
 Wealth, pageant, glory, empire, thou 
 
 Hast reared and buried all; 
 In stern decay, sublime and lone. 
 Art now a moralist in stone. 
 
 JOEi, T. Hart. 
 
24 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE SERMON OF A STATUE. 
 
 (in WESTMINSTER ABBEY.) 
 
 Suddenly, in the melancholy place 
 
 With sculptured king and priest and knight assembled, 
 The music called us. Then, with kindly grace. 
 On a gold head was laid a hand that trembled: 
 " You little stranger, come," the verger cried, 
 "And hear the sermon." "No," the child replied. 
 
 A moment standing on his new-world will. 
 There in the corner of the poets, holding 
 
 His cap with pretty reverence, as still 
 As any of that company, he said, folding 
 
 His arms: "But let that canon wait." And then: 
 " I want to stay here with these marble men. 
 
 "If they could preach, I'd listen!" Ah, they can, 
 Another thought. It pleased the boy to linger 
 In the pale presence of the peerless man 
 
 Who pointed to his text with moveless finger. 
 I/aughing with blue-eyed wonder, he said : " I^ook, 
 This one (but do you know him?) has a book ! " 
 
 ... I know him. Ay, and all the world knows him — 
 
 Among the many poets the only one! 
 On that high head the stained gloom was dim; 
 
 In those fixed eyes the look of gods was lonely. 
 Kings at his feet, to whom his hands gave fame, 
 Lay, dust and ashes, shining through his name. 
 
 I heard him. With the still voice of the dead 
 From that stone page, right careless of derision, 
 
 Sad jesters of a faithless age ! he read 
 How the great globe would vanish like a vision. 
 
 With all that it inhabit. . . . And hath he 
 
 Then writ but one word, and that — Vanity? 
 
 S. M. B. Piatt. 
 
DOUBLE LIFE. 25 
 
 DOUBLE LIFE. 
 
 Over pools of purest water, 
 
 Lying silent, there will come. 
 Soon, or late, the green enamel 
 
 Of a quickened herbage-scum. 
 Taking color from the vesture 
 
 That the margin grasses wear, 
 Till it hides the lambent sparkle 
 
 Of the liquid crystal there. 
 
 So the poet-nature shadows 
 
 All its glory with a cloud. 
 That the soul-light may not dazzle 
 
 In the ordinary crowd; 
 So they hide their real beings. 
 
 So they live and act a part. 
 Making nature but an adjunct 
 
 To the perfectness of art. 
 
 Oh! I hate this outward seeming. 
 
 This unreal, double life, 
 Where the face is full of quiet. 
 
 While the heart is full of strife; 
 For our latent inner-currents 
 
 Would to other currents run. 
 Though the waters of the spirit 
 
 May be hidden from the sun. 
 
 We may live upon the surface. 
 
 We may wear the mantle green. 
 And among the outer beings 
 
 Be as outer beings seen; 
 But the spheres of souls magnetic 
 
 Are beyond the common thrall, 
 And the true life of the poet 
 
 Pulseth under, after all. 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
26 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 'TwAS but a bubble — yet 'twas bright, 
 And gaily danced along the stream 
 Of life's wild torrents in its light 
 Of sunbeams sparkling, like a dream 
 Of heaven's own bliss for loveliness — 
 For fleetness like a passing thought; 
 And ever of such dreams as thee 
 The tissue of my line is wrought. 
 For I have dreamed of pleasures when 
 The sun of young existence smiled 
 Upon my wayward path, and then 
 Her promised sweets my heart beguiled; 
 But when I came those sweets to sip 
 They turned to gall upon my lip. 
 
 And I have dreamed of friendship, too ; 
 
 For friendship's thought was made 
 
 To be man's solace in the shade 
 
 And glad him in the light, and so 
 
 I fondly thought to find a friend 
 
 Whose mind with mine would sweetly blend, 
 
 And as two placid streams unite, 
 
 And roll their waters in one bright 
 
 And tranquil current to the sea. 
 
 So might our happy spirits be 
 
 Borne onward to eternity. 
 
 But he betrayed me, and with pain 
 
 I woke — to sleep and dream again. 
 
 And then I dreamed of love, and all 
 The clustered visions of the past 
 Seemed airy nothings to that last 
 Bright dream. It threw a magical 
 Enchantment o'er existence — cast 
 A glory on my path so bright 
 I seemed to feel and breathe its light; 
 But now that blissful dream is o'er. 
 And I have waked to dream no more. 
 
LAST NIGHT. 27 
 
 Beyond the farthest glimmering star 
 That twinkles in the arch above, 
 There is a world of truth and love 
 Which earth's vile passions never mar. 
 O, could I snatch the eagle's plumes 
 And soar to that bright world above, 
 Which God's own holy light illumes 
 With glories of eternal day! 
 How gladly every lingering tie 
 That binds me down to earth I'd sever, 
 And leave for that blest home on high 
 This hollow-hearted world forever. 
 
 George D. Prentice. 
 
 LAST NIGHT. 
 
 What was it then? The trick of some wild thought. 
 Unguarded, swift, like sudden lightning's flight. 
 Whose ruthless blade doth stab the slumb'rous night 
 And rouse to fierce awaking, passion-fraught. 
 The silent earth? What strange delirium brought 
 Us two, soUl-starved — ^beyond the years of blight. 
 Beyond the weary conflict for the right, 
 And all the hard-earned lesson duty taught — 
 To look once more into each other's eyes. 
 
 As they who love, yet dare not love too well, 
 To feel again the old, glad, sweet surprise. 
 
 And maddening pain the heart half feared to tell? 
 Did I, or you, dear, lose the long control 
 That left us thus, one moment, soul to soul? 
 
 NeIvUE T. Kinkead. 
 
28 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Pictures of sunset, yester eve, 
 
 The still lake underlying, 
 So charmed us we forgot to grieve 
 
 For the sweet summer dying. 
 O sunny noons ! O warm suns set 
 
 Where crystal waters quiver! 
 Days without shadow, save regret 
 
 That they are gone forever! 
 O lambent skies, so pure and bright, 
 
 While realms beyond draw nearer; 
 Our rapt souls wonder, steeped in light. 
 
 If Heaven itself is fairer! 
 O long sweet drives through leafy ways 
 
 Of forests dim and olden. 
 Where softly steal the subtle rays, 
 
 Turning their green shades golden! 
 Through dewy lanes, where summer came 
 
 To blazon her sweet story 
 In cardinal tufts of scarlet flame, 
 
 And mark a path of glory; 
 Down long, bright miles of golden-rod. 
 
 Born of the Day-god's shadow, 
 From sunbeams sown along the sod, 
 
 A nimbus round the meadow; 
 Where flash pale marguerites, starry-eyed. 
 
 Beside their sister daisies. 
 With violet colors, streaked and pied, 
 
 Clust'red in purple mazes; 
 Down where the sweet wild roses thrill 
 
 Faint fragrance to the rushes. 
 And regal lilies, paler still. 
 
 In contrast with their blushes; 
 Unmarked, the hours, like golden darts. 
 
 Through summer vistas flying. 
 Till green leaves turn their bleeding hearts 
 
 To tell us they are dying. 
 
A SUMMER IDYL. 29 
 
 The summer smites through sunny clouds 
 
 Her treasures green and tender, 
 To fit them for their crimson shrouds 
 
 And autumn's funeral splendor. 
 O matchless eves ! your glories sweep 
 
 So low where twilight closes 
 Her purple gates, yon crystal deep 
 
 lyooks heaped with cloud-land roses. 
 And, while I gaze, night's Rembrandt shade 
 
 Falls where the red is waving, 
 Till sun-flushed views, dissolving, fade 
 
 To moonlight's soft engraving. 
 O summer friends of vanished days. 
 
 So calm, so blest, so fleeting. 
 When all have gone their separate ways. 
 
 Where next will be our meeting? 
 Perchance before another year 
 
 Shall bring us summer's blessing. 
 In chains of friendship woven here 
 
 Some dear link may be missing. 
 Fresh childhood, youth, maturer age. 
 
 Swept off by Death's dark tidal. 
 Might leave, alas! one clouded page 
 
 In this, our summer idyl. 
 Old Time will bind with icy chain 
 
 The blue lake's dulcet murmur. 
 And cold storms chant a wild refrain 
 
 Where sang the sweet-voiced summer. 
 But memory sails through sparkling waves, 
 
 And drifts on waters glowing, 
 With sunset fires our path she paves 
 
 Out to the westward rowing. 
 O dreamy scenes of joy and love. 
 
 My soul in beauty steeping, 
 Your pictures live as treasure trove 
 
 In Memory's holy keeping. 
 The songs we sang still steal to me 
 
 From out a mystic gloaming; 
 Ferns wave their plumes, wild-flowers I see 
 
 Through tender vistas blooming. 
 
30 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Friends of one fleeting summer-time, 
 
 'Mid falling leaves we sever; 
 But in my heart, as in this rhyme, 
 
 I hold you fast forever. 
 
 Rosa Vertner Jeffrey. 
 
 TO SILENCE. 
 
 Fall on my senses 
 
 Soft as the drop of drifting snow. 
 
 And soothe my restlessness, sweet Silence. 
 
 Here in this glade, just still 
 
 From vanished song-bird's varying air. 
 Thy presence doth fulfill 
 
 His melody — though sweet to hear, 
 Far sweeter in the memory. 
 
 The very stream rests in her run, 
 
 Or, if she resteth not, thy full embrace 
 
 Keeps her to dance so lightly on 
 As not to stir the daisies in her dress. 
 The lilies on her bosom. 
 
 Here would I lie o' lazy hours. 
 
 Where noiseless nooks make thy retreat, 
 Where butterflies tiptoe upon the flowers 
 
 And naught disturbs thee save the sweet, 
 Sad treble of the trees. 
 
 Fall on my senses 
 
 Soft as the drop of drifting snow; 
 
 Enfold me in thy peace, sweet Silence. 
 
 J. L. Patterson. 
 
COQUETTE. 31 
 
 COQUETTE. 
 
 'Mid hot-house blooms and rarest plants, 
 She stood apart a moment's space, 
 
 A dainty maiden, clad in white. 
 And waved her fan with careless grace. 
 
 (The merry dancers passed her by 
 To strains of sweetest minstrelsy.) 
 
 "For once you deign to speak to me. 
 At last," he said, "I find you here. 
 Ah, well! perhaps you can forget, 
 But I — I have so loved you, dear." 
 
 One moment in his manly clasp 
 
 He held her little, shapely hand, 
 One moment felt with sudden thrall 
 
 The mystic spell of Circe's wand. 
 
 And then he spoke with bitter jest 
 Of woman's faith and woman's love, 
 
 And strove, with cool indifference. 
 Her utter heartlessness to prove. 
 
 (The dancers passed with rhythmic tread; 
 A softened light shone overhead.) 
 
 But when the time for parting came. 
 With broken voice, "I make you free. 
 
 O love," he said, "just for this once. 
 Why need you turn away from me?" 
 
 The small brown head was lower bent, 
 
 A softened light shone overhead. 
 An upward glance was swiftly lent, 
 
 "Because I love you, John," she said. 
 
 (The dancers passed unheeded by 
 The strains of sweetest minstrelsy.) 
 
 NeIiWE Tai,bot Kinkead. 
 
32 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 JAPANESE WALL -PAPER. 
 
 Waifs from carvings arabesque, 
 Framed in arcs and squares grotesque; 
 Esthetes call this droll burlesque, 
 Quaint, novel, dainty, picturesque. 
 
 Roses red with hearts ecru, 
 Ragged robins, gold in hue, 
 Hyacinths, I never knew 
 Earth to give birth to such as you. 
 
 Lilies dark that love the light; 
 Pansies in a sad, sad plight; 
 Poppies, with their breath of night. 
 Keep guard o'er sleep in gilding bright. 
 
 Daisies sporting mammoth crowns; 
 Feathery ferns in russet gowns. 
 Flora can't suppress her frowns 
 At seeing that you dress in browns. 
 
 Bells of blue in whorls of red. 
 Freaks of art. Dame Nature's dread; 
 Fancy born and fancy bred, 
 You never grew in garden bed. 
 
 Grasses tall, but not of green. 
 
 Glints of garnet here are seen; 
 
 Also grays of softer sheen. 
 
 Lines meant for vines run just between. 
 
 Flowers found on chamber wall, 
 Placed in vases far too small; 
 Printed paper, else you'd fall; 
 Bee, bird, and lea disclaim you all. 
 
 Nei,i,y La Rue Brown. 
 
ROSfl VERTNER JEFFREY. 
 
THE MONEYLESS MAN. 33 
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
 
 Is there no secret place on the face of the earth, 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? 
 Whose bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave 
 When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive? 
 Is there no place at all where a knock from the poor 
 Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 
 Ah, search the wide world wherever you can, 
 There is no open door for a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
 Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night. 
 Where the rich-hanging velvet in shadowy fold 
 Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, 
 And the mirrors of silver take up, and renew. 
 In long, lighted vistas, the 'wildering view : 
 Go there ! at the banquet, and find if you can, 
 A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man! 
 
 Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire. 
 Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire. 
 Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
 And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin; 
 Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great 
 In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate; 
 Walk down in your patches and find, if you can, 
 Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man! 
 
 Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told 
 His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; 
 Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, 
 I^ie piles upon piles of the glittering ore ! 
 Walk up to their counters — ah, there you may stay 
 Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs grow gray, 
 And you '11 find at the Banks not one of the clan 
 With money to lend to a Moneyless Man! 
 
 3 
 
34 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown, 
 With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down ; 
 Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, 
 And punishes right while he justifies wrong; 
 Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid. 
 To render a verdict — they 've already made : 
 Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can, 
 Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man! 
 
 Then go to your hovel — no raven has fed 
 
 The wife who has suffered too long for her bread; 
 
 Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost 
 
 Prom the lips of the angel your poverty lost : 
 
 Then turn in your agony upward to God, 
 
 And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod. 
 
 And you '11 find, at the end of your life's little span, 
 
 There's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man! 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
 IN DAYS TO COME. 
 
 In days \.6 come, 
 What thoughts may live, what dreams may rise, 
 To move thy heart, to melt thine eyes? 
 It may be he thou scornest to-day 
 Will hold in undisputed sway 
 
 Thy soul, thy life— 
 
 In days to come. 
 
 In days to come 
 It may be that thy breast of snow 
 Love's unrequited pang shall know; 
 Alone within thy heart may be 
 A sigh for him who plead with thee 
 
 And craved thy love — 
 
 In days to come. 
 
 Henry Churchili, Murray. 
 
A NAME IN THE SAND. 35 
 
 A NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 Alone I walked the ocean strand, 
 A pearly shell was in my hand, 
 I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
 
 My name, the year and day. 
 As onward from the spot I passed. 
 One lingering look behind I cast, 
 A wave came rolling high and fast, 
 
 And washed my lines away. 
 
 And so, methought, 'twill quickly be 
 With every mark on earth of me ; 
 A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of time, and been to me no more — 
 Of me, my day, the name I bore. 
 
 To leave no track or trace. 
 
 And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
 
 And holds the waters in his hands, 
 
 I know a lasting record stands 
 
 Inscribed against my name. 
 
 Of all this mortal part has wrought. 
 
 Of all this waking soul has thought, 
 
 And from these fleeting moments caught. 
 
 For glory or for shame. 
 
 George D. Prenticb. 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 NevbR did artist execute work 
 
 That looked in his own eyes perfected; 
 
 Never a day drew to its close 
 But it saw some duty neglected. 
 
 Eugene Ashton. 
 
36 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 "SWEET GIRL GRADUATE." 
 
 Drinking sunshine, dew receiving, 
 Gathering fruits of Life's good-giving; 
 Trophy-laden, laurel-crowned. 
 Into larger life out-bound — 
 
 "Sweet girl graduate!" 
 
 Life that wakes, and lifts, perfecting; 
 Life, the light received, reflecting; 
 Broadening, deepening into giving. 
 Reaching out to real living — 
 ■'Sweet girl graduate!" 
 
 Turn again your gleaming face. 
 Scan the scene with loving gaze; 
 Know your feet will never more 
 Touch on youthland's care-free shore — 
 "Sweet girl graduate!" 
 
 Ai,icE H. Carr. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL HAIR. 
 
 ThkrE is no glimmer 
 
 Nor shimmer. 
 Nor golden gleams, 
 Like molten streams 
 
 Of sunlight, 
 To dazzle the sight 
 In the beautiful hair. 
 Not golden nor fair. 
 
 That I prize. 
 
 I leave caresses 
 
 For tresses, 
 Floating so light. 
 Darker than night. 
 
 To others, 
 
BEAUTIFUL HAIR. 2)7 
 
 Who have no mothers 
 With silvery hair, 
 Turned thus with the care 
 Of long years. 
 
 But I will render 
 
 And tender 
 l/ove for the care 
 That turned her hair 
 
 So snow-white, 
 From golden bright. 
 Ah! beautiful hair. 
 Not golden, nor fair, 
 
 That I prize. 
 
 I love to linger, 
 
 And finger 
 O'er the dear bands 
 Of silvery strands; 
 
 My treasures, 
 That bring more pleasures 
 Than would jewels rare. 
 Oh, silvery hair. 
 
 So precious ! 
 
 Henry Ci,evei<and Wood. 
 
 The twilight hours, like birds, flew by 
 
 As lightly and as free; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
 
 Ten thousand on the sea; 
 For every wave with dimpled face 
 
 That leaped upon the air 
 
 Had caught a star in its embrace 
 
 And held it trembling there. 
 
 Amelia Wei,by. 
 "Musings." 
 
38 BLADES 0' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF A SOUL. 
 
 "The soul that sinneth" — the words came slow 
 From the lips of a woman bending low 
 O'er a couch where death was drawing nigh, 
 
 "The soul that sinneth, it shall die." 
 
 With a dull, bitter feeling she looked away 
 From the drawn, pinched face of the man who lay 
 So silent there, with slow-drawn breath; 
 She listened to hear the coming of death. 
 
 His soul ! Had it sinned ? Did the Bible mean 
 
 That a soul could die ? Then never again 
 
 In all the years of an infinite sphere 
 
 Would she meet him, the love of her lifetime here? 
 
 She knew he had sinned, aye, well she knew 
 That his life had been wicked. Her own had been, too. 
 His life course was passing; his body was mortal. 
 His soul? Would it not meet her own at some portal 
 
 Of heaven or hell? She did not much care. 
 
 If only he waited and watched for her there. 
 
 And now he was dying ! Did she have to stay 
 
 In existence, when his soul was quite passed away? 
 
 Fven so ! Death had come with a touch light and quick 
 As a candle will flicker and wrap round its wick. 
 He was dead — soul and spirit. For who could deny 
 The words of the Bible — " it surely shall die.'" 
 
 JEANNETTE Swing. 
 
WHAT IS IT? 39 
 
 WHAT IS IT? 
 
 'Tis in the running brooklet as it bubbles on its way; 
 'T is in tbe purple violet, that blooms with modest ray ; 
 'Tis in the quiet moonbeam, when it sleeps upon the wave; 
 'T is in the daisy pure and fair, which decks the lonely 
 
 grave. 
 'Tis in the golden sunset, and in silvery twilight, too; 
 'Tis in the gorgeous sunrise, and in the sparkling dew 
 That adorns the earliest, fairest flowers that open to our 
 
 view. 
 
 'T is in th' awe - inspiring thunder as it sounds thro' earth 
 
 and sky, 
 Followed by the vivid lightning's blaze flashing from on 
 
 high; 
 'Tis in the music of the dense old woods, the rustling of 
 
 the leaves. 
 Around us a tender melancholy a hallowed influence weaves. 
 There is language in all nature ! Did we not ungrateful 
 
 prove, 
 
 Did we let her faithful teaching our hearts but rightly move. 
 
 We 'd learn from e'en the tiniest flower this sacred truth, 
 
 "God is love." 
 
 Gerai,dine. 
 
 The Past ! the silent Past ! pale Memory kneels 
 
 Beside her shadowy urn, and with a deep 
 
 And voiceless sorrow weeps above the grave 
 
 Of beautiful affections. Her lone harp 
 
 Lies broken at her feet, and, as the wind 
 
 Goes o'er its mouldering chords, a dirge-like sound 
 
 Rises upon the air, and all again 
 
 Is an unbreathing silence. 
 
 George D. Prentice. 
 "On Revisiting Brown University." 
 
40 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few. 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 But Glory guards, with solemn round, 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind; 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust. 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed; 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud. 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow. 
 And the proud forms, by battle gashed. 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade. 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast. 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 
 
 The din and shout are past; 
 Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that never more may feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 41 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps his great plateau, 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 
 
 Came down the serried foe. 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was "Victory or death." 
 
 lyong has the doubtful conflict raged 
 
 O'er all that stricken plain, 
 For never fiercer fight had waged 
 
 The vengeful blood of Spain; 
 And still the storm of battle blew, 
 
 Still swelled the gory tide; 
 Not long our stout old chieftain knew 
 
 Such odds his strength could bide. 
 
 'Twas in that hour his stern command 
 
 Called to a martyr's grave 
 The flower of his beloved land. 
 
 The nation's flag to save. 
 By rivers of their fathers' gore 
 
 His first-born laurels grew. 
 And well he deemed the sons would pour 
 
 Their lives for glory too. 
 
 Full many a norther's breath has swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain — 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above the moldering slain. 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 
 Ye must not slumber there, 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air. 
 
42 BLADES 0' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave; 
 She claims from War his richest spoil — 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field, 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield; 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here, 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulcher. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 
 
 Dear as the blood ye gave. 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While Fame her record keeps, 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell. 
 When many a vanquished age hath flown. 
 
 The story how ye fell; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight. 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom. 
 Shall dim one ray of glory's light 
 
 That gilds your deathless tomb. 
 
 Theodore O'Hara. 
 
ROME. 43 
 
 ROME. 
 
 Beside the Tiber's sluggish stream 
 
 Behold the seven giant hills 
 
 Gleam dark above the murm'ring rills, 
 Like mountains in some troubled dream! 
 
 I see the sullen spider creep 
 
 Through ruins of two thousand years; 
 
 I feel the bitterness of tears 
 That Kings and Consuls used to weep. 
 
 I see the timid sunbeams steal 
 Down through a time-worn ruined arch, 
 Where slave and master used to march 
 
 To martial trumpet's ringing peal. 
 
 Again I look ! and deep-blue skies 
 Bend o'er the smiling, joyous earth; 
 I hear the shout, the song, the mirth 
 
 Of Plebeians and Triumvirs rise. 
 
 I see the shade of many a sage, 
 
 I hear the voice of Cicero, 
 
 And Virgil's witch-notes soft and low. 
 As in the distant Golden Age. 
 
 I see the hues of black and green, 
 I see a deeper, darker shade 
 Than painter ever dared or made. 
 
 Steal o'er the weird and haunted scene. 
 
 I feel the awful spirit-spell 
 
 Of ages past creep o'er my soul, 
 I hear the volleying thunders roll. 
 
 The victor shout, the fun'ral knell. 
 
 A warlike spirit, fierce as death. 
 
 Broods o'er these grim, majestic plains; 
 And yet another spirit reigns 
 
 As gentle as an infant's breath. 
 
44 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 I gaze again ! the pageant wild, 
 
 Of legions, banners, bugles, marches. 
 Has died amid the broken arches. 
 
 Where captives wept and victors smiled. 
 
 But now the flashing flags are furled, 
 And crumbled now the splendid dome; 
 This is th' Eternal City— Rome, 
 
 The ancient Mistress of the World. 
 
 Manlius T. Fuppin. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The massive pile of Nazareth stood 
 
 Deep-capped in midnight's sable hood. 
 
 A chilly dampness gathered 'round, 
 
 And all was silence save when sound 
 
 Of sudden gust the tree-top shakes, 
 
 Or hooting owl the quiet breaks. 
 
 And now and then a dash of rain 
 
 Bursts wildly down, and in its train 
 
 The lightning's flame and thunder's roar 
 
 Flung open wide the Storm-king's door. 
 
 In truth it was a fearful night 
 
 To those who love and do the right; 
 
 More fearful still and terribl}' 
 
 It threatened foul iniquity. 
 
 No moon nor stars lent kindly light 
 
 To set the lonely traveler right ; 
 
 But gloom and chill and tempest's crash 
 
 Were varied by the Fire-god's flash. 
 
 "Maid of Nazareth y Henry Coolidge SemplE. 
 
THE PRINCE IS COMING. 45 
 
 THE PRINCE IS COMING. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Prince is coming, coming! 
 
 O robin, do you hear? 
 The Prince is coming, coming 
 
 With sword and shining spear. 
 O all ye blooming grasses, 
 You '11 know him when he passes. 
 
 The sun will shine so clear. 
 
 11. 
 
 The Prince is coming, coming ! 
 
 O fields, put on your green! 
 He has a wondrous palace. 
 
 And I shall be his queen. 
 You'll know him, wild bee rover, 
 For when he smiles the clover 
 
 Will blush with rosy sheen. 
 
 III. 
 
 The Prince is coming, coming ! 
 
 Away with toil and care, 
 I'll bind the red, red roses 
 
 AH in my bonny hair. 
 O birdies, sing your loudest, 
 O roses, blaze your proudest. 
 
 And make me passing fair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Prince is coming, coming! 
 
 Across the bright blue sea; 
 O robin in the tree-top. 
 
 Do you his great ship see? 
 His sails will be the whitest. 
 His pennons stream the brightest 
 
 The day he comes for me. 
 
46 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Prince is coming, coming! 
 
 O daisies, would you see? 
 Crowd closely all the roadside. 
 
 And find how grand we'll be 
 With breeze-tossed plumes a-dancing, 
 And milk-white palfreys prancing 
 
 To kirk across the lea. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then we'll go sailing, sailing! 
 
 O bright will be the day. 
 With all the waves a-glancing, 
 
 And all the winds at play; 
 O breezes blowing after. 
 Crowd all your sails with laughter 
 
 As we go down the bay. 
 
 Martha Pearson Smith. 
 "Appha," an unpublished poem. 
 
 COMPLETENESS. 
 
 "Why use these dull and dingy hues?" I said; 
 The weaver paused, and smiled, and shook his head, 
 And answered, " 'Tis a background for the brighter thread; 
 
 When all is finished, you will see 
 
 How bright the pattern be." 
 
 I pondered o'er the weaver's words and ways ; 
 
 Might it not be that Fate sent darker days 
 
 That we might trace thereon in shining deeds of praise? 
 
 So that I/ife finished, one might see 
 
 How bright the pattern be. 
 
 Henry Cleveland Wood. 
 
ARGUMENTUM. 47 
 
 ARGUMENTUM. 
 
 When Cupid e'er the human heart 
 
 To daring deeds doth urge, 
 How well one plays deceptive pEjrt, 
 And dabbles deep in shamming art, 
 What chains of cunning forge. 
 
 No bolts or bars resist the power 
 
 Of truly loving souls; 
 No altitude of lofty tower, 
 No rugged walls or steel-bound door 
 
 Their course of love controls. 
 
 The vigilance of watchful eyes 
 
 Is but precaution vain; 
 The dauntless swain all care defies, 
 And, bearing off the cherished prize. 
 
 E'en mocks decorum's bane. 
 
 When man once loves, his reason flies, 
 
 All cowardice doth flee; 
 Nor dreams of future woe arise. 
 Nor sorrow caused by severing ties 
 
 Of sweetest sanctity. 
 
 "Maid of Nazareik.'' 
 
 HOW? 
 
 Pray, how could I help it — 
 
 With the gate just between. 
 
 All covered with sweet-smelling vines for a screen? 
 
 And her red lips — Ah, dear me, 
 
 So temptingly near me ! 
 
 Pray, how could I help it — 
 
 With the gate just between? 
 
 Lizzie Walker. 
 
48 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 GWENDOIvYNE. 
 
 'Neath the dusky cottage eaves 
 Is a window framed in leaves, 
 Through them golden sunshine cleaves, 
 And strange patterns ever weaves, 
 Yellow as the harvest sheaves ; 
 
 And sweet Gwendolyne 
 Spins each day her flax with care, 
 Dimpled shoulders, white and bare, 
 And, the rounded arms so fair, 
 Seen through braids of golden hair. 
 Hath she not a pretty air. 
 
 The peasant Gwendolj'ue? 
 
 From the dewy forest glade. 
 
 Where the deer in freedom strayed, 
 
 Through the long arcades of shade, 
 
 Came a princely cavalcade, 
 
 And they saw the peasant maid, 
 The pretty Gwendolyne. 
 
 On they came with stately tread, 
 
 Each with plume above his head, 
 
 Some of white, and some of red. 
 'By my faith!" the leader said, 
 ' Methinks yon is the one to wed," 
 And points to Gwendolyne. 
 
 The brave knight wooed without delay, 
 
 The maiden set her wheel away, 
 
 And with the cavalcade so gay, 
 
 Ju.st at the closing of the day, 
 
 They reached the castle, old and gray, 
 
 The Knights and Gwendolyne. 
 And no more did the hands so fair 
 Know aught of toilsome work or care; 
 But gleaming in her golden hair. 
 And on her breast were jewels rare, 
 Rich-broidered silks had she to wear, 
 
 The Lady Gwendolyne. 
 
 Henry Cleveland Wood. 
 
R T. DURRETT. 
 
SWEETHEART. ■ 49 
 
 SWEETHEART. 
 
 Sweetheart — I call you sweetheart still, 
 
 As in your window's laced recess, 
 When both our eyes were wont to fill. 
 
 One year ago, with tenderness. 
 I call you sweetheart by the law 
 
 Which gives me higher right to feel. 
 Though I be here in Malaga, 
 
 And you in far Mobile. 
 
 I mind me when, along the bay 
 
 The moonbeams slanted all the night; 
 When on my breast your dark locks lay. 
 
 And in my hand, your hand so white; 
 This scene the summer night-time saw, 
 
 And my soul took its warm anneal 
 And bore it here to Malaga 
 
 From beautiful Mobile. 
 
 The still and white magnolia grove 
 
 Brought winged odors to your cheek. 
 Where my lips seared the burning love 
 
 They could not frame the words to speak; 
 Sweetheart, you were not ice to thaw, 
 
 Your bosom neither stone nor steel ; 
 I count to-night, at Malaga, 
 
 Its throbbings at Mobile. 
 
 What matter if you bid me now 
 
 To go my way for others' sake? 
 Was not my love-seal on your brow 
 
 For death, and not for days to break? 
 Sweetheart, our trothing holds no flaw; 
 
 There was no crime and no conceal, 
 I clasp you here in Malaga, 
 
 As erst in sweet Mobile. 
 
 4 
 
50 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 I see the baj'-road, white with shells, 
 
 I hear the beach make low refrain, 
 The stars lie flecked like asphodels 
 
 Upon the green, wide water-plain — 
 These silent things as magnets draw. 
 
 They bear me hence with rushing keel, 
 A thousand miles from Malaga, 
 
 To matchless, fair Mobile. 
 
 Sweetheart, there is no sea so wide. 
 
 No time in life, nor tide to flow. 
 Can rob m}' breast of that one bride 
 
 It held so close a year ago. 
 I see again the bay we saw ; 
 
 I hear again your sigh's reveal, 
 I keep the faith at Malaga 
 
 I plighted at Mobile. 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
 BIyONDE AND BRUNETTE. 
 
 Two clouds, gold and purple, at sunrise contending. 
 Two chords of rare music contrasting and blending. 
 Through the Carnival flying, like sunshine and shadow 
 Pursuing each other o'er mountain and meadow, 
 Swept our Blonde and Brunette, all radiant with joy — 
 Cleopatra of Egj'pt and Helen of Troy. 
 
 The Blonde is a dew-spangled morning in June, 
 When birds, breeze, and bee with the sun are in tune ; 
 Her lips and the rose scent the crystalline air. 
 And the sunshine is lost in the gold of her hair. 
 The Brunette is a ray of the mystical light 
 Which falls from the moon on a Midsummer night, 
 And visions celestial of Dream-land arise 
 From the luminous depths of her violet eyes. 
 
 S. C. MERCER. 
 
THE DAYS OF OTHER YEARS. 5 1 
 
 THE DAYS OF OTHER YEARS. 
 
 'Tis true I may not seem to weep, 
 
 Or grieve at gath'ring cares; 
 But jealous guard doth memory keep 
 
 O'er days of other years. 
 
 These days may ope their golden store, 
 And yield the wealth that's theirs; 
 
 But oh! they never can restore 
 The days of other years. 
 
 Less golden now the evening shadow, 
 
 Or morning's blush appears; 
 More bright the sheen of field and meadow 
 
 In days of other years. 
 
 The moonlight on the glassy mere, 
 
 Fond memory endears; 
 How bright the birds and blossoms were 
 
 In days of other years ! 
 
 Sometimes no joy comes to repress 
 
 The flood of falling tears; 
 And then in memory I bless 
 
 The days of other years. 
 
 In vain I wander in my dreams 
 
 From these discordant years. 
 And gaze back at the light that gleams 
 
 In days of other years. 
 
 Dear mem'ry sometimes comes to me. 
 
 And takes my hand in hers, 
 And down her vista lets me see 
 
 The days of other years. 
 
 Far back in glorious setting cast. 
 
 The brightest hour appears; 
 
 And I must seek my joys at last 
 
 In days of other years. 
 
 Mani,ius T. Fi,rppiN. 
 
52 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 FAUIvTLESS. 
 
 MANUS PUI.CHERRIMA QUAM UNQUAM VIDI. 
 
 I/iKE a mould of flawless marble, 
 
 With the hue of fallen snow, 
 Perfect in each curve and dimple, 
 
 Is the fairest hand I know. 
 It is soft and smooth as satin, 
 
 And each vein is like a thread. 
 Faintly colored with the azure 
 
 Of the Summer skj' o'erhead. 
 
 And each finger is a pattern. 
 
 Far beyond the sculptor's tool, 
 Graceful as the drooping willow. 
 
 Bending near some silent pool ; 
 Tipped with color of the moss-rose, 
 
 lyOvely as the fleur-de-lj^s — 
 Ever will my admiration 
 
 For that fairy hand increase. 
 
 E'en its touch is light and tender. 
 
 Gentle as the zephyr's breath; 
 Just the hand to press the forehead 
 
 Paling 'neath the blight of death. 
 Feeble words can ne'er the beauty 
 
 Of that angel hand portray; 
 O forgive me if this measure 
 
 Taketh from its charms away. 
 
 Henry Cooi,idge Semple. 
 
THE NEW SOUTH. 53 
 
 THE NEW SOUTH. 
 
 SwBET were my dreams along thy streams, 
 
 Old Soutli, in bygone days, 
 Till war's red cloud, 'mid thunders loud. 
 
 Consumed them in its blaze : 
 Suwanee's old plantation scenes, 
 
 Where wUd bees filled the comb; 
 The banjo and the moonlight dance 
 
 Of old Kentucky Home. 
 
 The New South wakes ! the New South shakes 
 
 The dew-drops from her mane. 
 For idle grief brings no relief; 
 
 The past comes not again. 
 To manly hearts and patient souls 
 
 Heaven sanctifies each loss; 
 Two angels. Toil and Patience, bear 
 
 To heaven the Southern Cross. 
 
 New South! New South! unseal thy mouth, 
 
 Thy golden age is come, 
 Invention's soaring harmony 
 
 And labor's busy hum. 
 The Old South dies; with beaming eyes 
 
 The New South hastens in — 
 So boyhood's toys are cast aside 
 
 When manhood's deeds begin. 
 
 S. C. MERCER. 
 
54 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE DEAD PAST. 
 
 The dead past will not bury its dead; 
 
 The corpses of lost hopes will rise 
 From their half-covered graves, and fill 
 
 The present with their ghostly cries : 
 
 "That still shall be which once has been!" 
 Till the present is a death levee, 
 Where the past in warning tones 
 Shows the future what it will be. 
 
 We can not rise to goodly deeds. 
 
 But an attendant ghostly train 
 Bids us mistrust our very strength. 
 
 And in our joy prepare for pain. 
 
 The faithless ones we trusted rise. 
 And will not dwell amid the past. 
 
 But make us fear that each new friend 
 May prove a faithless one at last. 
 
 Eugene Ashton. 
 
 "Only such as keep in storage 
 
 Goodly bins, from Summer forage. 
 
 May the barren days defy; 
 For the dreamy thing that lingers 
 With the blossom in its fingers, 
 
 When the Winter comes, may die." 
 
 "Self Sacrifice" Henry T. Stanton. 
 
THE WEAVER. 55 
 
 THE WEAVER. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The sun climbed up the eastern hills, 
 And through the dewy land 
 
 Shot gleams that fell athwart the rills, 
 That sang on every hand. 
 
 Upon the wood and in the air' 
 There hung a mystic spell. 
 
 And on the greensward everywhere 
 Soft shadows lightly fell; 
 
 And in a cottage where the bloom 
 
 Of roses on the wall 
 Filled all the air, there was a loom 
 
 Well built of oak, and tall. 
 
 All through the fragrant Summer day 
 
 A maiden, blithe and fair, 
 Sat at the loom, and worked away. 
 
 And hummed a simple air: 
 
 SONG. 
 
 "Oh! idle not, ye leafy trees, 
 Weave nets of yellow sun. 
 And kiss me oft, O balmy breeze ! 
 My task is but begun." 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Still higher in the hazy sky 
 
 The sun climbed, on and on, * 
 
 Then Autumn winds came rushing by. 
 
 For Summer flowers were gone. 
 
 Now sat a mother at the loom, 
 
 The shuttle flew along 
 With whirr that filled the little room 
 
 Together with her song: 
 
56 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " O shuttle ! faster, faster fly, 
 For know ye not the sun 
 Is climbing high across the sky, 
 And yet my work's not done?" 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The sun shot gleams of amber light 
 
 Along the barren ground, 
 And shadows of the coming night 
 
 Fell softly all around. 
 
 And in the little cottage room. 
 
 From early dawn till night. 
 The weaver sat before the loom. 
 
 Her hair was snowy white. 
 
 The hands were palsied now that threw 
 
 The shuttle to and fro. 
 And as the fabric longer grew. 
 
 She sang both sweet and low: 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Half hidden in the rosy west, 
 I see the golden sun. 
 And I shall soon begin my rest, 
 My task is almost done ! " 
 
 The Spring again brought joy and bloom. 
 And kissed each vale and hill. 
 
 But in the little cottage room 
 The oaken beam was still. 
 
 The swaying boughs with rays of gold 
 
 Wove nets of yellow sun, 
 And cast them where a headstone told 
 
 The weaver's task was done. 
 
 Henry Cleveland Wood. 
 
THE OLD VIOLIN. 57 
 
 THE OLD VIOLIN. 
 
 " Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both 
 young men and old together." Jer. xxxi, 13. 
 
 When the old man taps with his foot on the floor, 
 
 As the bow trips over the strings, 
 And the violin sighs to its quivering core, 
 
 lyike love when the bluebird sings, 
 There 's a jubilant ring to the schottische and waltz. 
 
 And the jigs and the reels he plays. 
 That flushes the cheeks while it quickens the pulse 
 
 For a whirl in the redolent maze. 
 
 When the tense bow rocks to the equinox 
 
 Of a wild melodious rain, 
 And the violin screams like a girl in dreams 
 
 At the kiss of an amorous swain. 
 Then the old man sighs with a mist in his eyes 
 
 As he hugs it up to his chin. 
 And he holds it near that his soul may hear 
 
 The ravishing strains within. 
 
 When the room resounds with the jocund sounds 
 
 Of the tunes that are always new. 
 And the waltzers go like sparks that glow 
 
 When the backlog burns in two, 
 Then his joy runs o'er like a dripping oar 
 
 'Mid waves of widening rings, 
 Till its ripples pour on the far-off" shore 
 
 Where Memory's galleon swings. 
 
 And he dreams he plays of departed days 
 
 With Love in the heart of June, 
 And the lips he kissed laugh out of the mist 
 
 Of the haze of the honeymoon, 
 And his fingers twitch as they catch the pitch 
 
 Of the measures she loved to tread. 
 
 Till the sweet old air is a voicing rare 
 
 Of the dream of a waltzer dead. 
 
 Edwin S. Hopkins. 
 
58 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 In acknowledgment of a copy of " Lucile " presented by a friend. 
 
 In the highways of I/ife, here and there, now and then, 
 Amid muslin call'd ladies, and buckram call'd men, 
 One meets, though the race is now hardly styled human, 
 A man that's a man, and a woman that's woman; 
 Such scorn not to drink of the waters of truth. 
 That flow, pure and cool, from the fountains of youth; 
 Nor reject, for roast beef and plum-pudding, the meal 
 Fitly seasoned and served by the hand of I^ucile. 
 
 Ivucile! oh thou sweetest of self-immolators 
 
 That e'er walk'd the walks of the world in French gaiters; 
 
 Thou purest of Sisters, and bravest of Nuns, 
 
 Thou shouldst have borne daughters — thou shouldst have 
 
 left sons; 
 But failing of these — perhaps lyife's lesser part — 
 Thou still hast left offspring that sprang from thy heart. 
 Having just enough falsehood truth's force to reveal. 
 And just enough art art's device to conceal. 
 
 It is true — is it not? that the beings we know 
 
 As the beings of mind, are the beings that flow 
 
 From nearer the sources of trial and truth. 
 
 From nearer the fountains of freshness and youth. 
 
 Than the beings of muslin and buckram we meet 
 
 In the gilded saloon, or the church, or the street; 
 
 The alembic of Genius from which they proceed. 
 
 From the sickness and sin of humanity freed, 
 
 From the gloss of its crime, and the grime of its error. 
 
 From its frenzy, its fume, its despair, and its terror. 
 
 Gives existence to purer and loftier lives 
 
 Than are borne to most husbands by most of their wives. 
 
 Ah, lyucile — Alfred Vargrave — Eugene de I^uvois — 
 
 If well "put on the stage," what "large houses" you 'd draw! 
 
WOMAN. 59 
 
 But as given to tlie page of Life's prophet, the Poet, 
 
 You draw better still, and the " trade sales " all show it. 
 
 From which I conclude, — as I'm certain I may, — 
 
 That the world has still some men and women who pay 
 
 Willing tribute to all that ennobles the race, 
 
 And due homage to woman whene'er she displays 
 
 The uplifting emotions, the purposes high, 
 
 The unchanging resolve or to do or to die 
 
 For the truth of the tongue, and the faith of the heart. 
 
 Which we feel were Lucile's — which Lucile could impart. 
 
 ^J^ vt^ ^i^ kI' ^1^ ^^ ^1^ ^1^ ^1^ ^1^ 
 
 Woman's strength is her virtue — her will — her desire — 
 That exalt her, sustain her, forbid her to tire ; 
 The priestess of Nature, interpreting God, 
 She is like much that Nature spreads grandly abroad; 
 Yet she 's not the strong river that flows to the sea, 
 Nor the wild waste of waves that engulf it is she. 
 But the vine that clings close to the husbanding wall. 
 Having faith it will not be permitted to fall — 
 Neither it nor its fruit. She's the angel that brings 
 Down the jewels of heaven to the crowns of earth's kings; 
 Though unheeded so oft, she's the voice that to man 
 Speaks as not e'en the voice of an archangel can. 
 
 Woman's strength is her virtue — her will — her desire 
 
 For a love that is purer — a life that is higher — 
 
 A truth that is surer — a faith that is stronger — 
 
 A hope that is brighter — a charity longer, 
 
 And broader, and deeper, and oh! much benigner; 
 
 With an impulse that ever incites her to twine her 
 
 White arms and sweet purposes round what is pure. 
 
 And serene, and unselfish, and sinless and sure. 
 
 What the rose to the garden, the leaf to the tree, 
 
 And the grass to the plains, to man's mansion is she; 
 
 Like the sun to the earth — like the stars to the skies — 
 
 She 's the warmth of his love, and the light of his eyes ; 
 
 But she 's more than all this : she 's companion, friend, wife, 
 
 Without whom man might live — but, would living be Life? 
 
 w. D. Gai,i,agher. 
 
6o BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 MEANS TO AN END. 
 
 Would you compass this world in your limit of time, 
 No desert to cross and no mountain to climb, 
 With passage by rivers in meadows so sweet 
 That everywhere flowers fall fresh at your feet? 
 Would you subjugate soul, and for life's recompense 
 Take only such grail as will gratify sense? 
 There 's a way— and it 's clear as the light to your eye — 
 For Pleasure 's a thing that your money can buy. 
 
 Do you wish to sit high in the councils of men, 
 
 In places attained by the one of the ten, 
 
 In seats for the good, and the great, and the grand. 
 
 Who utter the laws and are lords of the land? 
 
 Do you wish to be ruler and guide of your kind. 
 
 With never a right from the patent of mind? 
 
 There 's a way — and it 's short — you may sit very high — 
 
 Position's a thing that your money can buy. 
 
 Do you care to be famous for wisdom or wit. 
 
 By reason of words that another has writ. 
 
 By reason of logic in eloquent speech. 
 
 Or figures or fancies far out of your reach? 
 
 Do you wish for renown from the tongue and the pen. 
 
 When, to measure your brain, you must go to the wren? 
 
 If you do, it is yours — though your life is a lie — 
 
 For Fame is a thing that your money can buy. 
 
 Do you seek to be coupled with beauty and grace. 
 Perfection of manner, of form, and of face. 
 With her who approaches an angel so near 
 That earth is evanished and heaven is here? 
 Do you seek to be wed and be drowned in the bliss 
 Of the arms and the lips of a creature like this? 
 There 's a way — but, alas ! be it said with a sigh — 
 A Wife is a thing that your money can buy. 
 
DUSK. 6 1 
 
 Thus Pleasure, Position, and Fame, and a Wife 
 You may find on the earth in your limit of life ; 
 You may live as a bee in the heart of a rose, 
 With never a care for your soul to the close. 
 With only life's nectar exhausted from bloom, 
 And open before you the gate of the tomb ; 
 But life after death with the angels on high 
 Is one of the things that your money can't buy. 
 
 Henry T. Stanton. 
 
 DUSK. 
 
 Out from the phantom forests of the West 
 
 The black-winged bats of the night are flying. 
 The whippoorwill drowsily chants of rest. 
 And the brown owl, crooning within its nest, 
 Moans o'er the couch of the daylight dying. 
 
 And the swallows circle above the trees 
 In the purple haze, yet slightly golden. 
 
 While, softly, the fluttering, whispering breeze 
 
 I/Ow murmurs in tremulous melodies 
 Of by-gone hours and of legends olden. 
 
 And the clime of the Sun-set far away. 
 Known only in dreams or magic story. 
 
 Is seen through a mist, as the dying day 
 
 A moment lingers, with parting ray. 
 Then disappears in a cloud of glory. 
 
 Thomas B. Ford. 
 
62 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 LIGHT AND NIGHT. 
 
 Out through the loom of light, 
 When comes the morning white, 
 Beams, like the shuttle's flight. 
 
 Other beams follow, 
 Up the dawn's rays so slant, 
 Forth from his roof and haunt, 
 
 Darts the swift swallow. 
 
 Back like the shuttle's flight 
 Sink the gold beams at night. 
 Threads in the loom of light 
 
 Grow dark in the woof. 
 All the bright beams that burn 
 Sink into sunset's urn — 
 Swallows at night return 
 
 Home to their roof 
 
 Thus we but tarry here 
 A moment, a day, a year — 
 Appearing, to disappear — 
 
 Grosser things spurning. 
 Departing to whence we came, 
 Leaving behind no name — 
 Like a wild meteor flame 
 
 Never returning. 
 
 Back to the home of God 
 Soul after soul departs, 
 And the enfranchised hearts 
 
 Burst through the sod; 
 
 Death does but loose the girth 
 
 Buckling them on to earth. 
 Promethean rack ! 
 
 Then from the heavy sod 
 
 Swift to the home of God 
 The Soul, like the Shuttle and Swallow, flies back. 
 
CONVOLVULI. 63 
 
 The Swallow, Shuttle, Soul and lyight. 
 All things that move or have a breath, 
 
 Return again to thee at night — 
 To thy dark roof, O ancient Death! 
 
 WlI<I<IAM W. FOSDICK. 
 
 CONVOLVULI. 
 
 Blow open, bugles of bloom, 
 
 O beautiful bugles of bloom! 
 Wake to life at the kiss of the dew. 
 
 Untwist in the odorous gloom; 
 Wake to die at the death of the dew, 
 
 O beautiful bugles of bloom I 
 
 Blossom in purple and white, 
 
 In crimson and scarlet and white, 
 Tempt the kiss of the amorous sun. 
 
 Bloom of the midsummer night; 
 Lift your lips to the amorous sun 
 
 In crimson, scarlet, and white. 
 
 Blush into roseate red. 
 
 From pink into roseate red. 
 Tremble and droop at his hot caress, 
 
 Till faded and withered and dead; — 
 Dead for the love of his hot caress, 
 
 Mingle your purple and red. 
 
 Edwin S. Hopkins. 
 
64 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. 
 
 The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; 
 
 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; 
 The corn top 's ripe and the meadow 's in the bloom, 
 
 While the birds make music all the day; 
 The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 
 
 All merry, all happy, all bright; 
 By'm-by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door, — 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Weep no more, my lady; O weep no more to-day! 
 We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
 For our old Kentucky home far away. 
 
 They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, 
 
 On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; 
 They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 
 
 On the bench by the old cabin door; 
 The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart. 
 
 With sorrow where all was delight; 
 The time has come when the darkies have to part. 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! 
 
 The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, 
 
 Wherever the darkey may go; 
 A few more days and the troubles all will end 
 
 In the field where the sugar canes grow; 
 A few more days to tote the weary load — 
 
 No matter, it will never be light ; 
 A few more days till we totter on the road; 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! 
 
 Stephen Coi,i,ins Foster. 
 
HENRY T. STANTON, 
 
MAY. 65 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye, 
 
 Merry, ever merry May ! 
 
 Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers, 
 
 Bursting buds and breathing flowers! 
 
 Dripping-lock'd and rosy-vested, 
 
 Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested ; 
 
 Girdled with the eglantine. 
 
 Festoon' d with the dewy vine : 
 
 Merry, ever merry May, 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye ! 
 
 Out beneath thy morning sky ! 
 
 Dian's bow still hangs on high! 
 
 And in the blue depths afar 
 
 Glimmers, here and there, a solitary star. 
 
 Diamonds robe the bending grass, 
 
 Glist'ning early flowers among — 
 Monad's world, and fairy's glass, 
 Bathing fount for wandering sprite — 
 
 By mysterious fingers hung 
 In the lone, and quiet night. 
 Now the freshening breezes pass — 
 Gathering, as they steal along, 
 Rich perfume, and matin song — 
 And quickly to destruction hurl'd 
 Is fairy's diamond glass, and monad's dewdrop world. 
 lyO ! yon cloud, which hung but now 
 Black upon the mountain's brow, 
 Threatening the green earth with storm — 
 See! it heaves its giant form. 
 And, ever changing shape and hue, 
 But still presenting something new. 
 Moves slowly up, and spreading rolls away 
 Toward the rich purple streaks that usher in the day ; 
 Bright'ning, as it onward goes, 
 
 5 
 
66 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Until its very center glows 
 
 With the warm, cheering light the coming sun bestows : 
 
 As the passing Christian's soul, 
 
 Nearer the celestial goal, 
 
 Bright and brighter grows, till God illumes the whole. 
 
 Out beneath thy noontide sky, 
 On a shady slope I lie. 
 
 Giving fancy ample play; 
 And there 's not more blest than I, 
 
 One of Adam's race to-day. 
 Out beneath thy noontide sky; 
 Earth, how beautiful ! — how clear 
 Of cloud or mist the atmosphere ! 
 What a glory greets the eye! 
 What a calm, or quiet stir. 
 Steals o'er Nature's worshiper — 
 Silent, yet so eloquent. 
 That we feel 't is heaven-sent — 
 Waking thoughts that long have slumber'd 
 Passion-dimm'd and earth-encumber'd — 
 Bearing soul and sense away, 
 To revel in the Perfect Day 
 That 'waits us, when we shall for aye 
 Discard this darksome dust — this prison-house of clay ! 
 
 Out beneath thy evening sky ! 
 
 Not a breeze that wanders by 
 
 But hath swept the green earth's bosom — 
 
 Rifling the rich grape-vine blossom. 
 
 Dallying with the simplest flower 
 
 In mossy nook and rosy bower — 
 
 To the perfum'd green-house straying, 
 
 And with rich exotics playing — 
 
 Then, unsated, sweeping over 
 
 Banks of thyme, and fields of clover ! 
 
 Out beneath thy evening sky! 
 
 Groups of children caper by, 
 
 Crown'd with flowers, and rush along 
 
 With joyous laugh, and shout, and song. 
 
MV VIOLIN. 67 
 
 Flashing eye, and radiant cheek, 
 Spirits all unsunn'd bespeak. 
 They are in Life's May-month hours — 
 And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but Life's 
 flowers ? 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye, 
 
 Merry, ever merry May! 
 
 Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers, 
 
 Bursting buds, and breathing flowers ; 
 
 Dripping-lock' d, and rosy-vested, 
 
 Violet-slipper'd, rainbow-crested ; 
 
 Girdled with the eglantine, 
 
 Festoon'd with the dewy vine; 
 
 Merry, ever merry May, 
 
 Would that thou couldst last for aye! 
 
 W. D. Gallagher. 
 
 MY VIOLIN. 
 
 Across the trembling, thrilling strings. 
 Entranced I draw the magic bow. 
 
 And all the quivering twilight rings, 
 With echoes of the long ago. 
 
 With sweet, sad strains of by-gone years, 
 Once waked by her who died so young. 
 
 The mingled notes of smiles and tears. 
 In love's exquisite accents sung. 
 
 The tender, wailing air ascends. 
 Till drifting down through golden bars, 
 
 An Angel's anthem with it blends. 
 That floats from far beyond the stars. 
 
 Thomas B. Ford. 
 
68 BLADES ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 SONG OF THE SUNBEAM. 
 
 I 'm the bright sunbeam ; 
 
 I flit as I dream, 
 Which gently comes down from the skies, 
 
 When sleep with delight 
 
 Holds infancy bright, 
 To close up its soft silken eyes. 
 
 O'er lake and o'er sea. 
 
 As tripping with glee. 
 Reflected my beauties I trace; 
 
 So rapt is the wave. 
 
 As lightly I lave. 
 It trembles as still we embrace. 
 
 I lie in the rose. 
 
 When freshly unclose 
 Its leaves to the sun and the breeze; 
 
 I skip o'er the plain 
 
 And ripe waving grain. 
 Or glide o'er the leaves on a tree. 
 
 I shun not the cot. 
 
 Where poverty's lot 
 Holds often the wise and the good; 
 
 Through hatch and through pane 
 
 I leap in again, 
 A gift all unsullied from God. 
 
 I shrink from the halls 
 
 And thick curtained walls. 
 Where wealth lies in sorrow all day; 
 
 But in at the door 
 
 Where dwelleth the poor 
 A daily warm visit I pay. 
 
SONG OF THE SUNBEAM. 69 
 
 I never will shrink 
 
 From the cataract's brink, 
 But paint on its moisture my bow; 
 
 And down on the stream 
 
 With radiance gleam, 
 As stars flashing up from below. 
 
 On Death's pallid cheek 
 
 I often will seek 
 To glow with the beauty of even; 
 
 But, finding has fled 
 
 The soul of the dead. 
 Will mount with it gladly to Heaven! 
 
 The night for a while 
 
 May shadow my smile. 
 Then Nature in sorrow will reek ; 
 
 I '11 come o'er the lawn 
 
 At first peep of dawn 
 And wipe each sad trace from its cheek. 
 
 In each opened grave 
 
 I '11 pour in my wave 
 
 To show there is light in the tomb; 
 
 And smiling will say. 
 
 Come, this is the way 
 
 To where I eternally bloom! 
 
 Sydner Dyer. 
 
70 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 AFTER FROST. 
 
 When the leaves are off the bushes and the quails begin to 
 
 pipe, 
 An' the hickory nuts are fallin' an' the pawpaws good and 
 
 ripe, 
 An' the twigs you step so careful on are sure to snap an' 
 
 crack. 
 An' you whistle to the setter, an' the squirrel jaws you 
 
 back — 
 Oh, them's the kind o' days fer me to meet the risin' sun, 
 With huntin' boots an' trousers an' a double-barreled gun; 
 When the woods are full of happy sounds of every sort an' 
 
 type. 
 An' the leaves are off the bushes an' the quails begin to 
 
 pipe- 
 There 's a kind o' free-like feelin' broken loose inside o' you, 
 An' you want to holler awful, but you know you dassen't to; 
 Fer the frosty woods is alius full o' skeery-hearted things, 
 From the fussy little partridge, with its whizzin', whirrin' 
 
 wings. 
 To the leapin', long -eared cotton-tail, 'at goes a-skippin' 
 
 hence, 
 An' the frisky little chipmunk on the top rail o' the fence, 
 Where he giggles till he doubles up as if he had the gripe, 
 When the leaves are off the bushes and the quails begin to 
 
 pipe. 
 
 There 's a sort o' dreamy sadness too, a feller often feels, 
 With his game-bag full o' pheasants an' the setter at his 
 
 heels, 
 As he plods across the medders at the settin o' the sun. 
 An' thinks about their whirrin' wings an' bangin' of his gun; 
 An' things '11 come to him about the souls of birds an' men. 
 An' happy huntin' grounds 'at 's in the everlastin' when, 
 'At makes his heart as tender as a piece o' pickled tripe, 
 When the leaves are off the bushes an' the quails begin to 
 
 " " ■ Edwin S. Hopkins. 
 
THE WEDGE. 7 1 
 
 THE WEDGE. 
 
 Once I wandered down a hill-side, 
 Reckless where the pathway led, 
 
 Gathering wild flowers sweet and lovely 
 To adorn a fair one's head. 
 
 Till I reached a little river. 
 Rippling in its pebbly bed. 
 
 Sat I on its verdant border 
 
 Where a clump of violets grew; 
 Some were white, and some were yellow, 
 
 Some were amethystine blue; 
 So I gathered of each color 
 
 Just a few — the choicest few. 
 
 Long I sat and watched the river, 
 
 Listening to its cheerful song; 
 For it sang in gentle murmurs 
 
 As it slowly flowed along, — 
 Glanced sweet notes from the smooth pebbles 
 
 Which the waters flowed among. 
 
 Gently leaping, slowly creeping, 
 
 Down a hollow in the hill. 
 O'er the pebbles, through the grasses, 
 
 Wound a tiny, tinkling rill, 
 Till it leaped into the river. 
 
 Whose broad bed it strove to fill. 
 
 Where the rivulet and river 
 
 Sweetly mingled into one. 
 Scores of little fragile bubbles 
 
 Danced and glistened in the sun; — 
 Dancing, jostled one another 
 
 Like wee children in their fun. 
 
72 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Lying just below the junction, 
 With its apex toward the shore, 
 
 Pointing very slightly upward, 
 Large, and smoothly polished o'er, 
 
 Was a long, broad, wedge-like pebble- 
 Edgewise on the sandy floor. 
 
 And it reached above the waters. 
 For they were not very deep; 
 
 Scarce a single wavelet, playful, 
 Ventured o'er the wedge to leap; 
 
 But they slowly wended 'round it. 
 Lulling the cold wedge to sleep. 
 
 And the bubbles, gaily floating, 
 All attracted by the wedge. 
 
 Rushed with bold precipitation 
 
 'Gainst its smoothly polished edge; 
 
 Some swept past its upper border. 
 Some along its lower ledge. 
 
 Those that gained the upper current 
 Soon were far out in the stream. 
 
 Riding buoyantly and proudly. 
 Glistening in the golden gleam, 
 
 Dazzling with their iris colors. 
 Like a youthful poet's dream. 
 
 Those that with the lower current 
 Swept along the wedge's side, 
 
 In a little whirling eddy 
 For a moment paused to ride; 
 
 Then, escaping from the whirlpool, 
 Floated down the river's side. 
 
 And they slowly, slowly floated, 
 Clinging to the weedy shore, 
 
 Half concealed amid the shadows 
 Of the broad leaves drooping o'er. 
 
 Till they perished in the shadows 
 Of the rank weeds on the shore. 
 
THE WEDGE. 'Jl 
 
 Two I saw of equal merit, — 
 
 Or at least I viewed them so, — 
 Fondly clinging to each other. 
 
 To the heartless pebble go; 
 One just gained the upper border, 
 
 And the other passed below. 
 
 One I saw in vacillation 
 
 Clinging to the smooth, sharp edge; 
 Once I thought it past redemption 
 
 Borne along its lower ledge. 
 When a fitful breeze a-puffing 
 
 lyifted it above the wedge. 
 
 Then I asked myself the question — 
 "Is it just, O, is it fair, 
 That a single line of difference. 
 
 Interposing as it were. 
 Should divide the proud and buoyant 
 
 From those drooping in despair?" 
 
 Thus it is with other bubbles — 
 
 Human bubbles they, alas ! 
 Thus a single line divideth 
 
 'Twixt the poet and the ass; 
 And th' opinion of the critic 
 
 Is the stony wedge they pass. 
 
 While the fitful breeze a-puffing 
 
 Is the plaudit of the mass. 
 
 S. P. Bryan. 
 
74 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH BELL. 
 
 From an unpretentious steeple 
 
 It is calling to the people, 
 In a sweet, strong voice, "Come along, 
 
 Come ye higli and come ye lowly 
 
 To the Temple of the Holy, 
 And swell our hallelujah with your song." 
 
 " Come along, come along, come along," 
 Is the clear interpretation of its song, 
 And the child that stops to listen can very plainly tell, 
 When its iron voice is saying, 
 " I 'm ashamed of your delaying, 
 It 's enough to try the patience of the Old Church Bell." 
 
 Years to us it thus has spoken, 
 
 Tho' in accents somewhat broken. 
 And no sound is more familiar and none we love so well. 
 
 When a rosy, cheerful dawning 
 
 Ushers in a Sunday morning 
 With the urgent invitation of the Old Church Bell. 
 
 Ah, how merrily it swings 
 
 When the marriage call it rings, 
 And the fair young bride is coming, with no secret now to 
 tell, 
 
 The belfry's tongue may ring it 
 
 On the waves of sound that bring it 
 From the palpitating bosom of the Old Church Bell. 
 
 But its glad notes seem to alter. 
 
 And its iron tongue to falter. 
 When it 's called upon to utter the slowly measured knell, 
 
 Then its spirits seem to languish 
 
 And to share in human anguish 
 With all the tender sweetness of the Old Church Bell. 
 
THE SIREN. 75 
 
 Tho' apart from it we go 
 
 On a tide that wills it so, 
 We shall hear it when our thoughts on old times dwell; 
 
 We'll then recall again 
 
 All the pleasure and the pain 
 Blent with the intonations of the Old Church Bell. 
 
 S. K. Bangs. 
 
 THE SIREN. 
 
 There is a cruel Siren always singing unto me, 
 
 Of a bright and happy future and of things that are to be ; 
 
 And her songs they are enchanting, as beneath a crescent 
 
 moon, 
 She chants of bounteous harvests and a golden - freighted 
 
 June. 
 
 And she has sung those songs to me through all the weary 
 
 years, 
 And I have watched and waited long in hopes and doubts 
 
 and tears; 
 A watching, and a waiting for the happy things to be, 
 That this cruel, cruel Siren sings so constantly to me. 
 
 But still the night grows longer, and the stars begin to 
 
 wane; 
 As o'er my rough and rugged way still falls that mocking 
 
 strain ; 
 And still I struggle onward, toward a silent, unknown sea. 
 While this deceitful Siren sings of things that are to be. 
 
 Thomas B. Ford. 
 
76 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-I,and ! 
 
 Stout-hearted dames were they; 
 With nerve to wield the battle-brand, 
 
 And join the border fray. 
 Our rough land had no braver 
 
 In its days of blood and strife — 
 Aye, ready for severest toil, 
 
 Aye, free to peril life. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-I,and ! 
 
 On old Kentucky's soil, 
 How shared they, with each dauntless band, 
 
 War's tempest and life's toil ! 
 They shrank not from the foeman. 
 
 They quail'd not in the fight. 
 But cheer'd their husbands through the day. 
 
 And sooth'd them through the night. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-I^and ! 
 
 Their bosoms pillow'd Men; 
 And proud were they by such to stand 
 
 In hammock, fort, or glen; 
 To load the sure old rifle — 
 
 To run the leaden ball — 
 To watch a battling husband's place. 
 
 And fill it should he fall. 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-I^and ! 
 
 Such were their daily deeds; 
 Their monument — where does it stand? 
 
 Their epitaph — who reads? 
 No braver dames had Sparta — 
 
 No nobler matrons Rome — 
 Yet who or lauds or honors them, 
 
 Ev'n in their own green home? 
 
A CONSOLATION. TJ 
 
 The mothers of our Forest-Land ! 
 They sleep in unknown graves; 
 And had they borne and nursed a band 
 
 Of ingrates, or of slaves, 
 They had not been neglected more. 
 
 But their graves shall yet be found, 
 And their monuments dot here and there 
 "The Dark and Bloody Ground!" 
 
 W. D. Gai,i,aghbr. 
 
 A CONSOLATION. 
 
 If the bird but sing its sweetest 
 
 While it poises on the wing. 
 If the bud is the completest 
 
 In the rosy wreath of Spring, 
 
 If the dew-drop's pearly beauty 
 
 Gives new joy unto the leaf. 
 This is life, for this is duty; 
 
 This is life, though it be brief. 
 
 In a thousand thousand morrows. 
 Read it through your blinding tears, 
 
 Twenty winters with their sorrows 
 Are a weary length of years; 
 
 Twenty summers with their flowers, 
 With their birds and bees and braes, 
 
 Are but one of all the hours 
 In the shortest of the days. 
 
 ■ Marcus Bi<akey Ai,i,mond. 
 
78 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 NIGHT IN VENICE. 
 
 (aftbr ai,pred de musset.) 
 
 In Venice, the sea's daughter, 
 No boat awakes the water; 
 No fisher rows benighted, 
 No torch moves, to and fro. 
 
 On his column, grim and dark, 
 The Lion of Saint Mark 
 Crouches, with foot uplifted 
 On the horizon. 
 
 Around him, moored in groups. 
 Ships, barges and sloops 
 Sleep on the smoking water, 
 I/ike herons, in circles. 
 
 Bare as from winter blasts. 
 Rise a forest of masts; 
 In the fitful breaths of midnight 
 Interlacing their pennons. 
 
 As a maiden from her lovers. 
 The Night her moon-face covers 
 With veil-like clouds; bejeweled 
 Diamond-like, with stars ; 
 
 Or, like a Nun, benighted 
 In the lonely skies, affrighted, 
 Draws her black-rolled hood of clouds 
 Down on her surplice. 
 
 The ancient towers, the arches, 
 The halls, the pillared porches, 
 The stately marble stairways 
 Of the merchant kings ; 
 
NIGHT IN VENICE. 79 
 
 The statues, white as moons, 
 The bridges, the lagunes 
 Whereon the breezes sprinkle 
 The broken star-beams; 
 
 All are silent: save the guards 
 Trailing their hallebardes 
 As they tramp the battlements 
 Of the grim arsenals. 
 
 How many eyes now glisten. 
 How many ears now listen, 
 To catch a form or footstep 
 As the lover comes. 
 
 How many, half arrayed 
 For the midnight masquerade. 
 O'er their beauty, at their mirrors, 
 Draw the black mask down. 
 
 On her perfumed couch, enshrined, 
 La Vanina now, reclined. 
 Still presses to her bosom 
 Her lover as she sleeps. 
 
 Gay Narcissa, wild with folly, 
 Hither, thither, heedless wholly, 
 In her gondola unguided. 
 Gives the night to revel. 
 
 Who, save we, are melancholy 
 In this land of love and folly ? 
 Who, save we, give not to rapture 
 Such hours as these? 
 
 Let us look no more, — my Fair, — 
 On the moonlight-mellowed air; 
 On the sea, the sleeping city 
 Of loveliness and loves : 
 
8o BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 l,et yon antique horologe 
 On the palace of the Doge 
 Count its long ennuis of hours, 
 Through the silent night: 
 
 I^et us leave to it, its duty; 
 I^et us only count, my Beauty, 
 On thy haughty lips the kisses 
 Given, and forgiven; — 
 
 Count thy heart's throbs, and hushes, 
 And the flushing, fading blushes ; 
 And the tears of tender languor 
 In thy violet eyes. 
 
 And, in Venice, the sea's daughter. 
 When morn awakes the water, 
 Let us, like the sea-born city. 
 Dream anew the past ! 
 
 Georgb M. Davie. 
 
 "GOOD MORNING." 
 
 " Good morning ! " saith the rosy God 
 
 Of new-born day. "Good morning," 
 As from the eastern skies he sweeps 
 The clouds away, and, blushing, peeps 
 Upon the waking earth, that leaps 
 
 From sleep, fresh robes adorning. 
 Bedeck'd with drops of pearly dew 
 
 Is ev'ry leaf and spray. 
 And flowers peep out, of every hue. 
 
 To greet the God of day. 
 May thy good mornings cloudless be, 
 
 Thy heart be of good cheer; 
 
 Thy bright star yet beams bright for thee, 
 
 My star-eyed sister, dear. 
 
 John Hoskins. 
 
GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 
 
THE HOUSEHOLD MINSTREL. 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD MINSTREL. 
 
 An enchanter, I ween, 
 
 Is the singer unseen 
 Whose note — when the sky becomes starred — 
 
 Riseth up from the screen 
 
 Which lieth between 
 Ourselves and the queer little bard. 
 
 There are symphonies grand 
 
 In the wondrous bird-land; 
 Chords seeming of magical birth; 
 
 But in all the broad scope 
 
 No minstrel can cope 
 With the cricket that chirps in the hearth! 
 
 Not one of them flies 
 
 To the heart and there lies 
 So warm in our mirth or our grief — 
 
 None charms from the eyes 
 
 The tears as they rise 
 Like that home-song, sweet, tender, and brief! 
 
 So while everywhere 
 
 There 's a plenteous share 
 Of music to gladden the earth. 
 
 There is none can compare 
 
 To the minstrel so rare — 
 The cricket that chirps in the hearth! 
 
 Laura C. Ford. 
 
82 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 " FOUR SCORE AND ONE." 
 
 We wait for the gates to open, 
 
 Wait together, Faith and I, 
 And the twilight of Life comes sweetly, 
 
 As the years glide gently by. 
 From the past loved voices call us, 
 
 That call from the future too; 
 And we know, by the tokens left us 
 
 Of a life serene and true. 
 That soon, on some bright to-morrow, 
 
 When the wings of this flesh are furl'd, 
 We shall join them again, and forever, 
 
 In that brighter and better world. 
 
 We know not, we ask not, we think not — 
 
 For we do not care to learn — 
 If the gates to that world are of jasper, 
 
 Or on golden hinges turn; 
 Nor whether, when once within them. 
 
 On diamonded streets we tread, 
 So that there, in the light and the glory 
 
 Of God, we shall meet with the dead — 
 With the dead, who have gone before us. 
 
 And the wings of the spirit unfurl'd 
 To the beauty and brightness and glory 
 
 Of that other and better world. 
 
 Still the old familiar faces 
 
 From old coverts sweetly look. 
 And we hear glad voices singing 
 
 With the breeze and with the brook; 
 Yet we know that they are but echoes 
 
 And reflections from above; 
 So, from earth we turn to heaven 
 
 For the beings of our love. 
 And we wait for the gates to open. 
 
 Wait together, Faith and I, 
 While the Night* comes down with its shadows, 
 
 And the Dayf is drawing nigh. ' 
 
 W. D. GALLAGHER. 
 -Death. fThe Resurrection. 
 
A SABBATH IN AUTUMN. 83 
 
 A SABBATH IN AUTUMN. 
 
 Dull, stately day of stark repose, 
 
 All nature steeped in listless awe: 
 The sky with gray clouds hooded o'er 
 
 Locked in inexorable law; 
 
 Sere leaves from drooping boughs flit down 
 And deck the earth in sombre dress, 
 
 While woodland birds their notes prolong 
 Piped in a voice of sore distress. 
 
 The rose has left its parent stem. 
 
 The honey-suckle lost its sweet. 
 Gray grasses bow their flayed brown heads 
 
 Down at the meadow-o^ak's broad feet. 
 
 The rich man cheers his gloomy thought 
 With wine and song and change of scene; 
 
 The poor man longs- for Labor's stroke 
 To make this arid desert green. 
 
 The callow youth whom Summer lured 
 
 To dreams Utopian in their build. 
 Grow restless, cheerless, and now find 
 
 The voices of their love-notes chilled. 
 
 A fitting scene — a cortege moves 
 Along the drenched streets to the tomb; 
 
 The dead-march fills and thrills and stills 
 The crushed heart of this day of gloom. 
 
 Marcus Bi,akey AlIjMOnd. 
 
84 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A YEARN FOR THE ROMANTIC * 
 
 "Knighthood's dauntless deed, 
 And Beauty's matchless eye." 
 
 [In view of the lamentable tendency of late toward the modern 
 inanities of Esthetics, the following has been prepared, by one of 
 the Old Romantic School, with the endeavor to restore a healthy 
 taste for the Mediaeval and the Strong, to induce a return to the 
 chivalric pages of Scott, of Bulwer, and of G. P. R. James, and to 
 lead to a revival of feeling for the stalwart old days of Knighthood 
 and of the Troubadour.] 
 
 I. 
 THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 When a-weary of this living, with its gaining and its giving, 
 
 And its toiling and its traffic, and its tame pursuit of 
 
 gold— 
 
 I recall at what a high rate lived the Poet, Knight and Pirate, 
 
 As they fought, and sung, and swaggered, in heroic days 
 
 of old ! 
 
 II. 
 
 THE KNIGHT ERRANT. 
 
 "With a chivalry romantic, and with love and honor frantic, 
 With a cross upon his armor, and a spur upon his heel, 
 
 He would bind him in indentures to impossible adventures. 
 And to rid the world of evil — or to never take a meal! 
 
 Then, to slay the dark deceiver, or the wicked unbeliever, 
 He would swim the deepest river, and would sleep upon 
 the sward; 
 
 To subdue a horrid schism, he would risk the rheumatism — 
 All, to prove his high devotion to his I^ady, and his Lord. 
 
 * This poem, which has been pronounced the finest joco-serious in the language, 
 was written by George M. Davie, an eminent lawyer of IvOuisville, Ky., and in its 
 first form, shorter than now, published in the " Bric-i-brac " of the Century for April, 
 1882. The exquisite Section IV (" The I,adye-I,ove ") has been added since.— Ed. 
 
A YEARN FOR THE ROMANTIC. 85 
 
 Then it was not looked absurd on, if he wore a lady's 
 guerdon 
 Whom he loved to desperation — but he didn't know by 
 sight — 
 Or would ride a distant journey, to indulge in joust or 
 tourney, 
 To maintain her matchless beauty over any caitiff Knight. 
 
 Then, their statutory vapor, upon parliamentary paper, 
 Couldn't dwarf his noble nature with debilitating "laws"; 
 
 For he stopped not to construe 'em, with their horrid 
 "meum," "tuum," 
 But survival of the fittest proved the justice of his cause ! 
 
 He would glare and shake his lances, for belligerent ad- 
 vances. 
 While his armor clanked and rattled from his head unto 
 his toe; 
 From his helmet of pot -metal, like the steam from out 
 a kettle, 
 He would blow his fierce defiance at his mediaeval foe: 
 
 Then, confiding in his science, and the Saint of his reliance, 
 With his battle-axe and bludgeon he would cut, and thrust, 
 and guard, 
 Till their shields would clang together, like the bells in 
 foggy weather. 
 And the blows upon their armor clattered like a boiler- 
 yard! 
 
 Then, to slay a brazen Dragon was n't thought a thing 
 to brag on; 
 As to massacre a Giant was an every-day affair; 
 And 't was nothing but a wassail to assail an Ogre's castle 
 And deliver noble damsels, who were hanging by the 
 hair. 
 
 He would swear on sword and altar that he'd never halt 
 or falter 
 Till he 'd help the True Religion sack the Saracenic hive ; 
 
86 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Then, the unbelieving village was the prey of pious pillage, 
 That the Turk could be converted — if he happened to 
 survive. 
 
 That his valor, so resplendent, might be wholly indepen- 
 dent. 
 He was bothered not with baggage, and the other minor 
 ills ; 
 From Jerusalem to Gaza there was scarce a comb or razor. 
 And an almost utter absence of all washerwoman's bills. 
 
 When the long Crusade was over, then he'd rest awhile 
 in clover; 
 And around the kingly table he would royster and regale ; 
 Jolly monks would utter benison o'er the haunch of royal 
 venison. 
 And the beards would wag with wisdom as they quaffed 
 the yellow ale. 
 
 Thus, a-battling and a-bouting, and a-rioting and routing, 
 Prom Palestine to Paris, on the land and on the sea. 
 
 Though perhaps a little gory, yet he led the life of Glory— 
 Ah! how brave, and true, and noble was the Knight of 
 Chivalry ! 
 
 ni. 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 With a jaunty cloak and swagger, and a jewel -handled 
 dagger. 
 And a lute across his shoulder by a ribbon — blue, at that ! 
 And his breeches never bigger than would show his shapely 
 figure. 
 And a fascinating feather in his funny little hat; 
 
 Not fat and roly-poly — like that parody Brignoli 
 
 Singing sentiment affected to a mercenary tune — 
 But a Poet, young and slender, he would charm the tender 
 gender. 
 As he sighed his soul in music at the maiden, or the 
 moon. 
 
A YEARN FOR THE ROMANTIC. 87 
 
 He would rove the land and ocean, on tlie sliglitest whim 
 
 or notion; 
 He would sing the tender rondeau; he would tell the 
 
 merry tale; 
 He would thrill the fierce Crusader; he would turn a 
 
 serenader ; 
 He would banquet in the castle ; he would billet in the jail. 
 
 And the Queens and noble maidens doted on his sere- 
 nadings, 
 And they dropped him down a ribbon, or a glove, or lock 
 of hair; 
 Or, in lieu of rope or stringlets, loosed their long and silken 
 ringlets, 
 And the minstrel, bold and loving, climbed up — as you 
 might a stair! 
 
 Thus, he poached , on others' manors, and he fought for 
 others' banners. 
 And he dined at others' tables, and he droned in others' 
 hives ; 
 And he livened others' journeys, and he rhymed of others' 
 tourneys, 
 And he emptied others' flagons, and he flirted others' 
 wives. 
 
 So, he wandered forth a-warring, and a-rhyming and gui- 
 taring, 
 And, in attitudes artistic, tinkled lum-te-tum-ty airs; 
 And the ladies all adored him, and the gallants aped and 
 bored him, 
 And his tunes were legal-tender for his lodging, every- 
 wheres. 
 
 Thus, a-humming and a-strumming, and a-wooing and a-coo- 
 ing, 
 Dealing ditties by the dozen, making sonnets by the 
 score — 
 Where the glamour of the amour hid the stammer of the 
 grammar — 
 Ah! so gay, and free, and happy was the merry Trou- 
 badour ! 
 
88 BLADES C BLUEGRASS. 
 
 IV. 
 THE LADYE-LOVE. 
 
 She was hardened not with knowledge of the boarding- 
 school or college; 
 She was sung at oft in language that she did not under- 
 stand; 
 But was learned in all romancing, and in dancing, and in 
 glancing — 
 Stately, fair, and tender-hearted was the Ivadye of the 
 Land. 
 
 Though she dressed in shocking fashion, she inspired the 
 deepest passion, 
 And a tune upon her lutelet was a very dangerous thing; 
 For her smile, were all imploring, and her sigh set all 
 adoring. 
 And she strung the hearts around her like the beads 
 upon a string. 
 
 Now, at tourneys, gaily quartered, she would see her beaux 
 be slaughtered. 
 Till the solitary relic crawled to crown her "Beauty's 
 Queen"; 
 Then, from tops of balustradings, she would sigh to sere- 
 nadings, 
 Or, with hawk or hound, and suitors, she would gallop 
 o'er the green. 
 
 Any summer morn, awaking, full of sentiment and quaking 
 At the ditties and the clatter of her lovers keeping 
 guard. 
 She'd behold, with charming satisfaction — peeping through 
 her lattice — 
 Scores of guitars and of gallants shattered all about her 
 yard! 
 
 Any day she 'd feel neglected, if not forcibly selected 
 As the booty of some Baron, who would make her will 
 his law; 
 
 Any night she 'd slumber, hoping to be wakened by eloping 
 On the pommel of the saddle of a Knight she never saw. 
 
A YEARN FOR THE ROMANTIC. 89 
 
 Then, how charmingly exciting! setting twenty Knights to 
 fighting, 
 And to have to wed the victor, who would come to claim 
 her glove! — 
 Or to have to sit for hours in the tallest kind of towers, 
 On the thinnest sort of diet, till her heart would learn 
 to love! 
 
 They would call her cold and cruel: yet they'd fight the 
 daily duel, 
 And lay vows of love eternal and despairing at her 
 shrine ; 
 When at last some one would win her, they would oft 
 neglect their dianer. 
 And would talk for days of dying, or of far-off Palestine. 
 
 When her Iviege would go crusading, or his neighbors' lands 
 invading, 
 Then from highest turret windows would she wave her 
 lily hands; 
 Or perchance, ere seeking Vandals, he would lock her safe 
 from scandals. 
 And she 'd pine, from quiet convents, for her lord in 
 Paynim lands. 
 
 Thus, a-smiling and a-sighing, and a-laitghing and a-crying. 
 With her eyes as stars or diamonds, and her hair as silk 
 or gold — 
 
 Never maid so sentimental, never matron half so gentle. 
 Never love so true and tender, as the I^adye-Love of old! 
 
 V. 
 THE PIRATE. 
 
 With his raven beard, and visage that would terrify in 
 this age. 
 And with eyes as fierce as eagles' when they swoop from 
 mountain crag, 
 With his jack-boots of raw leather, and a Spanish cloak 
 and feather, 
 And a fragment torn from Midnight for his horrifying 
 flag— 
 
go BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 With the winds and waves he'd wrestle, in a somber sort 
 of vessel, 
 And in search of strange adventures, he would ravage 
 every shore; 
 Now to rob the Lapland lubbers of their walrus teeth and 
 blubbers, 
 iSTow to depredate the natives on the coast of Labradore ! 
 
 On the track of Turkish zaccas, or of Portuguese polaccas. 
 
 Or of argosies of Venice, heavy laden with their gain. 
 Or of Amsterdam's fat traders, or of homeward-bound Arma- 
 das, 
 He would scour the Northern Ocean, or would sweep the 
 Spanish Main. 
 
 Now, on summer isles Pacific, he would hold his haunt 
 terrific. 
 With his dreadful bark at anchor in some tropical lagoon; 
 There to rest a while and revel, and to traffic with the 
 Devil, 
 And to bury tons of Treasure in the darkness of the 
 moon. 
 
 Thence, he'd strike for fame and plunder, midst the hurri- 
 cane and thunder, 
 While the jagged flash of lightning hissed behind him 
 from the clouds; 
 And, with curses of bravado, dare the tempest and tornado. 
 While the winds, as ghosts of victims, were a-shrieking 
 through the shrouds! 
 
 When the foe would strike their colors, with their doubloons 
 and their dollars. 
 He would give the night to riot, and to jolly jest and 
 cheer; 
 And would, free from weak emotion, walk the captives in 
 the ocean — 
 Ah! so bold, and free, and bloody was the roving Bucca- 
 neer! 
 
A YEARN FOR THE ROMANTIC. 9 1 
 
 VI. 
 THIS DEGENERATE AGE. 
 
 Ah! those days have gone forever, with their splendid fire 
 and fever, 
 And their lofty scorn of living, and undying thirst for 
 fame! 
 When Faith and Beauty filled them, and when I^ove and 
 Glory thrilled them. 
 And the sacred light of Honor led them like a flitting 
 flame ! 
 
 And the Minstrels, tender-hearted — now are silent and de- 
 parted. 
 With their amatory melodies, so delicate and sweet; 
 Now, we never sigh to hear them, but we fly them and we 
 fear them — 
 Grinding melancholy organs on the corners of the street. 
 
 Gone, the Pirate and the Sea-King, and the Buccaneer and 
 Viking : 
 Furled, the banner of the Rover, hushed his cannon's 
 heavy roar. 
 And the only reminiscence of his nautical existence 
 
 Is the banging of the big drum in the play of "Pinafore." 
 
 Gone's the glamour and the glory of the Knights of song 
 
 and story. 
 
 With their love and high endeavor, and their noble deeds 
 
 and aims; 
 
 Of heroic days behind us, now there's nothing to remind us 
 
 But the "Solitary Horseman" in the narrative of James! 
 
 For, the Knights so celebrated, in these days degenerated 
 Would be madmen or marauders — we should ridicule their 
 cause ; 
 And the Pirate of the shipping would be hanged, or get a 
 whipping ; 
 And the Troubadours be prisoned, under local vagrant 
 laws! 
 
92 BLADES O' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 Now, the soul that scorns to grovel, has no solace but the 
 novel 
 Of Sir Scott, or James, or Bulwer, on the Times of Long 
 Ago! 
 When were Brian de Bourbeon, and the mighty Coeur de 
 Lion, 
 And Sir Launcelot, and Arthur, and immortal Ivanhoe. 
 
 For, the prosy and pedantic have extinguished the romantic. 
 And the pomp and pride of Chivalry are driven from the 
 stage ; 
 All is now so faint and tender that the world has lost its 
 gender. 
 And the enervate ^Esthetic is the model of the age! 
 
 George M. Davie. 
 
 WHEN LOVING HEART'S THE GOAL. 
 
 How oft he 's praised those eyes of mine. 
 And in them says, "Heav'n's light doth shine, 
 
 Reflecting Heav'n's own blue." 
 But does he know that in his own 
 The depths of soul e'er in them shone, 
 
 Evincing love most true? 
 That all he sees in mine to praise 
 Reflects the love in those that gaze 
 
 So tenderly in mine? 
 How all my inmost soul goes out. 
 In perfect trust— without a doubt. 
 
 In those dark orbs that shine! 
 I feel and know he loves me true — 
 Love beams from dark eyes as from blue — 
 
 They mirror forth the soul. 
 
 They speak— tho' no words tell the tale; 
 
 More potent are — for love's avail. 
 
 When loving heart 's the goal. 
 
 John Hoskins. 
 
ASPIRATION. 93 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 
 Who would not be a boy again 
 With all the impulse of bis youth, 
 
 With life wild-throbbing in each vein, 
 And in his soul the soul of truth; 
 
 With hopes as fresh as matin dew — 
 
 As roseate as the sunset glare; 
 With aspirations high and true. 
 
 And future prospects, O how fair! 
 
 Ah! who e'er lived to be a man 
 And realized his boyhood dreams? 
 
 Wealth, honor, fame, are spectres wan, 
 Untinted by hope's magic beams. 
 
 The mountain which we looked upon, 
 And thought so high in childhood days. 
 
 Seems, when its highest height is won, 
 A little hill to manhood's gaze. 
 
 And just beyond another hill 
 
 Still lures us with its mellow haze; 
 
 When it is reached another still 
 Gleams faintly on our ravished gaze. 
 
 Thus on and on, forever on. 
 
 Our path of duty upward lies; 
 Nor will its utmost height be won 
 
 Till we shall scale yon starry skies. 
 
 S. P. Bryan. 
 
94 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A KENTUCKIAN KNEELS TO NONE BUT GOD. 
 
 [Colonel Crittenden, nephew of John J. Crittenden, United States 
 Senator for Kentucky, commanded the filibuster forces taken prisoners 
 at sea, near Havana, August 15, 1851. Doomed to death by the Cuban 
 authorities, and ordered to be shot on the i6th, they were all com- 
 manded to kneel. Colonel Crittenden spurned the command with 
 these words, '^A Kentuckian kneels to none but God."] 
 
 Ah! tyrant, forge thy chains at will — 
 
 Nay, gall this flesh of mine; 
 Yet thought is free, unfettered still. 
 
 And will not yield to thine. 
 Take, take the life that Heaven gave, 
 
 And let my heart's-blood stain thy sod; 
 But know ye not Kentucky's brave 
 
 Will kneel to none but God? 
 
 You 've quenched fair Freedom's sunny light. 
 
 Her music tones have stilled, 
 And with a deep and darken'd blight 
 
 The trusting heart have fiU'd! 
 Then do you think that I will kneel 
 
 Where such as ye have trod? 
 Nay, point your cold and threat'ning steel; 
 
 I '11 kneel to none but God. 
 
 As summer breezes lightly rest 
 
 Upon a quiet river. 
 And gently on its sleeping breast 
 
 The moonbeams softly quiver — 
 Sweet thoughts of home lit up my brow. 
 
 When goaded with the rod; 
 Yet these can not unman me now — 
 
 I '11 kneel to none but God. 
 
 And though a sad and mournful tone 
 
 Is coldly sweeping by, 
 And dreams of bliss forever flown 
 
 Have dimm'd with tears mine eye — 
 
A STAB. 95 
 
 Yet mine's a heart unyielding still — 
 
 Heap on my breast the clod; 
 My soaring spirit scorns thy will; 
 
 I '11 kneel to none but God. 
 
 Mary E. WiivSon-Betts. 
 
 THE STAB. 
 
 "Of sudden stabs in groves forlorn." — Hood's Eugene Aram. 
 
 [John James Piatt says of this: "Nothing could be better; it is 
 a tragic little night-piece which Heine could not have surpassed in 
 its simple graphic narration and vivid suggest! veness."] 
 
 On the road, the lonely road, 
 
 Under the cold, white moon, 
 Under the ragged trees, he strode; 
 He whistled, and shifted his heavy load — 
 
 Whistled a foolish tune. 
 
 There was a step, timed with his own, 
 
 A figure that stooped and bowed; 
 A cold white blade that gleamed and shone, 
 I^ike a splinter of daylight downward thrown — 
 
 And the moon went behind a cloud. 
 
 But the moon came out so broad and good 
 
 The barn cock woke and crowed, 
 Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood, 
 And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood 
 
 That a dead man lay on the road. 
 
 Wii,i, Wallace Harney. 
 
96 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 I LOVE YOU. 
 
 I LOVE you ! I love you ! 
 In vain have I tried 
 
 To banish your image, 't is now at my side : 
 I see your bright smile, I hear your sweet voice, 
 I wish, Oh I wish, that I were your choice ! 
 You know not the anguish that burdens my heart, 
 And the keen sense of shame that your scorn can impart; 
 I fain would forget it, would hide it away. 
 But haunting me ever, a voice seems to say, 
 
 "I love you! I love you!" 
 
 I love you ! I love you ! 
 But without avail; 
 IvOve unrequited is such a sad tale; 
 Slighted and jilted, I longingly sigh, 
 For one little smile, as you pass by. 
 You look with indifference upon my despair, 
 You do not, you would not, my least sorrow share ; 
 I 've vowed to forget you, so frequent, so oft. 
 But then comes the voice, so sweet and so soft, 
 
 " I love you ! I love you ! " 
 
 I love you ! I love you ! 
 I can not control 
 
 This great load of love, it burdens my soul : 
 I pine and I languish alone in my grief. 
 You, and you only, can bring me relief. 
 But think not I chide you, indeed I do not — 
 If you would request it, 't would all be forgot ; 
 My heart wants for nothing when you are nigh, 
 But when you are absent, ah, then comes the sigh, 
 
 " I love you ! I love you ! " 
 
 I love you ! I love you ! 
 Yes, love is my theme ; 
 Through the long hours of night, 't is of love that I dream 
 

 ei/^ci 
 
 a?^ 
 
A LULLABY. 97 
 
 When the spring time returns, when winter has fled, 
 Will you think of me only as of one that is dead? 
 When the soft summer breeze sings the flowers to rest, 
 When hearts are so happy, so free from distress, 
 Oh, will you remember, when in the gay throng. 
 That there is one singing, that this is his song? 
 " I love you ! I love you ! " 
 
 Frederick M. Spotswood. 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 
 Oh! baby fair. 
 
 With dark brown hair, 
 
 And eyes of heaven's own blue; 
 Where, seems to me, 
 I think I see 
 
 An Angel peeping through. 
 
 Oh ! sacred joy ! 
 My darling boy, 
 
 I feel that thou art giv'n 
 Unto my care. 
 And over there 
 
 An Angel less in heav'n. 
 
 Oh! sacred trust! 
 
 As God is just, 
 
 I '11 lavish all my care 
 
 On thee, my love, 
 
 Till heav'n above 
 
 Shall call my Angel there. 
 
 John Hoskins. 
 
98 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW IN THE COLI- 
 SEUM AT ROME. 
 
 Now chaste Diana, like a Dorian maid, 
 Across the star-sown fields of light pursues 
 The God of Day. Companions of the chase. 
 The steady planets and the twinkling stars, 
 With noiseless glide, press onward in their course 
 Upon the burning trail of Helios. 
 In wild pursuit full half Italia's sky 
 Is passed, and now the Huntress-Goddess stands 
 Upon the zenith with her bended bow. 
 There, pausing, peerless in her silver robes, 
 She views the shoreless sea of ether spread 
 Around, above, beneath, and cheers her train. 
 Meanwhile swift Sol, with half the sky 'twixt him 
 And those that follow in his glowing path, 
 Has forced his coursers o'er the midland sea 
 And whirls his chariot toward Aurora's gate. 
 'Twas thus that race began when sun and moon 
 And stars were fashioned out of nothingness; 
 And thus it must continued be till all 
 The hosts of earth and sea and sky return 
 Again to Chaos wild. 
 
 But oh! fair moon. 
 How kind thy mellow beams do soften down 
 Uncomeliness and beautify these ruins ! 
 The Coliseum in its splendors new 
 Had ne'er more solemn loveliness than now, 
 With its majestic wrecks so softly draped 
 In thy pure snowy light. These crevices 
 Through which uncounted twinkling stars do peep, 
 As if the sky looked down with Argus eyes 
 Upon the rents of ruthless time; these walls 
 Which rough destruction has deprived of all 
 Their polished marbles, chiseled erst in forms 
 That seemed to speak, and o'er them drawn instead 
 The furrows deep of desolation's plow; 
 
OLD YEAR AND NEW IN THE COLISEUM. 99 
 
 This vast elliptic sweep of walls around 
 
 The Gladiator's circus, compassing 
 
 The famed arena, like to giant hills 
 
 Around the placid lake, embosomed deep 
 
 Within the circuit of their lofty peaks ; 
 
 These myriad plants and varied flowers, that grow 
 
 Among the rents and o'er the mouldering rocks. 
 
 Decay has scathed with her dissolving breath; 
 
 This matchless relic of the mighty dead, 
 
 Though coming down to us, wrapped in the charm 
 
 And potent spell which hoar antiquity 
 
 E'er throws around the hallowM works of art. 
 
 Seems yet more lovely now with all its wrecks, 
 
 While yonder pitying Moon doth fold it round 
 
 With her pure winding sheet. Nor less dost thou. 
 
 Fair Queen of Night, the soft enchantment of 
 
 Thy mellow beams impart to skeletons 
 
 Of other structures, which Eternal Rome, 
 
 In times since numbered with the distant past, 
 
 Erected round this spot. 
 
 1,0! from these walls' 
 Proud height the classic eye doth search and rest. 
 At intervals, upon the seven hills — 
 The little mounts immortalized in song — 
 Now dwindled down, by Time's effacing hand, 
 Beneath their lofty height on glory's page. 
 The modern Romans, when they lost the high 
 Thoughts of empire held by ancient Romans, 
 Quitted the seven hill-tops and builded 
 Where the Campus Martius compassed lowlands. 
 And even the hills themselves, so high in Rome 
 Of old, have sunken downward to the plane 
 Of these degenerate sons of noble sires. 
 The Quirinal and Capitol show life. 
 But not the life of ancient Rome. 
 
 The eye 
 Turned southward rests upon the mighty ruins 
 Of Caracalla's Baths, a giant pile. 
 Attesting in its fall the pomp and power 
 
lOO BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Of him who o'er the world did tyrannize, 
 
 And bathe his fratricidal hand in blood 
 
 That warmed the gentle Gaeta's heart. Whilome 
 
 The gifted Shelley, musing o'er these walls, 
 
 Amid the flowers that fed upon their ruins 
 
 And filled the willing air with wild perfumes. 
 
 Did catch the inspiration shadowed forth 
 
 In his Prometheus; and from such wrecks. 
 
 Arising like enchanted images. 
 
 There came some of the sweetest thoughts that e'er 
 
 Exalted Byron's muse. 
 
 Now turns the eye 
 Unto the west, where, like a spotless sheet 
 Of Alpine snow, the moonbeams do enrobe 
 The Caesar's palace, wonder of the world. 
 See shattered arch, and column crushed, and walls 
 To dust and fragments crumbled. Trees have grown 
 To giant strength upon the mighty waste, 
 And twined and fixed their deeply planted roots 
 In halls that once resounded with the harp 
 And held the sovereignty of mighty Rome. 
 Now poisonous weeds and hoary ivy, grown 
 Until its tendrils seem the trunks of trees 
 Upon whose growth long centuries were spent. 
 Usurp saloons and halls and royal rooms 
 Once graced by Roman Emperors and filled 
 With all the noblest works of ancient art. 
 Envenomed reptiles creep o'er -frescoed roofs 
 And o'er mosaic floors that erst did feel 
 The haughty presence of Imperial dames. 
 That royal palace now remains a heap 
 Of wrecks o'er which confusion reigns supreme. 
 From out the solemn pile the wailing wind 
 Is heard, as o'er Campagna's plain it floats; 
 All else is hushed and silent like the tomb. 
 But further on the yellow Tiber bears 
 His mountain flood and murmurs in his course 
 The storied origin of Rome, and tells 
 The weird legends which immortal bards 
 
OLD YEAR AND NEW IN THE COLISEUM. lOl 
 
 Did sing upon his classic shores, when Rome 
 Was mistress of the world. 
 
 I/o! northward now 
 The Forum opens to the eye, and calls 
 To mind the proud assemblies of the State, 
 While all around majestic temples stood, 
 And statues of the Gods, and busts of men. 
 And TuUy thundered from the rostra words 
 That honied eloquence ne'er spoke before. 
 Above the Forum see the Capitol, 
 Still lifting high into the air its tower 
 With solemn antique grace! Beneath its walls. 
 Imbedded in the Capitolian mount, 
 The prisons frown which Ancus Marcius built 
 When Rome was but an infant colony. 
 Imprisoned here, in these unholy cells. 
 In which Jugurtha starved and Catiline's 
 Accomplices did share the traitor's death. 
 Our Lord's Apostle Peter once was chained 
 By stern decree of Nero's bloody code. 
 At his command a limpid spring 
 Gushed forth from out the dungeon's rock, as pure 
 And cool and pearly as Egeria's fount; 
 And still it bubbles there to quench the thirst 
 Of pilgrims to the consecrated spot. 
 IvO ! further in the distance rises, like 
 A globous cloud suspended in the air. 
 The noblest dome that man throughout all time 
 E'er lifted to his God — an emblem fit 
 And model worthy of the concave sky 
 Which forms the dome of nature's temple proud. 
 'Tis worthy there to hang and to adorn 
 St. Peter's, fairest church that man e'er built 
 And consecrated to the living God; 
 Yes, prouder far than all the temples old 
 Which superstition reared unto the Gods 
 Whom Pagans have adored. 
 
 The noon of night 
 Has come, and thoughts more wild than this wild scene 
 
102 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Crowd on the mind. The Old Year and the New 
 
 As Gladiators seem in mortal strife 
 
 Within the Coliseum's fated walls. 
 
 A conflict more almighty was not when 
 
 The arch fiend, with his hosts of ruined angels, 
 
 In heaven's broad purlieu met the sons of light, 
 
 lycd on to battle by Omnipotence; 
 
 Nor when the storied giants Ossa piled 
 
 On Pelion to dethrone the Thunderer. 
 
 The glad spectators of this scene are not 
 
 The eighty thousand sons of Rome who filled 
 
 These seats while Titus sat as arbiter, 
 
 And with his festivals an hundred days 
 
 Did dedicate to feats of strength and shows 
 
 Of wickedness this wondrous theater. 
 
 Now goblins, ghosts, and spirits, forms divine. 
 
 And shapes Satanic fill the air and crowd 
 
 These seats as numerous as the sands that bleach 
 
 Old ocean's storm-lashed shore. Here I/ife and Death, 
 
 Youth and Age, Disease and Health, War and Peace, 
 
 Famine, Pestilence, and Mortality, 
 
 The Past, the Present, and the Future dark. 
 
 With other forms as numerous as the stars, 
 
 Together now have congregated all, 
 
 From every quarter of the universe. 
 
 To see the noble Gladiator die; 
 
 While old Eternity, enthroned above 
 
 In Fate's dread chair, sits arbiter sublime 
 
 And views the awful strife. 
 
 The noon of night 
 Impends. One moment more must pass, and then 
 The Year that wears the diadem will fall. 
 Forever fall, into the changeless past. 
 How pregnant is this moment with rapt thoughts! 
 This moment! It doth to the future bind 
 The past and make of them one boundless, vast. 
 Sublime Eternity. It is that link, 
 Without which in duration's endless chain 
 All past, all future and the present time 
 
OLD YEAR AND NEW IN THE COLISEUM. 103 
 
 Were disconnected parts confounded worse 
 
 Than dire confusion's self. In its brief span 
 
 Swift memory waves her life's restoring wand 
 
 And calls up from the past immortal things, 
 
 Whose genesis was far beyond the date 
 
 Of the Cloaca Maxima and tomb 
 
 Of Scipio. Events which filled long times 
 
 And great discoveries in the realm of art 
 
 And science, which the dragging centuries 
 
 Had scarce made known, now flash like vivid dreams 
 
 Across the mind. The changeless stars which saw 
 
 Arcadian shepherds watch their nightly flocks 
 
 Upon yon Palatine, ere Romulus 
 
 Had founded there the Citadel of Rome, 
 
 Shine o'er us now. And yon same moon, that threw 
 
 Her mellow beams upon the Pantheon, 
 
 The shrine of all Rome's Gods and Goddesses, 
 
 Two thousand years ago, rolls on unchanged 
 
 Upon the silver chariot of the night. 
 
 Yon deep blue sky, the pride of tropic climes, 
 
 lyooks on us with the same bright starry eyes 
 
 That watched the City of the Seven Hills 
 
 As from the work of Romulus it rose 
 
 To majesty and grandeur ne'er surpassed. 
 
 Yon Tiber winds his wonted course along 
 
 The shores which once were clad with glory's pomp. 
 
 And bears his waters from the Appenines 
 
 Into the midland sea just as he did 
 
 When, centuries ago, ^neas came 
 
 With all the Gods had spared of fallen Troy 
 
 And landed on his banks. All else how changed ! 
 
 The Eternal City wears ephemeral hues. 
 
 The Caesar's palace, once the pride of Rome, 
 
 Remains a heap of ruins wild. The hills. 
 
 Upon whose crests the famous City stood. 
 
 Have crumbled down and scarce^ seem to rise 
 
 Above the rubbish which two thousand years 
 
 Have piled around their base. The Forum lies 
 
 Deep buried 'neath the waste of centuries. 
 
I04 BLADES 0' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 War, Famine, Pestilence and flood and flame 
 
 Have swept o'er ancient Rome, and naught remains 
 
 To tell where glory dwelt, save mighty wrecks 
 
 Which greet the eye like to immortal deaths. 
 
 The Gods who erst were worshiped here are gone. 
 
 And crumbled into dust their gorgeous shrines, 
 
 And borne away their comely busts of bronze 
 
 And marble statues to adorn the halls 
 
 Of those their sculptors deemed barbarians. 
 
 Unto the memory of the Christian dead, 
 
 Whom wild beasts tore and fire consumed to make 
 
 A holiday for Roman elegance. 
 
 This vast arena has been set apart 
 
 And consecrated by his Holiness, 
 
 And prayers ascend now to the Triune God, 
 
 Where Jove was throned and warrior Gods displayed 
 
 In men the showman's arts. 
 
 That moment brief. 
 So full of thought, is gone. The olden year 
 Beneath his adversary lies. The Past 
 Has claimed him as his spoil and bears him off. 
 While Time proclaims Eternity's decree. 
 And gives the empire of the universe 
 Unto the glad New Year, the victor proud. 
 No shout goes up to rend the air, as did 
 Of old when victory was here proclaimed, 
 And countless Latin and Barbaric tongues 
 Made the welkin ring with joy. The olden 
 Year his given span of life has measured; 
 The cold has chilled the current of his soul ; 
 The winds have sung his solemn requiem. 
 And Time with one hand pointing forward to 
 The future's dark and mystic canopy. 
 The golden chronoscope which measures out 
 The moments and the hours that multiply 
 Themselves in days and years and centuries, 
 And with the other reaching backward to 
 The frowning past, the tablet and the style 
 With which he makes the record of all things. 
 
OLD YEAR AND NEW IN THE COLISEUM. 105 
 
 Has noted all the Old Year's deeds or good 
 Or bad upon Eternity's vast scroll 
 That changes never more. 
 
 All hail New Year! 
 Welcome upon the vacant seat of Time! 
 During thy reign may flourish all the arts 
 And sciences that do make their progress 
 In Beauty's realm or in the wide domain 
 Of usefulness. Thou mayest promote good 
 I^earning until mortal men and women 
 Do write and send abroad immortal books, 
 Whose words of wisdom and philosophy 
 May give forth thoughts on whose eternity 
 The fate of governments and peoples rest. 
 In thy allotted reign may be accomplished 
 More for human welfare than centuries 
 Of old could yield to slower footed life. 
 Thy progress o'er the world by mortal woes 
 Must needs be marked and loved ones oft be sent 
 Into the spirit land. But who can blame 
 Thee for such deeds? Their three-score years and ten 
 Have been assigned to mortals all; but crimes 
 And wrongs and wasteful modes of living life 
 Have made their years contract, and, worse than that. 
 Entailed upon their offspring yet unborn 
 The elements of dire and fixed disease 
 And death. Were mortals what they should be now. 
 And had their days been all well spent, their death 
 Had come with worn-out life and proved a kind 
 And gentle breeze to waft their souls away. 
 And wing them off" to amaranthine climes. 
 Yes, of all the agencies with which thy 
 Deeds are wrought, New Year, that one whose emblem 
 Is the glass and scythe must bring to mortals 
 The saddest sorrows. Yet this should not be. 
 When dire disease shall come upon the good 
 And, ghastly and emaciate, their forms 
 Shall scarce sustain the waning vital spark 
 That lights its fragile tenements, and fierce 
 
lo6 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 And racking tortures make all life a curse, 
 Oh! then thou mayest unto them bring sweet death, 
 The hush of groans, the calm of sorrow's sea, 
 The grand emancipation of the soul 
 From all its earthy trammelings of flesh. 
 That it may soar among the stars and drink 
 New life from fountains of perennial bliss. 
 Rome, January i, 1856. R. T. Durrett. 
 
 " EARTH HAS NO SORROW THAT HEAVEN 
 CAN NOT HEAL." 
 
 The poet hath said, that whate'er be our grief — 
 No matter what sorrow the heart may feel — 
 
 We must look to Heaven to find relief, 
 
 For " Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can not heal." 
 
 So the poet hath said, and surely we know 
 That such blessed relief from our sorrow is given; 
 
 But how many turn, when all look below, 
 To seek for one ray of the sunshine of Heaven. 
 
 When the heart with some mighty sorrow is torn, 
 
 And we bend like a reed 'neath affliction's strong might, 
 
 O, who can believe, when so sad and forlorn, 
 That day will succeed such a dark dreary night? 
 
 And who, in his anguish, can look up and feel 
 
 That "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can not heal?" 
 
 O, all ye who struggle and toil upon earth. 
 Whose hearts are made heavy by misery and grief, 
 
 lyook upward! The power that gave sorrow birth 
 Will send to a poor soul some heavenly relief. 
 
 And God will His infinite mercies reveal. 
 
 For " Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can not heal." 
 
 Katie Jessel. 
 
IN EXILE. 107 
 
 IN EXII.E. 
 
 An exile to the pine and palm, 
 
 I see tlie far-winged summer brood, 
 
 Through azure depths of endless calm. 
 Above a nursling solitude. 
 
 On ample breadths of bloom unfurled. 
 As sweet as that voluptuous South, 
 
 When Antony gave the Roman World 
 For Egypt's Cleopatra mouth. 
 
 All things of sight and sound appear 
 To breathe of nothing but content, 
 
 As if, unheeded through the year. 
 The vagrant season came and went. 
 
 Yet often, when I hear the rain. 
 
 In fleecy vapor, whisper low, 
 Like ghosts about the window pane. 
 
 My heart would leap to see the snow. 
 
 To see, beyond the frozen meres. 
 
 In chalk and crayon's black and white, 
 
 The river hills, through atmospheres. 
 Wind-blown in dazzling points of light. 
 
 In smooth white level lies the croft, 
 A mound of snow the boxwood shines ; 
 
 Still sweep the trowels white and soft. 
 In sloping curves, and sweeping lines. 
 
 Soft flurries, as a shadow blurs 
 
 The page in passing, light and fleet. 
 
 Of soft warm faces wrapped in furs. 
 Of faces passing on the street. 
 
 I see them through the falling rain, 
 Through all the years that flow between, 
 
 I/ike ghosts about my window pane. 
 Among the musk and evergreen. 
 
lo8 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Old boyish friends, the fair young wife, 
 Who watched with me so long ago; 
 
 As if across another life, 
 
 In all the softly falling snow. 
 
 While yearning in the pine and palm, 
 The winds do chide uncounted hours. 
 
 Whose unspent summers dull the calm, 
 In soft still utterances of flowers. 
 
 Wiu, Wai,i,ace; Harney. 
 
 TO A MARGUERITE. 
 
 Some love the rose in blushing pride. 
 
 And some the lily sweet. 
 But let them both in envy hide, 
 
 I love the Marguerite. 
 
 The air is filled with sweet perfume 
 
 Of flowers at my feet, 
 The prairie glistens with their bloom, 
 
 And chiefest. Marguerite. 
 
 I love the fair and modest flower 
 
 Where'er its smile I meet. 
 It lends a charm to every hour, 
 
 The cheerful Marguerite. 
 
 O, spirit pure embalmed in bloom, 
 
 O, soul and form complete, 
 O, eyes that can dispel all gloom. 
 
 Ye dwell in Marguerite. 
 
 J. Stoddard Johnston. 
 
SOLITUDE. 109 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft have I strolled alone where it did seem 
 The foot of man before had ne'er intruded, 
 
 By cliff or cave, or by some lonely stream. 
 Or forest dense where night through day still brooded; 
 
 And 'round, above, beneath me — everywhere. 
 
 Nature and nature's works alone were there. 
 
 By glimm'ring light of star I 've walked alone 
 Some old churchyard, wand'ring among the dead ; 
 
 There paused to rest on some sepulchral stone, 
 And muse upon the scene about me spread. 
 
 While gray bats flitted 'twixt me and the sky. 
 
 And ghostly winds passed like a human sigh. 
 
 And I have been where man had come and gone. 
 Had built and lived and left all to decay; 
 
 And weed and grass before the door had grown 
 Where human feet had wont to make their way; 
 
 But reptiles now made it their habitation. 
 
 And all desertion was, and desolation ! 
 
 And yet 'mong all of these so solemn places. 
 Where deepest loneliness would seem to brood. 
 
 Found I less solitude than 'mong the faces 
 That doth the streets of some great city flood; 
 
 Gliding me past till they as ceaseless seem 
 
 As autumn leaves borne on a forest stream. 
 
 There where the grass is hid 'neath paving stone, 
 The sky shut out by roof, or blurred by smoke, 
 
 And the loud tumult ceaselessly upborne. 
 More solemn grows than silence never broke; 
 
 Where man mingles with man, and yet, at heart. 
 
 Doth stand as dumbly as the stars apart! 
 
no BLADES O' SLUEGRASS. 
 
 Where from communion or with God or nature 
 We are shut out, till lost is sympathy 
 
 Or with the Creator or with the creature, 
 And life grows madness, or vacuity ! 
 
 Ah, this is loneliness, is solitude, 
 
 In which the soul most blightedly doth brood! 
 
 Knklm. 
 
 THE BERGAMOT BLOSSOM. 
 
 We had no other gifts to give, 
 
 But just one withering flower; 
 We had no other lives to live, 
 
 But just that sweet half hour. 
 So small, so sweet, its freight of musk 
 Makes fragrant all Life's after dusk. 
 
 For this the summer toiled and spun. 
 
 With fairy fingers silken shot, 
 Till moonlight's milky threads were run, 
 
 In the scented, creamy bergamot. 
 That gives one dear remembered hour 
 The fragrance of the orange flower. 
 
 Through Love and Parting this remains; 
 
 A memory, like a faint perfume, 
 More dear than all Life's loss and gains, 
 
 About a withering orange bloom, 
 Whose fading leaves in dusky green 
 Keep sweet the thought of what has been. 
 
 WnL WALLACE Harney. 
 
DEAR OLD SOUTHERN HOME. m 
 
 DEAR OI.D SOUTHERN HOME. 
 
 In de summer time at night, when de stars am shinin' 
 bright, 
 
 An' when I heah de sighin' ob de breeze, 
 I always takes a turn, an' oh, dis heart does yearn, 
 
 As I watch de moon a-peepin' frough de trees : 
 It takes me to my home whar long fo' I was grown 
 
 I passed so many happy hours away; 
 De tall palmettos wave above my brudder's grave, 
 
 Wid whom I used to frolic all de day. 
 
 It 'pears as if sometimes I heah de same sad chimes 
 
 Dat rung when little Missy come to die; 
 Sumpin' whispahs in my eah 'bout my mudder deah, 
 
 An' it says dat I shall jine her by an' by. 
 When de I,o'd shall gib comman', den I shall rise an' stan' 
 
 'Fo' my brudder an' my little missy deah ; 
 An' my mudder's face I'll see, an' ergin she'll sing ter me. 
 
 An' den I'll laugh at all dis foolish feah. 
 
 Bar's a spot dat's mighty deah to dis ole darky heah, 
 
 Way down whar de sweet magnolias bloom; 
 Oh, de 'membrance ob de pas' shall be wid me to de las', 
 
 An' dribe away dese thoughts ob care an' gloom. 
 But now I'll soon be free, an' I 'low dat I shall see 
 
 De faces ob de ones dat's dead an' gone ; 
 De Heb'nly bells will ring, and once ergin I'll sing 
 
 Wid de lubbed ones on de resurrection morn. 
 
 Fred. M. Spotswood. 
 
113 BLADES O ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 TO MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 I PRAY for you wlieii rising 
 
 Aurora spreads her wings, 
 And o'er retiring planets 
 
 Her golden mantle flings ; 
 I pray for you when evening, 
 
 Enrobed in twilight hues. 
 On zephyrs gently wafted, 
 
 Dispenses pearly dews. 
 
 I see you in the blushing 
 
 Of flora -plumaged vales, 
 Where nectared waters flowing 
 
 Rehearse enchanted tales; 
 I see you with bright Iris, 
 
 While arching glory's sky. 
 For all things which have beauty 
 
 Present you to mine eye. 
 
 I hear you in sweet music 
 
 As on the breeze it floats. 
 In vernal songs of warblers 
 
 That carol dulcet notes; 
 I hear you in the whisper 
 
 Of gentle gales that bring 
 The sweet perfume of flowers 
 
 To glad angelic Spring. 
 
 And when the day is folded 
 
 In night's endarkling cloud. 
 And all the world as pulseless 
 
 As Silence in her shroud, 
 The sleep which comes upon me 
 
 Is oft a vision bright 
 Of you beside me sitting. 
 
 The Angel of the night. 
 Cincinnati, July i, 1850. r. t. Durrett. 
 
THE LAST HAIL. 1 1 3 
 
 THE LAST HAIL. 
 
 " Mate, get ready down on deck, 
 I 'm heading for the shore, 
 I '11 ring the bell, for I must land 
 This boat forevermore. 
 
 "Say, pilot, do you see that light — 
 I do — where angels stand? 
 Well, hold her jack-staff hard on that. 
 For there I 'm going to land. 
 
 "That looks like Death that's hailing me. 
 So ghastly grim and pale; 
 I'll toll the bell — I must go in — 
 I never passed a hail. 
 
 "Stop her! Let her come in slow — 
 There ! That will do — no more ; 
 The lines are fast, and angels await 
 To welcome me ashore. 
 
 " Say, pilot, I am going with them, 
 Up yonder, through that gate, 
 I '11 not come back ; you ring the bell, 
 And back her out — don't wait. 
 
 "For I have made my trip of life, 
 I 've found my landing-place, 
 I '11 take my soul and anchor that 
 Fast to the Throne of Grace." 
 
 Wii<i< S. Havs. 
 
114 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE BIRD'S SONG. 
 
 (t-wit, t-wee.) 
 
 T-wiT, t-wee, 
 
 Come sit by me 
 Up here in this old cedar tree. 
 Everywhere 
 
 Far and near, 
 All is bare, 
 
 Cold and drear. 
 There is now 
 To be seen. 
 Save this bough, 
 Nothing green; 
 Nothing growing — winds a-blowing. 
 Must be time that we were going. 
 
 T-wit, t-wo, 
 
 Not long ago 
 I wooed you dear, I loved you so. 
 We made a nest, 
 
 A tiny thing, 
 To snugly rest 
 
 And lightly swing 
 With every breeze 
 
 That chanced to sway 
 The leafy trees 
 All through the day. 
 Winds a-blowing, flowers growing. 
 Hidden nest — what else? No knowing. 
 
 T-wit, t-way, 
 
 One summer day 
 Our cherished nestlings flew away; 
 And there was left 
 
 To idly swing 
 A home bereft 
 Of everything 
 
THE BIRD'S SONG. 1 15 
 
 That made it dear 
 
 To you and me — 
 Save what is here — 
 Save memory. 
 Winds a-blowing, plainly showing 
 It is time we, too, were going. 
 
 T-wit, t-woo, 
 
 Well then, adieu 
 To all that in those days we knew. 
 To all I say. 
 
 Excepting you, 
 This cheerless day, 
 
 Adieu ! Adieu ! 
 From you, sweet life — 
 
 Sweet soul — sweetheart — 
 My precious wife, 
 I shall not part. 
 Winds are blowing, old we 're growing, 
 Yes, my dear, we 're going — going. 
 
 May Smith Downes. 
 
 1 SEEM to see the smiling eyes. 
 
 That loved me long ago, 
 I/Ook down the pale and tranquil skies 
 
 In all the after-glow; 
 The still delight, the smiles and tears 
 Come back through all the silent years 
 
 In which we are apart, 
 As if they wished to say, 
 
 Now comes the twilight of the Heart, 
 More beautiful than Day! 
 
 Wn,r, Wai,i,ace Harney. 
 "The Twilight of the Heart."— The Century. 
 
1 1 6 BLADES O ' BL VEGRASS. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 I DREAMED a sweet and beauteous dream. Methought 
 I walked 'mid flowers abloom, whose fragrant breath 
 Was wafted in the moon's pure light to where 
 I stroll'd along the graded terrace front. 
 I dreamed that by my side a graceful form, 
 Embodiment of beauty's self, kept pace. 
 Her arm within mine own so gently laid 
 That scarce I felt her presence — save only 
 By the hallowing sense which fills the soul 
 When forms supernal are revealed to man. 
 And ever and anon, as threading shady walks 
 With fleckered moonlight streaming in our path. 
 Her silvery voice was whispered in the night 
 Like sweetest music from the crimson shell. 
 Soft words of love were spoken, and the heart 
 Whose pulses warmed the bosom of my love 
 Beat quickly, and I felt Elysian bliss — 
 An ecstacy more sweet than all of earth 
 Can give. And as I gazed into her face, 
 'Round which a halo circling seemed to dwell, 
 I scanned its features with a lover's eye. 
 And then the beauties which were centered there: 
 Eyes which the wild gazelle in freedom born 
 Might vainly strive to rival, while their flash 
 Was softened by the darkest silken lash 
 Which ever curtained Peri's lids. Her lips 
 I/ike Grecian bow at rest were sweetly drawn, 
 As if a golden arrow deftly aimed 
 Had erstwhile sped on Cupid's mission bound. 
 Between the ruby portals of that mouth 
 Two rows of pearls, such as adorn the bride 
 Or lend a lustre to a Queenly crown 
 When decked in regal glory and the State 
 Listens to know Her Majesty's commands. 
 Smiled on my gaze and spoke in accents plain 
 Of rosy breath and purity and health 
 
A DREAM. 117 
 
 An oval face such as Medici claimed 
 
 Immortalized in fair Carrara's stone, 
 
 Radiant with life and joy and all in one 
 
 Blending the lily in unsullied white 
 
 With sunset tints that paint the rose's leaf. 
 
 Confined about the brow, with simple grace 
 
 Her nut-brown tresses on her shoulders fell 
 
 Snowy as Alpine summits bathed in light. 
 
 Methought that as this vision filled my view 
 
 Sure Heaven itself had sent its brightest star 
 
 To cheer my gloom and shed its light 
 
 Upon a heart all blasted with despair. 
 
 Still as I gazed in endless wonder fixed, 
 
 And as we paused in silence to survey 
 
 The passing beauty of the night's bright cheer 
 
 And nature's rich profusion spread afar, 
 
 She reached her hand toward a neighboring shrub 
 
 And with her graceful fingers plucked a flower. 
 
 Great was my joy when to my wistful glance 
 
 I saw the fragile token proffered to myself, 
 
 And eagerly I reached to seize the prize 
 
 When slumber ceased, and with it fled 
 
 The vision sweet, which so had thrilled my soul. 
 
 And I awoke to find that, save in dreams 
 
 And in the realms of Angels, only dwell 
 
 Such fair creations as my dream disclosed. 
 
 Long years I nursed the memory of that dream, 
 And ever bright as to my quickened sense 
 Had come this fair creation of a night. 
 I roamed the world and felt the battle's shock 
 'Mid bloody years of war and carnage wild, 
 And in my waking hours and dreams I saw 
 Through all these years the same bright form and face. 
 Whilst 'mong the living things I sought to find 
 Its counterpart on earth. But vain the task 
 Till lately on a summer's eve I strolled 
 Where roses bloomed beneath a Southern sky. 
 Magnolias with their snowy cups were there. 
 
1 18 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 And plants exotic to more Northern climes 
 Secure from frosts their fragrant tribute paid. 
 As moodily I mused in silent thought 
 Suddenly I chanced upon a form 
 Graceful in outline, and every mien 
 Suggesting thoughts of her whose witching face 
 Revealed in slumber long had filled my soul. 
 She plucked a rose, and as I came near by 
 Turned to my wandering gaze a face so fair. 
 So like in feature to my long lost love, 
 That as our glances met each seemed to feel 
 The recognition of long parted friends. 
 And ever since that blessed eve whereon 
 My dream came true, and to my loving heart 
 There came the real presence of my love, 
 I 've worshipped only at her throne, and life 
 Has been but one long day of happiness. 
 
 J. Stoddard Johnston. 
 
 PERSPECTIVES. 
 
 Living, he threads the maze below, 
 And looking beyond, he saith, 
 "Ah, me! to penetrate and know 
 The greatest of mysteries. Death ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 Dead, he wanders the phantom-land. 
 
 And viewing behind, the strife 
 Of the world, he cries, "Ah, to understand 
 
 The greatest of mysteries, Life ! " 
 
 Harper's Monthly. Harrison Robertson. 
 
IF I HAD KNOWN. II9 
 
 IP I HAD KNOWN. 
 
 She lay with lilies on her pulseless breast, 
 Dim woodland lilies wet with silver dew, 
 " Dear heart," he said, " in life she loved them best, 
 For her sweet sake the fragrant buds were blown'; 
 For her in April-haunted nooks they grew — 
 O love, if I had known ! 
 
 "If I had known when yesterday we walked. 
 Her hand in mine, along the hedges fair, 
 That even then, the while we careless talked. 
 
 The shadow of a coming loss was there, 
 And death's cold hand was leading us apart ! — 
 If I had known the bud she would not wear 
 Nor touch, lest she should mar its perfect grace. 
 To-day would press its dewy, golden heart 
 Against her poor, dead face ! 
 
 "I^ast year, when April woods were all a-glow, 
 She said, ' If it be death to fall asleep,' 
 And, bending, kissed the lilies sweet and wet, 
 
 'A dreamless sleep from which none wake to weep — 
 When I lie down to that long slumber, dear. 
 
 And life for you has dark and empty grown. 
 Come to me then, and tho' I shall not hear. 
 
 Lay your sad lips to mine, and whisper low : 
 ' If I had known ! O love, if I had known 
 That you would not forget ! ' " 
 
 Adei,aide D. Roi,i^ton. 
 
I20 BLADES O' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 THE ROCK. 
 
 I KNOW a great, gray-lichened rock, 
 Its rugged face impassive, stern, 
 Rough-bearded with sere-fronded fern, 
 And brow defiant, upreared to mock 
 The fiercest storm's fire-bolted shock. 
 
 With hoary majesty it stands, 
 
 Bold, sturdy, fixed, and dauntless forth. 
 With mien and visage which the North 
 
 In ruder days with mail-clad hands 
 
 Stamped on his wild barbaric bands. 
 
 And Time's memorial fingers trace 
 
 On granite tablets gravures deep, 
 
 Which lore of storied aeons keep ; 
 While Death's blade, broken at its base, 
 I/ies garland-twined with bloomy grace. 
 
 Here world a-weary and alone 
 I lean my heart upon its breast. 
 With list'ning, longing ear close-pressed 
 
 Against the Sphinx-like lips of stone, 
 
 For counsel of the Ages Gone, 
 
 Lean long to catch the faintest sound 
 Which, wave-like, beats the Shores of Sense, 
 And sigh that each soft ripple hence. 
 From keels white-winged and " outward bound," 
 Is by tny own heart's tumult drowned! 
 
 lyost, lost each echo hither blown, 
 
 Charged with a soul's electric fire! 
 
 The frail connecting spirit wire 
 Which speeds the thoughts from Lands Unknown, 
 By hands of flesh is broken down ! 
 
so UTH FL OR ID A NIGHT. 1 2 1 
 
 So from the wounds that never cure, 
 These voiceless lips of lasting stone, 
 I con the only counsel known 
 
 To wisest sage or witless boor: 
 
 Be strong, mute, patient, and endure ! 
 
 Dr. Frank H. Rhea. 
 
 SOUTH FI.ORIDA NIGHT. 
 
 The rain floats off: a crescent moon 
 
 Holds in its cup a round of dusk, 
 I<ike palm buds in the month of June, 
 
 Half breaking through its vernal husk, 
 While breathes a low sweet undertone, 
 
 lyike brooks that grieve through beds of fern, 
 As if by curve and pebble stone 
 
 The moon had spilled her silver urn. 
 
 Night-blooming agaves part the sheaf 
 
 To catch the light distilled in showers, 
 Till, overflowing cup and leaf, 
 
 Its cluster breaks in midnight flowers; 
 Ivike merchants breaking beds of nard. 
 
 And jars of olives, desert born, 
 Pine-apples lift a prickly shard 
 
 And show the seeds of fragrant corn. 
 
 Like Hebrew maids the citrons hold 
 
 Their pitchers to the vapor spring, 
 And fill the hollow rinds of gold 
 
 With midnight's musky offering; 
 So once, I think. Earth knew her Lord 
 
 In lands like these, of palm and vine. 
 When midnight gave the sweet accord 
 
 That turned the water into wine. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. Wii,i, Wai,i<ace Harney. 
 
122 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 Another's arms will fold the form 
 Which mine have lately pres't; 
 
 Another's lips will kiss the cheek 
 Once pillow'd on this breast. 
 
 Another's hand will twine the hair 
 "Which thrill' d me in its stroke; 
 
 Another's heart will swell to thine, 
 While mine, alas ! is broke. 
 
 Another's soul will know the joy 
 
 Of love's requited bliss, 
 While there remains alone to me 
 
 The mem'ry of a kiss. 
 
 Another's' voice will wake the fires 
 Which slumber in thy blood; 
 
 Another's hand will pluck the rose 
 While I have nursed the bud. 
 
 We part. I go. Perhaps no more 
 
 To me shall be the boon 
 To feel the joys I once have known — 
 
 Ended, alas! too soon. 
 
 But, should I never know the joy 
 
 Awakened in this heart, 
 I crave one promise ere I go — 
 
 One pledge before we part: 
 
 When duty shall enforce the claim 
 
 Denied to love and me, 
 Oh! heave one swelling sigh for him, 
 
 Who, dying, thinks of thee. 
 
 J. Stoddard Johnston. 
 
A LETTER OF TO-DAY. 123 
 
 A LETTER OF TO-DAY. 
 
 Dear Edith : Our ball is just over ; 
 
 As tlie French say, 'twas quite recherche — 
 Such music, such lights, and such dancing! 
 
 My breath was quite taken away. 
 Of course not a soul was invited 
 
 Save the choice "four hundred" in town; 
 They came too, and ma was delighted, 
 
 As she stood in her new velvet gown, 
 So grand, so serene, and so smiling. 
 
 By papa, who pays all our bills. 
 Not a soul in the room dreamt they'd ever 
 
 Made "Moonshine" in Cumberland Hills. 
 
 You know we are just home from Europe, 
 
 And our house is the finest in town; 
 Then we live right next door to the Astors, 
 
 And Brown's not so bad when spelled Browne. 
 So when all of these things are considered. 
 
 You can see in a moment, my dear, 
 That as far as getting into society 
 
 We .had nothing whatever to fear — 
 To be sure, papa's somewhat old-fashioned. 
 
 But then he pays all of our bills. 
 And looks too genteel to have ever 
 
 Made "Moonshine" in Cumberland Hills, 
 
 You should see my new dresses from Paris; 
 
 The one that I wore at our ball 
 Had a train that was perfectly startling. 
 
 But no waist, to speak of, at all. 
 I laugh in my sleeves sometimes, Edith, 
 
 At the many things money can do. 
 And ofttimes I peep in my mirror, 
 
 And I say to myself. Is this you. 
 The girl who once lived in the mountains. 
 
 Went barefooted, worked at the " stills " 
 Helping pa and the men make "moonshine" 
 
 'Way back in the Cumberland Hills? 
 
124 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 And I moralize thus, as I stand there: 
 "Who cares what you were in the past? 
 The present is yours and the future — 
 
 So long as your money shall last." 
 But I find that each day there is creeping 
 
 A scornful contempt in my heart 
 For the people who "toady" around us. 
 
 Were we and our money to part, 
 Then all of our past would be opened; 
 
 Could papa no longer pay bills. 
 Then all of our friends would be sure to find out 
 
 We 'd made Moonshine in Cumberland Hills. 
 
 But to come back to news — oh, such scandals ! 
 
 When one's wealthy, 'tis quite apropos; 
 Things grow so dreadfully stupid. 
 
 And times are so awfully slow 
 That a genteel and well-got-up scandal 
 
 Is considered rather swell in a way. 
 And lends such an interest to people 
 
 Whom we meet in our set every day. 
 Now old-fashioned, sensible papa, 
 
 Who does little but pay off our bills, 
 Says a scandal is even much lower 
 
 Than m^onshining in Cumberland Hills. 
 
 And sometimes I think so myself, dear, 
 
 And I long for the old, happy life. 
 When I roamed o'er the piney wood mountains, 
 
 Knowing nothing of discord or strife. 
 Ah, Edith, those days — they were blissful ! 
 
 Do you remember my old lover, Joe? 
 Mamma says that I never must name him. 
 
 That it's quite too dreadfully low — 
 To bury the dead past as she has ; 
 
 And I have tried with a might and a will, 
 But my heart must be buried if the past is 
 
 In a grave in the Cumberland Hills. 
 
THE VIOLET. 125 
 
 But good-bye to such foolish fancies, 
 
 That now in my life hold no part; 
 I am worldly, and scheming, and soulless, 
 
 Yet know, dear, that down in my heart 
 Is a spot warm and true and untainted 
 
 For you, the sweet friend of my youth, 
 Kept green with the tears of remembrance 
 
 Girt round with a strong wall of truth, 
 That I brought with me over the mountains, 
 
 That I cherish and keep with me still. 
 As the only memento that 's left me 
 
 Of my life in the Cumberland Hills. 
 
 EwzABETH Lee Mtjrphey. 
 
 THE VIOLET* 
 
 I FOUND my first violet to-day, 
 
 A silent messenger of Spring, 
 Alone in the deep wood-way, 
 
 A poor little frightened thing. 
 
 The gaunt limbed oaks towered high 
 While it shyly knelt at their feet. 
 
 And the pilfering breeze, strolling by. 
 Caught its fragrance, rare and sweet. 
 
 Alone in the deep wildwood. 
 
 An exile pale and fair. 
 The tiny darling stood 
 
 Until I wandered there. 
 
 I found it in its helmet blue, 
 
 A pale and shivering thing; 
 
 I culled it, and brought it to you, 
 
 A dainty off'ring of Spring. 
 
 Cunt Ruby. 
 
 'Written at the age of twelve years. 
 
126 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 Eari<y birds singing, 
 
 Heather-bells swinging, 
 And crocuses breaking in long slender blades; 
 
 Lilacs are budding, 
 
 Creeks are all flooding. 
 And wind-swept and misty the upperland glades. 
 
 Gray limbs are bending. 
 
 Outward they're sending 
 The tenderest shoots of the daintiest green; 
 
 Winds are a-blowing. 
 
 Grass spears are showing. 
 With delicate snow-drops blooming between. 
 
 DaflFodils brighten, 
 
 Spring-beauties whiten 
 The meadow's broad bosom e'en down to the pond; 
 
 Long lily blades shiver 
 
 Within their brown quiver. 
 And wake-robins bloom in the woodlands beyond. 
 
 Liverwort nestles 
 
 On moss-covered trestles. 
 Where trickles the water down — down to the pool ; 
 
 Anemones, cresses. 
 
 And lady-fern tresses, 
 Are dropping and hiding where shadows fall cool. 
 
 The clouds are all weeping 
 
 For Life gone a-sleeping 
 And tucked 'neath the cover of old Autumn leaves ; 
 
 A softer breath blowing 
 
 Will hasten the growing 
 And stir a new hope in the bosom that grieves. 
 
 Are you glad — are you cheerful? 
 Are you sad — are you tearful? 
 Let sorrow fly free — see, the sun's shining now. 
 
OCTOBER. 127 
 
 The world is broad smiling 
 Each sad thought beguiling ; 
 Let frowns disappear from the shadowed brow. 
 
 Ah, gusty and rainy is April, 
 
 But promising pleasanter weather ; 
 
 And lovelier meadows and flowers 
 Will follow the blossoming heather. 
 
 May Smith Downbs. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Through glimmering mists the warm light drifts 
 
 Sleepily over the dun, wet fields. 
 Where the sumac burns, and the wild rose lifts 
 Its pale, sweet face 'mid the odorous gifts 
 
 That the golden harvest yields. 
 
 There 's a moan from the heart of the waving pine. 
 
 Wind-tossed by the creek's dim shore, 
 And a hint of death on the purpling vine. 
 Though still in the shadowy dingles shine 
 The violets that April bore ! 
 
 In the cool, gray light of the daj^spring fair, 
 
 Ere the skies take on their blue, 
 A strange, wild beauty the woodlands wear. 
 And the sedges sway in the scented air, 
 
 A-glitter with silver dew. 
 
 Till the day, with its slumb'rous, purple glow, 
 
 A wonderful splendor weaves 
 On the hazy fields where the soft winds blow, 
 And the fading rose with its heart of snow 
 
 For the vanishing summer grieves. 
 
 Adelaide D. Roi<lston. 
 
128 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 TO L. B.'S EYES. 
 
 Dedicated to a young lady -who possesses the rare charm of hav- 
 ing one brown and one blue eye. 
 
 O TELL me if, when waking, 
 
 Thy spirits stray, 
 And through thine eyes come taking 
 
 My cares away? 
 For ever in my dreaming 
 
 Come visions bright, 
 Oft in my slumbers teeming 
 
 Sweet stars of night. 
 
 Deep in the beaming portals 
 
 Of thy brown eye, 
 Gems and silicious opals, 
 
 Rare pebbles, lie. 
 To tell thy blue eye's praises, 
 
 A hundred hues 
 Sparkle, as on the daisies 
 
 The morning dews. 
 
 Mild looking, not vindictive. 
 
 Each eye contrives. 
 And happily seems instinctive 
 
 With separate lives. 
 The spirit dies — no, never — 
 
 But O it sighs 
 That ever life should sever 
 
 From thy sweet eyes. 
 
 T. T. Reynoi,ds. 
 
SflRflH A, B, PlflTT, 
 
ECHO AND THE LOVER. 129 
 
 ECHO AND THE LOVER. 
 
 Lover. Echo ! mysterious nymph, declare 
 
 Of what you 're made and what you are- 
 ECHO. "Air!" 
 
 Lover. 'Mid airy cliffs and places high, 
 
 Sweet Echo ! listening, love, you lie 
 
 Echo. "You lie!" 
 
 Lover. You but resuscitate dead sounds — 
 
 Hark ! how my voice revives, resounds ! 
 Echo. " Zounds ! " 
 
 Lover. I '11 question you before I go — 
 Come answer me more apropos ! 
 Echo. "Poh! poh!" 
 
 Lover. Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw 
 
 So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw? 
 Echo. "Pshaw!" 
 
 Lover. Say, what will win that frisky coney 
 
 Into the toils of matrimony? 
 Echo. "Money!" 
 
 Lover. Has Phcebe not a heavenly brow; 
 Is it not white as pearl — as snow? 
 Echo. "Ass, no ! " 
 
 Lover. Her eyes ! was ever such a pair ! 
 
 Are the stars brighter than they are? 
 Echo. " They are ! " 
 
 Lover. Echo, you lie, but can 't deceive me ; 
 
 Her eyes eclipse the stars — believe me. 
 Echo. "Leave me! " 
 
 Lover. But come, you saucy, pert romancer. 
 
 Who is as fair as Phoebe? answer. 
 Echo. "Ann, sir ! " 
 
 9 John M. Harney. 
 
130 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE GATE. 
 
 Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed, 
 Under the maple, it was hinged — 
 
 The little wooden gate. 
 'Twas there, within the quiet gleam, 
 When I had strolled with Nellie home, 
 
 I used to pause and wait 
 
 Before I said to her good-night, 
 
 Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite 
 
 Within the garden's pale ; 
 And there, the gate between us two, 
 We'd linger, as all lovers do. 
 
 And lean upon the rail. 
 
 And face to face, eyes close to eyes, 
 Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise 
 
 After a stealthy quest — 
 So close I 'd bend, ere she 'd retreat, 
 That I 'd grow drunken from the sweet 
 
 Carnations on her breast. 
 
 We 'd talk — in fitful style, I ween — 
 With many a meaning glance between 
 
 The tender words and low; 
 We 'd whisper some dear trite conceit. 
 Some idle gossip we'd repeat; 
 
 And then I 'd move to go. 
 
 " Good-night," I 'd say; "Good-night — good-bye!' 
 " Good-night ! " — from her, with half a sigh — 
 " Good-night ! " " Good-night ! " And then— 
 And then I do not go, but stand. 
 Again lean on the railing, and — 
 Begin it all again. 
 
SONNET. 131 
 
 Ah ! that was many a day ago — 
 That pleasant summer-time — although 
 
 The gate is standing yet; 
 A little cranky it may be, 
 A little weather-worn — like me — 
 
 Who never can forget 
 
 The happy — "End?" My cynic friend, 
 Pray save your sneers — there was no " end." 
 
 Watch yonder chubby thing! — 
 That is our youngest — hers and mine ; 
 See how he climbs, his legs to twine 
 
 About the gate and swing. 
 
 Harrison Robertson. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The thistle-down soared up to meet the sun — 
 The way-side nursling of the summer shower — 
 A matchless purple tint its only dower, 
 
 That blanched to whiteness ere the day was done. 
 
 Though carelessly her web the spider spun 
 To hide the splendors of the day-god's power. 
 Yet vainly still the veiled and fettered flower, 
 
 The thistle-down, soared up to meet the sun. 
 
 The wind's wild playmate through the summer days 
 Soared to the sun it worshiped from afar; 
 
 The whiteness caught the glint of golden rays 
 In triumph passed beyond a rainbow bar; 
 
 The wondering world looked on with words of praise 
 And lips inspired named the flower A STAR. 
 
 Mary Thornton McAboy. 
 
132 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 DIXIE LAND. 
 
 An old Italian came into our yard last night, 
 
 And humbly begged permission that his wandering band 
 Might play for us some old, forgotten airs. 
 
 I bowed assent, and straightway "Dixie Land" 
 Fell on my ears. Forgotten? No, my pulses throbbed and 
 thrilled— 
 
 And was it weakness that mine eyes were filled with tears ? 
 Ah, well, perhaps it was; but that old song 
 
 Is but a grave-stone o'er the buried hopes of other years. 
 
 And as the notes swelled out, now high, now low, 
 
 I saw between the chords, in letters bright and red. 
 The birth, the life, the age of that Lost Cause 
 
 That ne'er will be forgotten, e'en though dead. 
 The stricken South, with unstrung bow in hand, 
 
 I saw again, amid her mournful scenes. 
 Her arrow sped too high, and lying lost 
 
 Among a myriad host of sweet, dead dreams. 
 
 Could you, my friend, stand by the grave of one you loved 
 
 And think on any faults that he in life possessed — 
 Would you not rather dwell on nobler traits 
 
 That put to shame and darkness all the rest? 
 So, dreaming o'er that past brought back to me. 
 
 No errors saw I, but before my sight 
 A vision only came of noble, loyal men 
 
 Fighting, yea, dying, for a cause to them both just and right. 
 
 As listening to the music die away, one scene arose 
 
 Whose pathos ne'er on canvas can be given, 
 A troop of ragged soldiers weeping o'er a flag* 
 
 All riddled, battle-stained, but dear as hopes of heaven. 
 And one, the gentlest memory of our world. 
 
 Stood in their midst, his figure sadly grand, 
 Saying good-bye to them and to the day 
 
 When life no longer could be given for Dixie Land. 
 
 '■'IvCe's surrender. 
 
nov:ember. 133 
 
 And that old song our fathers loved so well, 
 
 Whose words were oft times breathed with their last 
 breath, 
 Should be to every one of Southern birth as dear 
 
 As loved "remembered kisses after death." 
 A fitting "In Memoriam," so it seems to me — 
 
 Grief softens anger, and from it a ray 
 Makes warm our hearts for those who wore the blue, 
 
 While strengthening love and pride for those who wore 
 
 the gray. 
 
 ELIZABETH Lee Murphey. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The gloaming of an Autumn eventide, 
 Sullen and red, deep in the waning west, 
 I/ike iron-throated furnace in whose breast 
 
 Some smith Titanic wrought where yet abide 
 
 The smouldering fires, the Day reluctant died. 
 A clump of oaks its dismal branches pressed 
 Sheer of the sombre glow, and from the crest 
 
 Of hither hills I caught the scene and sighed, 
 Because the Autumn of my heart was here ! 
 
 And on th' horizon of its sky, where gleamed 
 The ling'ring light of Hope departed, were 
 
 The dim, sweet silhouettes of fancies deemed 
 By Youth and Love immortal! Thus Despair 
 
 Oft comes as Autumn to bright Summers dreamed 
 In ardent Spring, and like the leafless oak 
 
 Whose naked limbs do piteously invoke 
 Of Winter the chill charity of snow, 
 
 She adjures Death to shroud her wintry woe. 
 
 Dr. Prank H. Rhea. 
 
1 34 BLADES O ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 BIOPSIS. 
 
 It can not be that this sweet life of ours, 
 
 So grand, so glorious and so beautiful, 
 
 So full of mighty promises, is but 
 
 The clash of blind and senseless atoms, and 
 
 At last dissolves in empty nothingness ! 
 
 It can not be that its bright, crystal stream 
 
 Runs darkling to the deeps of endless death, 
 
 When every wave that wooes the winding banks 
 
 Sings of the summer skies from whence it came ! 
 
 What is this in this tenement of clay 
 
 That like a caged wild bird beats its wings 
 
 Against its prison bars, unless it be 
 
 A captive spirit fretting 'neath the chains 
 
 Of conscious slavery, struggling to be free? 
 
 This ceaseless longing after better things 
 
 Than earth hath ever promised, or can give, 
 
 Whence comes it, if the yearning, homesick soul 
 
 Hath not had visions of some happier sphere 
 
 To our dim eyes invisible, or else 
 
 There lingers still, like some half-waking dream. 
 
 Sweet memories of a former glory lost? 
 
 O grand, invisible, and potent essence, lyife ! 
 
 In vain the student seeks with chemic test 
 
 To fathom thy deep mystery! All in vain 
 
 With fierce and fiery questions would he wring — 
 
 Poor tortured Nature writhing on the rack — 
 
 Confession from her suffering silent lips 
 
 Of THAT MYSTERIOUS, SUBTLE POWER that moves. 
 
 Controls, and regulates her wondrous works. 
 
 He sees it laughing in the budding flower; 
 
 He hears it trilling in the sky-lark's song; 
 
 He feels it throbbing in the fiery flood 
 
 That leaps like liquid lightning 'long his veins, 
 
 And, maddened at the mockery of his powers, 
 
 Calls bold, unblushing Science to his aid. 
 
BIOPSIS. 135 
 
 Who, armed with scalpel and retort, pursues 
 With patient search the protean phantom down 
 Through system, organ, member, molecule. 
 And atom, but to find for all her pains 
 There 's that within the lowliest thing that lives 
 That will not yield to his analysis. 
 
 In nature is no death, unless that death 
 Be called, which is but change to newer forms 
 Of ever upward reaching life. In all 
 This ceaseless change beginning finds she none. 
 Nor prophecy of end. No further SEEK. 
 Before us and behind the curtain falls, 
 Forever shutting from our vision out 
 The secrets of the silent land beyond. 
 Across these borders Science can not pass; 
 And proud Philosophy with gathered skirts 
 Stops at the threshold, and with hand to brow 
 Peers with wide-wondering eyes and silent lips 
 Into the darkness that she dares not trust. 
 
 But Faith, I^ove's white-winged daughter, lifts the veil 
 
 That shuts the future out, and whispers hope. 
 
 The soul, with an unerring instinct that 
 
 As far transcends the utmost reach and power 
 
 Of weak and faltering reason as the stars 
 
 Their pale reflection in the troubled pool, 
 
 Proclaims herself a thing of birth divine. 
 
 And crowns herself immortal. 
 
 We do live; 
 And it concerns us most not what is life. 
 But how shall we best use it, that when called 
 To lay this glittering pageantry aside , 
 And, clothed in death's pale robe of night, lie down 
 To that long dreamless sleep that separates 
 Time's evening from Eternity's fair morn. 
 Our deeds of love, in hearts we leave behind. 
 May live forever; and across the gulf 
 That circles round the narrow shores of time 
 
136 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Waft their sweet perfume, borne on heavenly airs, 
 An incense offering to the throne of God. 
 
 He lives it best in God's sight, who but lives 
 To feel, to love, to wonder and adore! 
 
 5JC jp y^ *1^ *j> J|> 'ff* ?J> *p pf, 
 
 I/Ook abroad, 
 The precious fields are unto harvest white. 
 And there is lack of reapers everywhere. 
 Thrust in thy sickle ere the noon be past. 
 Or if thou hast not strength nor skill to reap. 
 Then follow after, gleaning; and perchance 
 When home thou comest, not with empty hands. 
 It may be thine like Moab Ruth to sit 
 At evening by the Master's feet and find 
 Sweet favor in his sight. Who dares to say 
 Who best fulfills His wish, or those that reap 
 Or those that only glean ! Work, watch, and wait. 
 And trust His tender love whate'er befall. 
 Thy pathway here may not be smooth and even. 
 And Sorrow oft may set and sup with thee 
 When thou hast bidden smiling Joy along. 
 The vines thou'st tended with fond fostering care 
 May cast their fruit untimely to the ground. 
 Thou mayst toil with weary hand and brain 
 Alone through all the fiery day of life. 
 And looking back at evening on the fields, 
 See thistles growing where in tears thou sow'dst 
 The golden grain at morning, full of hope; 
 A cruel disappointment comes at last 
 To mock thy wasted years and helpless age. 
 Be not cast down ! The soul her starry crown 
 Wins not by what the feeble hands have done, 
 But what the heart has suffered. 'T is God's way 
 To perfect His beloved and prepare 
 The precious in His sight to dwell with him. 
 The purest souls that ever blessed the earth 
 Have come forth from the hottest fires of pain. 
 The sweetest songs that ever thrilled the heart 
 Have by lips white with agony been sung! 
 
BIOPSIS. 137 
 
 Beyond some Jordan every Canaan lies. 
 Who will not in the wilderness abide, 
 Athirst and hungered for his forty days, 
 Shall ne'er along the palm-strewn highway ride 
 In triumph to be crowned a king of men. 
 
 But paths of peace the humble only find. 
 'Twas not o'er Shinar's vain ambitious host. 
 Exulting in the pride of human strength. 
 But unto Bethel's wanderer, lone and sad. 
 Rock-pillowed in the desert, God drew back 
 The curtains of the skies, and showed revealed 
 The shining stairway swung 'twixt earth and heaven. 
 
 Be not a dreamer — life is not for dreams. 
 They live to sorrow who but live to self. 
 'Tis God's unchanging plan and nature's law 
 That they shall reap not who refuse to sow. 
 Give, and without measure shall it thee be giv'n 
 Of joy and hope and happiness and love ; 
 Give without stint, for though thy store be scant 
 Thou hast within the lodging of thy heart 
 A greater than Elijah; and fear not! 
 Thou canst not drain that cruse, however small, 
 Wherein God pours the never failing streams 
 Of His rich blessing. 
 
 There is work for all. 
 God gems thy pathway with opportunities 
 Thick as the summer dew-drops on the grass, 
 Rich with His promises, but manna-like. 
 They must be gathered ere the sun is risen 
 And used upon the instant, else they breed 
 Within the heart a never-dying brood 
 Of worms armed with stings of vain regret, 
 And to a loathsome hell of torment turn 
 The paradise of memory. 
 
 So from seeds 
 Of good, neglected, direst evils spring; 
 And opportunities of yesterday 
 
138 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Borne upward, on whose wings we might have soared 
 To heights immeasurable of bliss sublime, 
 Hang mill-stones round our necks to-day to drag 
 Our struggling souls beneath the unpitying wave. 
 
 Seize then the winged moments as they pass, 
 And, ere they speed to Heaven's record up, 
 Stamp each with some good deed, some gentle word. 
 Some holy thought, some generous action done. 
 So shall thy treasures be laid up in Heaven; 
 And where thy treasures are God says thy heart 
 Shall be — and where thy heart is there thou art. 
 For HEART IS ALL — and Heaven thus be thine. 
 
 Tom F. McBbath. 
 
 THE BURIED HOPE. 
 
 Fold down its little baby hands; 
 
 This was a hope you had of old; 
 Fillet the brow with rosy bands. 
 
 And kiss its shining locks of gold; 
 Somewhere, within the reach of years. 
 
 Another hope may come like this; 
 But this poor babe is gone in tears, 
 
 With thin white lips, cold to thy kiss. 
 
 In Summer, a little wreath of flowers; 
 
 In Winter, a little drift of snow; 
 And this is all, through all the hours. 
 
 Of the promise perished long ago; 
 So every heart has some dear grave. 
 
 Close hidden under its joy or care. 
 Till over it breaths of memory wave 
 
 And leave the little headstone bare. 
 
 Will Wallace Harney. 
 
A MAY-TIME MEMORY. 1 39 
 
 A MAY-TIME MEMORY. 
 
 Wk rode adown the woodland way 
 'Mid shifting flecks of sun and shade ; 
 Our horses' feet soft music made — 
 
 The world was wondrous fair that day. 
 
 Sweet languid scents were all around, 
 A balmy softness filled the air, 
 For May, a goddess past compare. 
 
 Had lately walked the enchanted ground, 
 
 And beauty sprung where'er she trod: 
 A vivid green on leaf and tree. 
 With whirr of locust, hum of bee, 
 
 And flow'rets peeping thro' the sod. 
 
 Green trailing branches downward hung. 
 
 Gay birds were singing merrily. 
 
 Dear I^ove ! the world is fair to see 
 When hearts are fond and life is young! 
 
 The glad enchantment of the place 
 Beguiled my secret from my breast; 
 Your willing thrall I stood confest. 
 
 Made captive by its tender grace. 
 
 A benison from all things fair 
 
 Gave sanction to my heart's desire; 
 A melody of Nature's choir 
 
 Love's chorus thrilled upon the air. 
 
 Now loit'ring down the sunset side 
 Of life's fair hill, I oft look 'round. 
 Remembering that enchanted ground 
 
 Where the heart's whitest tents abide : 
 
 Wide morn: a shaded grass-grown lane, 
 Down which we ride in pleasant talk. 
 Our steeds held in to slowest walk. 
 
 My hand upon your bridle rein. 
 
 Virginia F. Nobi,e. 
 
140 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 COQUETTE. 
 
 "CoQUBTTE," my love they sometimes call, 
 For she is light of lips and heart ; 
 What though she smile alike on all, 
 If in her smile she knows no art? 
 
 Like some glad brook she seems to be. 
 
 That ripples o'er its pebbly bed. 
 And prattles to each flower or tree. 
 
 Which stoops to kiss it, overhead. 
 
 Beneath the heavens' white and, blue 
 It purls and sings and laughs and leaps. 
 
 The sunny meadows dancing through 
 O'er noisy shoals and frothy steeps. 
 
 'Tis thus the world doth see the brook; 
 
 But I have seen it otherwise, 
 When following it to some far nook 
 
 Where leafy shields shut out the skies. 
 
 And there its waters rest, subdued. 
 
 In shadowy pools, serene and shy, 
 Wherein grave thoughts and fancies brood 
 
 And tender dreams and longings lie. 
 
 I love it when it laughs and leaps. 
 
 But love it better when at rest — 
 'Tis only in its tranquil deeps 
 
 I see my image in its breast. 
 The Century. Harrison Robertson. 
 
FRANKFORT. 141 
 
 FRANKFORT. 
 
 Shut in by hills, like forests hung on edges round the skies, 
 With rock-built stairways, spiral cut, about them as they rise. 
 Here on their low, broad, mossy base, close to the river's side, 
 This vine-like city wanders round in wild romantic pride. 
 Here, climbing up the cliffs apace, there, out in valleys green. 
 And lighting with its altar fires crag, dell, and deep ravine. 
 Delightful place ! no one, unmoved, thy hills and plains can 
 
 view. 
 With the Kentucky whispering and flowing softly through; 
 In and out and all around its waters brightly gleam, 
 With shadows of the cliffs and trees and houses in the 
 
 stream ; 
 So picturesque, so wildly free, so unlike any place. 
 We can not pluck from classic lore a symbol of its grace. 
 Its wayward streets, made as by chance they cut into a hill, 
 Or cleared by axe a bosky nook, or broken gorge did fill; 
 Its uncouth buildings, dark with age, of wood or massive 
 
 stone. 
 Bespeak the wild and simple life distinctively its own. 
 Here forest trees grow undisturbed, and Vallambrosa's shade 
 Was not more deep than foliage here, of elm and maple 
 
 made; 
 And gleaming through we see the spires of churches, great 
 
 and small, 
 Where sweetly ringing bells proclaim the Christian creeds 
 
 of all; 
 Here birds from bowers of the South with Ipving preference 
 
 throng. 
 And build their nests, and fill the town with glory of their 
 
 song; 
 The graceful squirrel and timid hare are hot afraid to come 
 And play, like children, hide-and-seek, as in their forest home ; 
 Here gabbling geese go eyeing round the strangers in a 
 
 crowd. 
 And turkeys grace suburban homes, like people shy and 
 
 proud. 
 
142 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 And roosters lift their gorgeous wings and crow with wild 
 
 delight — 
 No clock as truly tells the morn, or mid-hours of day and 
 
 night ; 
 These winged children nature brings, unconscious how they 
 
 grace 
 The wooded homes that man has built here in this sylvan 
 
 place, 
 With clang of trade and engines' screams, and busy, noisy 
 
 mills ; 
 These are the scenes, these are the sounds that echo thro' 
 
 the hills. 
 These give the charm of ancient towns, to see that travel- 
 ers roam, 
 Where strangers, like their citizens, feel some sweet spell 
 
 of home 
 For places long inhabited here by the sons of men. 
 The smoke, the mist, the atmosphere of hill and dale and 
 
 glen 
 Is filled with subtle sense of love — half human, half divine, 
 And draws us, as the pagan 's drawn, to God thro' Nature's 
 
 shrine. 
 Now as I gaze from topmost hill upon this city here. 
 Which should be, as it is to me, to all Kentuckians dear, 
 Imbrowned by shadows of the cliffs, o'ertopped by foliage 
 
 grand. 
 With sudden distances of wood, of vale and smiling land. 
 With glittering mist, with sheeny smoke, that charms the 
 
 painter's eyes. 
 With rainbow splendor in the clouds that deck her evening 
 
 skies. 
 Endowed with life's rich blessings all, I say I know not where 
 A city could be found more strangely beautiful and fair. 
 Here from Boone's grave, surpassing all, the view that south- 
 ward lies. 
 Where hills on hills, like giant stairs, recede into the skies, 
 And winding down, as from on high, thro' mist and azure 
 
 gloom. 
 The river, like some spirit, comes in dress of silver bloom; 
 
FRANKFORT. 143 
 
 And flying on, with wave-winged feet, down thro' the heart 
 
 of town, 
 Seems to rest beneath the cliff, where the sun, in going 
 
 down, 
 Hangs like a broken golden wheel and slurs its shattered 
 
 light 
 Far o'er the sky, far o'er the town, and the river in its 
 
 flight. 
 Oh, hill - girt city ! water - bound, with blue sky for thy 
 
 crown — 
 Made lovely by a thousand charms of Nature — all thine own ! 
 No wonder that thy people cling to thee with loving pride, 
 Even as thy vines and cedars cling to bank and green hill- 
 side; 
 No wonder that the Indians fought with savage, fearful ire. 
 And lit these hills and valleys fair with devastating fire. 
 And yelled with indignation grand that they must yield 
 
 their claim 
 To white men and be driven from this paradise to them. 
 I wonder that no poet yet has given the world thy praise, 
 And proudly set thy beauty in immortal, glowing lays. 
 The English bards have one by one enrobed in their renown 
 Some hamlet, river, valley, plain, or quaint, romantic town 
 To childhood and to memory dear; but thou, sweet city 
 
 here — 
 The most romantic of them all, to all hearts strangely 
 
 dear — 
 Thou art not set in silver verse, and, like some precious 
 
 stone. 
 Prized by all the world because fame makes its value 
 
 known. 
 Here in this lofty resting place, the "City of its Dead," 
 A hill of wond'rous beauty reared up from the river's bed. 
 Where pine and cedar, elm and oak, in forest grandeur 
 
 stand. 
 And flower -blooms, like eyes of love, light up this silent 
 
 land; 
 Here gleaming marble tells the tale, too long erst to record. 
 How many from the town below here sleep beneath the 
 
 sward ; 
 
144 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Here are the names the State has cut on monumental stone 
 Of those whose deeds, and words, and works are jewels all 
 
 her own. 
 Here sleeps O'Hara, poet and wit, whose " Bivouac of the 
 
 Dead" 
 In itiany a land and many a tongue with rapture has been 
 
 read; 
 And though Kentucky claimed his works, his famous harp 
 
 of song. 
 With all its wealth of minstrelsy, to Frankfort doth belong. 
 Perhaps the prophet's love of fame, unrecognized at home. 
 Ambition tempted him away in sunnier climes to roam; 
 But where his verses were invoked, and their sweet glory 
 
 shed, 
 He sleeps, most honored of them all, in the Bivouac of the 
 
 Dead; 
 And still here, as the past on past of ages shall be hurled. 
 This minstrel's lays, like music, will fore'er delight the 
 
 world. 
 
 * * * * >|: * ;|; 
 
 Pair city of the hills and vales, once more I turn and gaze 
 Entranced upon thy beauty, robed in sundown's golden 
 
 haze; 
 Here poesy could never ask a sweeter home on earth — 
 Her silver harp a richer song than measures of thy worth. 
 And when my feet shall roam no more, my life to death 
 
 hath run, 
 I ask but this, to rest among my loved at set of sun. 
 Where singing birds, and lovely flowers, and pine and cedar 
 
 keep 
 Perpetual spring above the mound that hides our dreamless 
 
 sleep. 
 
 Mrs. Jennie C. Morton. 
 
HILLS LOOK BL UE WHEN FAR A WA Y. I45 
 
 HII.LS LOOK BLUE WHEN FAR AWAY. 
 
 The sunshine on the hill-tops 
 
 Was sifting finest gold, 
 The shadows in the valleys 
 
 Were deepening fold on fold; 
 To the utmost outward rim 
 
 Of blue and purple mist, 
 Lightly seemed the world to swim 
 
 In seas of amethyst. 
 
 Close to the open window. 
 
 Worn out with childish glee. 
 Softly came my little boy, 
 
 And leaned against my knee. 
 His brown eyes, full of wonder. 
 
 Were gazing far away, 
 " Mamma, can you tell me, please, 
 
 Why the hills look blue to-day?" 
 
 At sound of his quaint question 
 
 I felt the sudden tears 
 Rise in my eyes in memory 
 
 Of long-gone, happy years. 
 And tho' in sweet respondence 
 
 I uttered not one word. 
 The heart within me quivered, 
 
 Like a restless, prisoned bird. 
 
 Once I had a loyal friend — 
 
 More than friend he fain had been — ' 
 And with eloquent appeals 
 
 Heart of mine he sought to win. 
 "Take care! O, my precious girl, 
 
 Heed thee well what I now say : 
 The roughest hills feet ever climbed, 
 
 Looked blue when far away. 
 
146 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 "Better in the Valley rest thee — 
 
 Be unknown, but glad and free — 
 The low, green Valley of Delight, 
 
 And be the world to me ! 
 There no storms will sweep around, 
 
 Full of coldness and of wrath; 
 Lay thy little hand in mine, 
 
 I have learned to know the path." 
 
 How I laughed me at his warning! 
 
 How I mocked me at his sighs! 
 And I gave but merry scorning 
 
 For the tears within his eyes I 
 For the Star of Hope had risen 
 
 Above the Goal of Fame, 
 And on its scroll I yearned to trace 
 
 A grand, immortal name. 
 
 And at once my eager footsteps 
 
 Sought to climb the far-off height. 
 But the clouds about me gathered 
 
 That were darker than the night; 
 And many a brier and bramble 
 
 And many a cruel stone 
 Beset the way in which I trod, 
 
 Unaided and aloae. 
 
 Still fearlessly I mounted 
 
 Toward the shining goal. 
 Careless alike of heart-ache 
 
 Or anguish of the soul. 
 What recked I of such trifles 
 
 As weariness or pain, 
 When through will and self-denial 
 
 I life's purpose coidd attain? 
 
 Now, with the light upon me. 
 Descended from the skies, 
 
 I look across the distance 
 Where the low, green Valley lies; 
 
TRUE GREATNESS. 147 
 
 And I know, at last, the lesson 
 
 Which Time alone can teach, 
 That the greatest of life's triumphs 
 
 Lie always — out of reach. 
 
 StUl on the distant tree-tops 
 
 The sunshine sifts its gold, 
 And the shadows in the valleys 
 
 Are deepening fold on fold; 
 And I hear my Julius asking 
 
 Why the hills look blue to-day. 
 And thro' my tears I answer : 
 "Because — they're far away." 
 
 NEi,i,ra Marshall McAfee. 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 
 
 But he alone whose mind is great 
 
 And greatly dwells conjoin'd with mighty soul. 
 Whose heart abounds in love, and in control 
 
 Works out the problems that to him relate. 
 
 Whether secluded deep or high in state. 
 
 Who from the center sees the utmost whole, 
 And travels boldly to the distant goal. 
 
 Nor turns regardful of reproach or hate. 
 But uses powers loaned him from above 
 For purposes whose aim and end is love. 
 
 All men to him as younger brothers are; 
 'Tis he directs, designs, and plans and leads, 
 With wisdom's high-born thoughts and godlike deeds. 
 
 And beams above them like an Eastern star. 
 
 Howard Miller. 
 
1 48 BLADES ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 LOVE'S TRINITY. 
 
 Ths crushed strawberry's delicate stain, 
 
 In a tide of creamy white, 
 When the flesh of the luscious fruit is slain, 
 And plunged in the deep of a milky main, 
 
 The daintiest tongue's delight : 
 This is the hue of her bosom fair 
 Of the roses and lilies mingled there. 
 
 II. 
 
 The radiant stars in a laughing stream. 
 
 Tossed into scintillant spray; 
 Sweet silvery notes that throb in a dream. 
 And spangles of dew that shimmer and gleam 
 
 In the fair tiara of May: 
 These are the type of her gentle mind, 
 The golden thoughts by the heart refined. 
 
 III. 
 
 The aroma faint which the rose exhales. 
 
 Unseen, unfelt tho' it be, 
 I/ading the wings of the amorous gales 
 That wanton in shadows of dusky vales. 
 
 Or frolic o'er sunny lea: 
 This perfume hidden, this exquisite joy. 
 Symbols her dainty spirit coy. 
 
 Dr. Frank H. Rhea. 
 
MY LAP Y SLEEPS. 149 
 
 MY IvADY SLEEPS. 
 
 My lady sleeps. No fold 
 
 Of silken vestment stirs 
 On the fair bosom cold, 
 Under its laces white 
 
 As that pale cheek of hers 
 In the dim shaded light; 
 
 Through the curved lips no breath 
 Warms the chill face or breast. 
 
 Is this the thing called death? 
 
 Then would I humbly sue 
 Such perfect peace; such rest 
 
 Might calm my pulses too. 
 
 Is this the end of all 
 
 Life's sweet tumultuous thrill? 
 She who held hearts in thrall, 
 And swayed men's destinies — 
 
 Lies she so low and still 
 After those victories? 
 
 Under that waxen lid 
 
 What secret thought is veiled? 
 What if she heard and chid 
 This futile voice of mine ! 
 
 Since while she lived, it failed 
 To reach her heart's pure shrine. 
 
 What if her lips should break 
 Death's icy seal, and move ! 
 
 Would the old scorn awake. 
 
 That I still vex her ear 
 With the poor tale of love 
 
 She never deigned to hear? 
 
1 50 BLADES O • BL UEGRASS. 
 
 Peace, foolish one ! Her soul 
 Dwells not in this dull clay; 
 
 Heaven's height was its goal. 
 
 Haply she knows at last, 
 All that I fain would say 
 
 Now hope's brief day is past. 
 
 Oh, thou majestic Death ! 
 
 As in some holy place 
 Kneel I with quickened breath; 
 Nor would I dare to press 
 
 My lips on that dear face, 
 Such is its sacredness. 
 
 Sleep — while some subtle spell 
 Turns brow and cheek to stone. 
 
 Would that I slept as well. 
 
 In dreamless rest secure! 
 I who, unloved, alone 
 
 Ivive and learn to endure. 
 
 Belford''s Magazine. Ida Goi,r>SMiTH Morris. 
 
 AN IDLE POET. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Tis said that when the nightingale 
 
 His mate has found, 
 He fills no more the woodland vale 
 
 With songful sound. 
 
 II. 
 
 I sing not since my love I knew. 
 
 For, like the bird's, 
 
 My heart is full of song too true. 
 
 Too deep for words. 
 
 Harrison Robertson, 
 Harper's Monthly. 
 
CHORDS. 151 
 
 CHORDS. 
 
 Whkn love delays, when love delays and Joy 
 Steals a strange shadow o'er the happy hills, 
 And Hope sijiiles from To-morrow, nor fulfills 
 One promise of To-day, thy sight would cloy 
 This soul with loved despair 
 By seeing thee so fair. 
 
 When love delays, when love delays and Song 
 Aches at wild lips regretful, as the sound 
 Of a whole sea strives in the shell-mouth bound, 
 Tho' Hope smiles still to-morrowed, all this wrong 
 Would at one little word, 
 lyeap forth for thee a sword. 
 
 When love delays, when love delays and Sleep 
 Nests in dark eye-balls, like a song of home 
 Heard 'mid familiar flowers o'er the foam, 
 Tho' Hope smiles still to-morrowed, thou wouldst steep 
 This hurt heart over-much 
 In balm with one true touch. 
 
 When love delays, when love delays and Sorrow 
 Drinks her own tears that fever her soul's thirst, 
 And song, and sleep, and memory seem accurst. 
 For Hope smiles still to-morrowed, I would borrow 
 One smile from thee to cheer 
 The weary, weary year. 
 
 When love delays, when love delays and Death 
 Hath sealed dim lips and mocked young eyes with night, 
 To love or hate locked calm, indifferent quite — 
 
 Hope, star-eyed acolyte — what kisses' breath. 
 
 What joys can slay regret 
 
 Or teach thee to forget! 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
152 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 AT YUIvE-TlDE. 
 I. 
 
 Now upon the Soul's broad hearthstone lay the crissom 
 
 brands for lighting, 
 With the charm of touch and whisper wake the bright 
 
 warm-hearted flame 
 Till it, rising, kisses softly all the arches bending o'er it. 
 Till the winged sparks go singing through the night Love's 
 
 holy name. 
 
 II. 
 
 l/usty mistletoe be bringing, boughs of cedar, wreaths of 
 
 holly. 
 To each heart a cup of laughter touched by gracious vestal 
 
 lips. 
 Now the disc of every sorrow joy shall circle with a halo. 
 As the sun hangs golden banners round the shadow of 
 
 eclipse. 
 
 HI. 
 
 I/ong within the soul, God's Temple, darkness, festooned, 
 
 hung forbidding. 
 Draped the windows barred and leaden, draped the knarled 
 
 and studded door; 
 While with fitful flare and flicker danced the Yule-light, 
 
 hollow hearted 
 As wild Superstition, bowing, dancing on the stained floor. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ivong the angry sparks sang "Hatred! Hate of Brother 
 
 unto brother!" 
 Ivong the mistletoe was severed with a sacrificial knife 
 Sheathed oft within the bosom of a hapless, human victim; 
 Telling of a hideous worship and the creed of life for life. 
 
AT YULE-TIDE. 153 
 
 V. 
 But, at last, an oriel window set toward the hills of Morning, 
 Where with reverent brows uplifted pray the mighty peaks 
 
 of Hope, 
 ThriUed with prescient thrills of glory as the Day-Star 
 
 shone upon it. 
 Thrilled as thrills a parent watcher 'neath a blessed horo- 
 scope. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sudden dust, blown quickly downward, fell the rotten folds 
 
 of darkness; 
 Through the oriel's veins, translucent, ran a ruby current 
 
 mild ; 
 Clusters there of roses blossomed, lilies swung their snowy 
 
 censers 
 O'er a mother and a manger and the sweet face of a child. 
 
 VII. 
 
 All the Temple was transfigured, and a silent benediction 
 Fell on cedar, fell on holly, fell on pearl-strung mistletoe : 
 "God," they murmured, "and not Odin: Christ," they mur- 
 mured, "and not Balder," 
 And awed Superstition, kneeling, heard forgiveness whis- 
 pered low. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Swung the door upon its hinges, and the angels of God's 
 
 Heaven 
 Straightway came within the Temple singing songs of holy 
 
 cheer; 
 Sang they all of Jesus blessed, sang they of His peace eternal 
 Spanning all the broken earth-clouds like an emerald rainbow 
 
 clear. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Stay, sweet angels, ever singing carols to the I/ord and Savior, 
 Sing; " He oped the orient portals with a rosy, baby hand! " 
 Sing: "He suffered, more than martyr, marking earth with 
 
 feet of sorrow 
 While, behind Him, joys and blessings bourgeoned in the 
 
 desert land!" 
 
154 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 FIDE ET AMORE. 
 I, 
 
 Lord, we stand upon the margin of that ocean stretching 
 outward 
 
 Far beyond the isles of Knowledge, far beyond the mount 
 of Sight; 
 
 Only Love can hear its billows breaking on the shores Here- 
 after, 
 
 Only Faith can see Thy Heaven bathed in everlasting light. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then in this Thy dearest gift-time, when to us Thyself Thou 
 gavest. 
 
 Give us Faith and Love to guide us, teaching us of Heaven 
 and Thee; 
 
 Lest we fall to idle talking with Doubt, walking close be- 
 side us. 
 
 Lest we say, with him, " Hope never ! All beyond is shore- 
 less sea." 
 
 Ingram Crockett. 
 
 AT DAWN OF DAY. 
 
 I HEARD the faint, sweet twitter of a bird. 
 Then all was hushed and quiet; and altho' 
 I hearkened with an ear intent, I heard 
 Naught else, save, gently waving to and fro, 
 The wind-swept leaves breathing soft lullaby. 
 Then presently on all the land there lay 
 A tender light that was nor night nor day; 
 The bird renewed his song, and murmurs broke 
 On the calm silence, as if all nature woke 
 And chanted orisons to the Most High. 
 
 Virginia P. Nobi,E. 
 
TO-MORROW. 155 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 The dying beams of setting sun 
 
 Have touched the purple hills with fire, 
 And thro' the golden mists they've spun 
 
 I see each village roof and spire; 
 And over where the cedarn trees 
 
 Wrap up the earth in pungent gloom; 
 Where blue-flecked boughs wave in the breeze, 
 
 I see a tinge of sunset's bloom, 
 And where the stream's clear waters run 
 
 And flow on to the distant river 
 I see the faintest flame of sun 
 
 Upon its wavelets fall and quiver; 
 It lingers here — it lingers there — 
 
 It seems so bright — so loth to go — 
 Ah, well! — 'tis thus with all things fair: 
 
 We part with all we love below, 
 And tho' that parting gives us sorrow, 
 We live and love again — to-morrow. 
 
 Four years ago — four long, long years. 
 
 We stood — we two — hand clasped in hand, 
 And watched with eyes filled full of tears 
 
 The swift tide surging into land: 
 And as the bright waves broke and rolled 
 
 Upon the yellow ribs of sand, 
 They shimmered with the sunset's gold. 
 
 And cast their brightness on the strand; 
 And over rock and over shore 
 
 They dashed their showers of pearl-white spray; 
 Again they turned — and yet, once more — 
 
 Then to the deep sea flowed away. 
 To us they seemed full loth to go — 
 
 And then it was he said to me: 
 "Dear, ere again they ebb and flow. 
 
 Thus tinged with light to soundless sea" — 
 
156 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 And here he sighed full drearily — 
 " Tho' numbered with the dead I be, 
 And you live on in nameless sorrow, 
 The tide will ebb and flow — to-morrow." 
 
 We two had met to say Farewell — 
 
 Had met there as the sun went down — 
 With hearts that on their every swell 
 
 Pulsed more of love than lips might own. 
 I whispered low: "To part gives pain. 
 
 And if to-morrow flows the tide 
 Why may not we return again, 
 
 And stand, as now, dear, side by side?" 
 He smiled, yet lingered, loth to go — 
 
 And said: "Within His awful palm 
 High God holds our frail lives below. 
 
 We know not whence the storm or calm." 
 He spoke full well ; we never know ! 
 
 We whirl like leaves in Autumn's blast, 
 And looking in dear eyes we know 
 
 Not if that fond look be the last: 
 We parted then! — four years ago! 
 
 I count the time with ceaseless sorrow. 
 For suns may set and seas may flow, 
 But Hope's dawn we will never know 
 
 In Life's or Death's to-morrow! 
 
 Ne;i<i,ie Marsh AT,!. McAfee. 
 
YON TINY STREAM. 157 
 
 YON TINY STREAM. 
 
 My life is like yon tiny stream, 
 
 Flowing onward like a dream, 
 
 Where the meadow grasses grow 
 
 And the blue-bells brightly blow, 
 Softly singing, silver shining on its way. 
 Passing onward, swift and surely, day by day. 
 
 My life is like yon tiny stream, 
 
 Where the sunlit waters gleam. 
 
 On its wave the roses cast, 
 
 Sedge and willow gliding past, 
 Softly singing, silver shining on its way. 
 Passing onward, swift and surely, day by day. 
 
 My life is like yon tiny stream. 
 
 Rocks and brambles lost between. 
 
 Shadows brooding darkly there, 
 
 Gloom and silence everywhere — 
 Broken, moaning, sighing, sobbing on its way. 
 Groping blindly, searching for the light of day. 
 
 My life is like yon tiny stream. 
 
 Where the lightning flashes gleam. 
 
 Drops of rainfall, flakes of snow 
 
 Strike the waters like a blow. 
 World-forgotten, life-forsaken on its way 
 To the ocean and the light of perfect day. 
 
 Mrs. Jennie Jones Cunningham. 
 
158 BLADES O ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 THE SWEETEST DAY. 
 
 It is not when the air is calm, 
 
 The sky gleams softly white and blue, 
 And waters chant their low sweet psalm 
 
 By maple banks of bending yew. 
 When flowers bloom with richest tint. 
 
 And roses blush in wondrous pride, 
 And sunbeams on the grasses print 
 
 A thousand dapples golden-eyed. 
 
 It is not when the noon is past. 
 
 And all the green has turned to gray. 
 And like the sails of many a mast 
 
 Clouds float on the air of day; 
 Nor when, like spirit of the night, 
 
 The twilight in her purple gown 
 Moves softly o'er the day most bright 
 
 And folds its gorgeous clouding down. 
 
 But oh ! to me the sweetest day 
 
 In any season of the year, 
 In dimpled spring or winter gray, 
 
 Or autumn gold or dun or drear, 
 Is that fair day on whose white face 
 
 No word or deed of mine can lie, 
 A cloud to gloom or stain its grace, 
 
 This is the sweetest day to me. 
 
 JBNNIE C. Morton. 
 
AND ALIA. 159 
 
 ANDALIA. 
 
 Song, that did waken you, 
 Song, that had taken you, 
 Has not forsaken you; 
 
 Still with the Spring 
 My mad and merriest 
 Part of the veriest 
 Season and cheeriest; 
 
 You, who can bring 
 Airs that the birds have taught you; 
 Grace that the winds have brought you; 
 Mien that the lilies laughed you; 
 Thoughts that the high stars waft you — 
 
 Are you a human thing? 
 
 II. 
 
 Dreams — are you aught of them? 
 You who are fraught -wfith them; 
 You, like their thought, with them 
 
 Beautiful too. 
 Life — you're a gleam of it; 
 lyove — you're a dream of it; 
 Hope — you're a beam of it 
 
 Bound in the blue 
 Gray of big eyes that are often 
 Laughter and languor; that soften 
 On to me sweetly and slowly 
 Out with your soul that is holy. 
 
 So purer than dew. 
 
 III. 
 
 Face like the sweetest of 
 Perfumes, completest of 
 Flowers, God's fleetest of 
 
 Months ever bear. 
 Sleep, who walk crisper, sleep. 
 
l6o BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Than the frost, lisper sleep, 
 Have you a whisper, sleep 
 
 Soft as her hair? 
 Night and the stars did spin it; 
 Stars and the night are in it; 
 Let but one ray of it bind me. 
 And did the Fates blind me, 
 
 Fair I should know her, fair! 
 
 rv. 
 
 I<ove — has it mated you? 
 Love, that has waited you. 
 Love, that was fated you 
 
 Here for awhile. 
 Song, can you sing in me 
 Fuller, or bring in me 
 Peace, that will cling in me 
 
 So through all trial 
 Such as her smile? like the morning's — 
 Fashioning luminous warnings. 
 Rose, of a passion unspoken ; 
 Love, 'tis your seal and its token — 
 
 The light of her smile. 
 
 Madison- Cawein. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 "Two travel-worn and weary feet — at rest 
 From paths of pain — now shrouded in the past; 
 Two cold hands folded on a colder breast 
 From whence the soul hath taken flight at last; 
 Two eyes from whose dairk, vacant cells the glow 
 Of sunlight seems forever to have fled; 
 Two mute lips meeting like an unstrung bow 
 From which the final arrow, speech, hath sped — 
 This is the subtlest of all mysteries. 
 Some call it Death, and others name it Peace." 
 
 Daniex, E. 0'Sui,i,rvAN. 
 
MHDISON CflWEIN. 
 
APRILLE. I l6l 
 
 APRILLE. 
 
 She walked across the fields, ice-bound, 
 lyike some shy, sunny hint of spring, 
 
 And, stooping suddenly, she found 
 A violet — a dainty thing. 
 
 Which shunned the chilly light of day 
 
 Until sweet "Aprille" came that way. 
 
 They knew each other, girl and flower ; 
 
 There was some subtile bond between 
 And I had walked, that very hour. 
 
 The fields, and had no violet seen ; 
 For me the winter landscape lay 
 All blossomless and bleak and gray. 
 
 They knew me not, blue flower, blue eyes ; 
 
 She, careless, passed me when we met ; 
 The tender glance which I should prize 
 
 Above all things, the violet 
 Received; and I went on my way 
 Companioned with the cheerless day. 
 
 From wintry days blue violets shrink; 
 
 From wintry lives blue eyes will turn ; 
 And yet if she, I sometimes think. 
 
 Could smile on me with sweet concern. 
 One life so like this wintry day 
 Would spring-time be for aye and aye. 
 
 Harper's Monthly. Harrison Robertson. 
 
l62 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE CHILD SINGER. 
 
 He sang upon the dusty street, 
 
 A little wandering minstrel boy, 
 A song of home, a song so sweet 
 
 It checked the selfish look of joy 
 On many a face that passed his way, 
 Along the street one summer day. 
 
 I heard his heart-cry in his song 
 For home, dear home beyond the sea; 
 
 His dark eye swept the heedless throng. 
 His pleading tongue sang Italie; 
 
 His soul saw those he loved, and rang 
 
 In sighs along the songs he sang. 
 
 Yet we, that lecture in our halls 
 
 Against the crime of servitude, 
 And hear, with pride, the voice that calls 
 
 Us saviours of the multitude, 
 Will smile and call it classic art 
 To hear a song that breaks a heart. 
 
 The little souls that cry to God 
 
 In prisoned song along the way. 
 They burn their hearts, where we have trod 
 
 To be the pastime of a day; 
 In the Arena tyrants said, 
 'Bring in the beasts; drag out the dead." 
 
 SAi<r<iE Margaret O'Mai^lby. 
 
THE OLD YEAR. 1 63 
 
 THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 What ! Dying, did you say ? 
 
 So soon ! Why it seems but yesterday 
 
 We greeted the new-born in her christening gown, 
 When youth was her dower, hope was her crown. 
 
 With bright, joyous smiles life's course was begun; 
 Can it be, can it be, that course is now run ? 
 
 Is the shroud now the mantle that suits her form best? 
 Must the hands be folded across her still breast? 
 
 Has the heart grown tired of traveling life's road? 
 Does the footstep falter because of its load? 
 
 Were pleasures too often followed by pain? 
 Or would it give pleasure to live life again? 
 
 The beauty of youth, the calmness of age. 
 Are they willingly left, as a bird leaves a cage? 
 
 Does it seem strange — the strangeness of dying — 
 Does it startle the soul, or still the soul's sighing? 
 
 Do the scj^he and the Reaper come as in strife, 
 Or come they to comfort — to bring a new life? 
 
 And the river of death — is it chilly and deep, 
 Or only a lulling stream to rock gently to sleep ? 
 
 Do the bier and the grave cause a smile or a tear? 
 Answer me, answer me, O dying year ! 
 
 I pause, and I listen — am I unheard? 
 
 Speak to me ! Speak to me ! Speak but a word ! 
 
164 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 The barque is now ready, the tide 's ebbing low — 
 Tell me, oh! tell me the things I would know! 
 
 Silent ! still silent ! Ah ! light be the tread. 
 Speak softly, speak lowly, the Old Year is — dead. 
 
 LizziB Walker. 
 
 IN JUNE. 
 
 Soft melodies that thrill with vague delight. 
 Faint dreamy sounds from far-off woodlands dim. 
 The reeds' low whisper by the brooklet's rim, 
 A wild bird singing from his shadowy height, 
 The sigh of leaves that winds have set in tune — 
 These are thy gifts, O June ! 
 
 Full well I know, beside the dark, blue streams, 
 How bend the wind-flowers in the tall, sweet grass, 
 How, 'mid the drooping boughs, cool shadows pass. 
 And thro' the vines the broken sunlight gleams 
 In the long stillness of thy drowsy noon — 
 O tender, dreamy June ! 
 
 How softly then the twilight gray and cool 
 Curtains with shining mists the sleeping flowers; 
 How, in the silence of the royal hours, 
 The stars are mirrored in the glassy pool. 
 And where the hills grow purple-dim thy moon 
 Keeps mystic watch, O June! 
 
 Adelaide D. Rollston. 
 
THE FAITHFUL ENGINEER. 165 
 
 THE FAITHFUL ENGINEER. 
 
 I/iFE is like a crooked railroad, 
 
 And the engineer is brave 
 Who can make a trip successful 
 
 From the cradle to the grave; 
 There are stations all along it 
 
 Where, at almost any breath, 
 You '11 be " flagged " to stop your engine 
 
 By the passenger of death. 
 
 You may run the grades of trouble 
 
 Many days and years with ease. 
 But Time may have you "side-tracked" 
 
 By the switchman of disease; 
 You may cross the bridge of manhood, 
 
 Run the tunnel long of strife. 
 Having God for your conductor. 
 
 On the "lightning train" of life. 
 
 Always mindful of instructions. 
 
 Watchful duty never lack. 
 Keep your hand upon the throttle. 
 
 And your eye upon the track. 
 Name your engine "True Religion," 
 
 When you're running, day or night. 
 Use the coal of "Faith" for fuel, 
 
 And she'll always run you right. 
 
 You need never fear of " sticking " 
 
 On the up-grades 'long the road, 
 If you 've got " Hope " for a fireman 
 
 You can always pull the load. 
 You will often find obstruction. 
 
 By the cunning devil lain 
 On a fill, a curve, or some place 
 
 Where he'U try to "ditch your train." 
 
l66 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 But you needn't fear disaster — 
 
 " Jerk her open "— " I^et her go ! " 
 For the King who ruleth all things 
 
 All his plans will overthrow. 
 Put your trust in God, the Savior, 
 
 Keep a-going — do n't look back — 
 Keep your hand upon the throttle 
 
 And your eye upon the track. 
 
 When you've made the trip successful. 
 
 And you 're at your journey's end. 
 You will find the angels waiting 
 
 To receive you as a friend. 
 You'll approach the Superintendent, 
 
 Who is waiting for you now, 
 With a blessed smile of welcome. 
 
 And a crown to deck your brow. 
 
 Never falter in your duty. 
 
 Put your faith and hope in Him, 
 And you'll always find your engine 
 
 In the best of running trim. 
 Ring your bell and blow your whistle. 
 
 Never let your courage slack, 
 Keep your hand upon the throttle, 
 
 And your eye upon the track. 
 
 WiLi, S. Hays. 
 
NOERA. 167 
 
 NOERA. 
 
 NoERA, when sad Fall 
 
 Has grayed the fallow; 
 lyeaf-cramped the wood-brook's brawl 
 
 In pool and shallow; 
 When sober wood-walks all 
 
 Strange shadows hallow : 
 
 Noera, when gray gold 
 
 And golden gray 
 The crackling hollows fold 1 
 
 By every way, 
 Then shall these eyes behold, 
 
 Dear bit of May? 
 
 When webs are cribs for dew, 
 
 And gossamers 
 lyong streaks of silver-blue; 
 
 When silence stirs 
 One dead leafs rusting hue 
 
 Among crisp burs. 
 
 Noera, in the wood 
 
 Or mid the grain. 
 Thee, with the hoiden mood 
 
 Of wind and rain 
 Fresh in thy sunny blood, 
 
 Sweetheart, again? 
 
 Noera, when the corn 
 
 Reaped on the fields 
 Deep aster stars adorn 
 
 With purple shields, 
 Defying the forlorn 
 
 Decay death wields. 
 
l68 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Noera, haply then, 
 
 Thou being with me, 
 Each ruined greenwood glen 
 
 Will bud and be 
 Spring's with the Spring again, 
 
 The Spring in thee. 
 
 Thou of the breezy tread. 
 
 Feet of the breeze; 
 Thou of the sun-beam head. 
 
 Heart like a bee's; 
 Face like a woodland-bred 
 
 Anemone's. 
 
 Thou to October's death 
 
 An April part 
 Bring, while she taketh breath 
 
 Against Death's dart; 
 Noera, one who hath 
 
 Made mine a heart. 
 
 Come with our golden year, 
 
 Come as its gold; 
 With thy same laughing, clear, 
 
 I<oved voice of old: 
 In thy cool hair one dear. 
 
 Wild marigold. 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
UNCLE PETE'S PLEA. 169 
 
 UNCLE PETE'S PLEA. 
 
 'TwAS an old-time Southern darky, 
 
 All withered and wrinkled and gray, 
 With the quaint and courteous manners 
 
 Of a type fast passing away; 
 Convicted of robbing the hen-roost 
 
 Of a neighbor the night before, 
 For the tracks in the snow discovered 
 
 Led straight to his cabin door. 
 
 The Judge, as was his custom, 
 
 His eye on the culprit cast. 
 And said: "Have you aught to say. Sir, 
 
 Why sentence should not be passed?" 
 With a bow to the Judge, and the people 
 
 Who had thronged the court-room to see, 
 Uncle Pete put his hat down behind him. 
 
 And then he delivered this plea: 
 
 "'Does I hab eny thing to say,' Jedge, 
 
 Yo' ax me, ' In my beha'f 
 Befo' yo' passes de sentence?' 
 
 Why, Jedge, 't would meek dem all laugh 
 To see dis black ole nigger 
 
 ■ Stan' up heah, an' say he's say 
 Befo' all ub dese white folks. 
 
 What's come to de co't to-day. 
 
 " But, Jedge, I sees I 's 'dited— 
 
 I b'lieves dat's de way 'tis said 
 In dat 'ar strip ob paper 
 
 De gent'man befo' yo' has read; 
 Yes, suh, I sees I's 'dited, 
 
 An' befo' de bar I stan' 
 For de stealin' ob some chickens 
 
 Wid dis ole widered han'. 
 
1 70 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 " For I is an ole, ole nigger, 
 
 An' my leabin' time mos' has come; 
 So I 's gwine to add no lyin' 
 
 To de ebil I's 'ready done. 
 I 'knowle'ge I took dem chickens; 
 
 I 'fess it wid 'fusion an' shame, 
 For I neber has done no stealin' 
 
 Till dat tem'tation came. 
 
 " I wa' raised right, Jedge, I 'shure yo'. 
 
 For my folks wa' de bes' ob dar day; 
 An' dey fai'fuUy strobe wid deir darkies 
 
 To bring dem up in de right way. 
 But, oh ! 't is mighty rough libin', 
 
 In dese days so hard an' so cole. 
 When you's got no good marster or missus 
 
 To keer for yo' when yo' is ole. 
 
 " Dar 's a little gran'daughter libs wid me, 
 
 Her fadder an' mudder bofe dead; 
 De chile is puny an' sickly, 
 
 An' long has been 'fined to her bed. 
 I^as' night, as I sot by her bedside. 
 
 She awoke from her sleep wid a cough. 
 An' ' Gran'dad,' sez she, ' I 's been dreamin' 
 
 Dat de angels had brought chicker-broth.' 
 
 " Den my ole eyelids 'gan to tremble. 
 
 An' de big tears dropped down to my feet, 
 For I knowed dat de cubboard wuz empty, 
 
 An' dar wuz nuffin' for de po' chile to eat; 
 An' dar wuz none to help in my trouble. 
 
 For de folks I had knowed in my day, 
 War all ob 'em now dead an' buried. 
 
 Or else dey had done moved away. 
 
 '"Yes, gran'dad, 'twar brought by de angels; 
 Dey sot it down heah 'tween us two. 
 Oh, I is so weak an' so hongry; 
 How I wish dat my dream had been true ! ' 
 
UNCLE PETE '5 PLEA. 1 7 1 
 
 Den ober she turned on her piller, 
 
 An' sank into slumber again ; 
 While I stood dar weepin' an' gazin' 
 
 On her form pinched wid honger an' pain. 
 
 "Den I think 'twa' de debil dat whispered, 
 ' Da'r' chickens dat 's roostin' nigh ; 
 Yo' kin coch 'em, an' dress 'em, an' stew 'em, 
 'Fo' she wakes. Uncle Pete, ef yo's spry ! ' 
 An' I nebber stopped to lis'n 
 To de warnin' voice widin; 
 But I stole out into de darkness^— 
 An', Jedge, I committed dat sin. 
 
 "I took from dar roost dose chickens; 
 
 I sneaked dem into my home ; 
 An' befo' dat little chile 'wakened 
 
 Dat good chicken broth was done. 
 I took it, all steamin' an' 'licious. 
 
 An' sot it down close by her side ; 
 When she got a good whiff o' its fragrance, 
 
 Her big brown eyes popped open wide. 
 
 '"Oh, de dream, it has come true, dear gran'dad! 
 
 Fo' de angels dey brung it, I know. 
 When dey entered de room din yo' see dem? 
 
 Had dey wings, as de picture-books show ? ' 
 Sez I : ' I<ittle Honey, we mus n't 
 
 Pry into sich mysturious things; 
 No, I didn't see de angels. I'm sartin 
 
 Dat I did heah de rustlin' o' wings ! ' 
 
 " Btit dat 's jes' de way wid de debil, 
 
 Yo' trus' him an' he '11 trick yo', dat 's sho'; 
 An' he done let dat light snow-fall happen 
 
 Jes' to show dem tracks up to my do'. 
 So, as we sot dar so cheerful, 
 
 De officers came to my home — 
 Dey came an' dey 'rested Ole Peter, 
 
 An' dey lef dat dyin' chile all alone." 
 
172 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Every eye in the court-room was moistened; 
 
 The Judge, with a tear on his face, 
 Said, "You're free, and can go, Uncle Peter; 
 
 I 've decided to dismiss the case." 
 When out of the dock he shuffled. 
 
 And reached for his battered hat old. 
 Uncle Pete found he scarcely could lift it, 
 
 'Twas so heavy with silver and gold. 
 
 Joseph Ai,i,good. 
 
 "WE FADE AS A LEAF." 
 
 On the wings of a moment the summer flits by; 
 We gather its blossoms, they wither and die; 
 The leaves wave around us, then silently fall. 
 And the year is enwrapt in the shroud and the pall. 
 
 'We fade as a leaf" — wherever we stray 
 Time scattereth o'er us the seeds of decay; 
 Though the cordial of health in our veins may abound. 
 We are broken from life and fall to the ground. 
 
 'We fade as a leaf" — then let the rich wine. 
 The nectar of truth, our life in the vine. 
 Flow through us and make us so radiantly bright 
 That, fading, we fill all around us with light. 
 
 'We fade as a leaf" — ^but sure we shall feel 
 
 The life-giving touch of a hand that doth heal, 
 
 Wondrously glorified, tinged with no grief. 
 
 Nevermore after to fade as a leaf. 
 
 Ingram Crockett. 
 
TWO TRIOLETS. 1 73 
 
 TWO TRIOLETS. 
 
 WHAT HS SAID. 
 
 This kiss upon your fan I press — 
 Ah ! Sainte Nitouche, you do n't refuse it ? 
 
 And may it from its soft recess — 
 
 This kiss upon your fan I press — 
 
 Be blown to you a shy caress, 
 By this white down, whene'er you use it. 
 
 This kiss upon your fan I press — 
 Ah ! Sainte Nitouche, you do n't refuse it ! 
 
 II. 
 
 WHAT SHE THOUGHT. 
 
 To kiss a fan ! 
 What a poky poet! 
 
 The stupid man, 
 
 To kiss a fan. 
 When he knows that — he — can — 
 Or ought to know it — 
 
 To kiss a fan.' 
 What a poky poet ! 
 
 The Century. Harrison Robertson. 
 
174 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 CUPID'S ARROW. 
 
 The little god stood at my door, 
 Whom I had turned so oft away; 
 
 But Friendship's harmless guise he wore 
 And sweetly stole my heart away. 
 
 Of all the masks that he can wear, 
 Of all the pranks that he can play. 
 
 None better hide his fatal snares 
 Than friendship — as I know to-day. 
 
 I could not think — I did not dream 
 
 Of danger from my sober guest ; 
 But gods, nor men, are what they seem — 
 
 The arrow quivers in my breast. 
 
 Mrs. Jennie Jones Cunningham. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 What is time? A priceless thing; 
 
 Nor gems, nor gold, 
 Nor all the pleasures earth can bring. 
 
 Or seas unfold. 
 Can tell its wondrous worth, or stay 
 The moments as they fleet away. 
 Time? 'tis a swiftly gliding stream 
 
 That bears us on 
 To the dark, lonely tomb — a dream 
 
 Scarce told ere gone. 
 Mortal! a warning voice to thee — 
 
 The prelude to eternity. 
 
 Sabah Campbei<i< Thornhon. 
 
LATE AFTERNOON IN NOVEMBER. 175 
 
 LATE AFTERNOON IN NOVEMBER. 
 
 Woods, leafless, fringe the tawny fields 
 
 With mingled black and gray; 
 The wind is as one walking through 
 
 A tear-marked way. 
 
 O'erhead, on lazy, loitering wings, 
 
 Against a far, cold sky, 
 With out-craned necks and mocking caws 
 
 The crows flock by. 
 
 The tented regiments of corn 
 
 Camp in the lowlands brown; 
 The sun drops hazily behind 
 
 The smoke-wreathed town. 
 
 Now Quiet hushes with mute touch 
 
 The whispering grasses tall, 
 lyest haply she should fail to catch 
 
 Night's first footfall. 
 
 A bar of red gold gleams athwart 
 
 The west, and groweth dim 
 
 And fades, and darkness overflows 
 
 The twilight's brim. 
 
 Ingram Crockbtt. 
 
176 BLADES O • BL UEGRASS. 
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 Across the way her face I see, but dimly; 
 
 'Tis white and fair thro' mists of long-gone years; 
 Alas ! to-day it only lives in mem'ry — 
 
 In vain regrets and useless, bitter tears. 
 
 'T was years ago I saw her at the window, 
 
 While autumn hours passed, all too fast, away; 
 
 Her eyes spoke love that ever was unspoken, 
 Or voiced in needless words — across the way. 
 
 And it may be that in the fairer sometime. 
 When earth's sad night has broken into day, 
 
 Her face I '11 see, in smiling, tender greeting. 
 Again, in sunnier lands — across the way. 
 
 Arch Pool. 
 
 ANTITHESIS. 
 
 Death is like the lily, 
 
 lyife is like the rose; 
 The one awakes the soul to strife. 
 
 The other grants repose. 
 
 And death in life it is 
 
 To love— O bitter lot!— 
 To love thro' all one's days. 
 
 And know we are forgot. 
 
 And life in death it is 
 
 Nevermore to weep. 
 Only to lie down in the grave. 
 
 And sleep — and sleep — and sleep. 
 
 Nehie Marshai,i< McAfee. 
 
'^^^;\ Z'S^f 
 
 LIZZIE WALKER. 
 
ENCELADUS. 177 
 
 ENCELADUS. 
 
 I SHALL arise; I am not weak; I feel 
 
 A strength within me worthy of the gods — 
 
 A strength that will not pass in utter moans. 
 
 Ten million years I have lain thus, supine, 
 
 Prostrate beneath the gleaming mountain-peaks, 
 
 And the slow centuries have heard me groan 
 
 In passing, and not one has pitied me; 
 
 Yea, the strong gods have seen me writhe beneath 
 
 This mighty horror fixed upon my chest. 
 
 And have not eased me of a moment's pain. 
 
 Oh, I will rise again, I will shake off 
 This terror that outweighs the wrath of Jove ! 
 1^0, prone in darkness I have gathered hope 
 From the great waters walking speaking by. 
 These unto me give mercy, thus foreshown : 
 
 "We are the servants of a mightier lord 
 Than Jupiter, who hath imprisoned thee; 
 We go forth at his bidding, laying bare 
 The sea's great floor and all the sheer abysms 
 That drop beneath the idle fathoms of man, 
 And shape the corner-stones, and lay thereon 
 The mighty base of unborn continents. 
 The old earth, when it hath fulfilled his will. 
 Is laid to rest, and mightier earths arise. 
 And fuller life, and liker unto God, 
 Fills the new races struggling on the globe. 
 
 " Profoundest change succeeds each boding calm, 
 And mighty order from the deep breaks up 
 In all her parts, and only night remains 
 With all her stars that minister to God, 
 Who sits sublimely shaping as he wills, 
 Creating always." These things do they speak. 
 
 " The mountain-peaks, that watch among the stars, 
 
178 BLADES O' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 Bow down their heads and go like monks at dusk 
 To mournful cloisters of the under-world; 
 And then, long silence, while blind Chaos' self 
 Beats round the poles with wings of cloudy storm." 
 
 These things and more the waters say to me, 
 How this old earth shall change, and its life pass, 
 And be renewed from fathomless within; 
 How other forms, and likelier to God, 
 Shall walk on earth and wing the peaks of cloud ; 
 How holier men and maids, with comelier shapes, 
 In that far time, when he hath wrought his plan, 
 Shall the new globe inherit, and like us 
 Love, hope, and live, with bodies formed of purs- 
 Out of our dust again made animate. 
 
 These things to me; yet still his curse remains, 
 His burden presses on me. God! thou God 
 Who wast before the dawn, give ear to me ! 
 Thou wilt some day shake down like sifted dust 
 This monstrous burden Jove hath laid on me, 
 When the stars ripen like ripe fruit in heaven, 
 And the earth crumbles plunging to the void 
 With all its shrieking peoples. lyCt it fall! 
 I,et it be sown as ashes underneath 
 The base of all the continents to be 
 Forever; if so rent I shall be freed! 
 
 Shall I not wait? Shall I despair now Hope 
 
 On the horizon spreads her dawn-white wings? 
 
 Ah, sometimes now I feel earth moved within 
 
 Through all its massive frame, and know his hand 
 
 Again doth labor shaping out his plan. 
 
 Oh, I shall have all patience, trust, and calm. 
 
 Foreknowing that the centuries shall bring 
 
 On their broad wings release from this deep hell, 
 
 And that I shall have life yet upon earth. 
 
 Yet draw the morning sunlight in my breath. 
 
 And meet the living races face to face. 
 
 The Century. CharlBS J. CMailey. 
 
MARGERY. 179 
 
 MARGERY. 
 
 The poem which follows here has a little history which may be 
 of interest. An argument was being carried ou one evening in one 
 of the upper rooms of the Courier-Journal building between Mr. 
 O'Sullivan and some newspaper friends. It was the old subject — the 
 effect of attaching some well-known name to the work of some 
 unknown author, Mr. O'Sullivan contending that it would carry 
 it through — that it would be copied by the press for that reason. 
 Finally a wager was arranged. A fictitious interview with some noted 
 personage (an actress, I believe) was planned. The poem in ques- 
 tion was to be introduced as belonging to this person, having been 
 written for her by William Winter, and was to be reluctantly given 
 up to be printed as part of the supposed interview. All was carried 
 out as arranged. O'Sullivan wrote the poem, and introduced it in 
 due form, etc. It was published, and was extensively copied, as pre- 
 dicted, and Mr. O'Sullivan won his wager. Nevertheless, I do not 
 believe in it. I think the poem would have been copied on its own 
 merits alone. Most likely it was because of its merit that it was 
 copied, and not because a well-known name was signed to it. How- 
 ever, it is given here an honest presentation. It is a simple and 
 beautiful picture, and, considering how it was written— on the spur 
 of the moment (interview and poem were written within thirty min- 
 utes)— it is a very interesting performance, as showing what the 
 author could do under pressure. The subject is handled deftly and 
 daintUy, and the artistic proprieties admirably preserved. 
 
 Margery came to the crowded town. 
 
 Into the busy, hurrying street; 
 
 She came from where the green fields meet, 
 And the apple blossoms are drifting down 
 
 To their beds in the clover sweet. 
 
 Pure as the lily which leans to her throat — 
 Ivook on her sculptured queenliness 
 And tell me, must I not confess 
 
 That never minstrel knew a note 
 Could picture half her loveliness? 
 
 How modestly her way she plies 
 Through all the crowd. I fain would swear 
 That lyove walked with her everywhere; 
 
 It seemed that Cupid kissed her eyes 
 And nestled in her clustering hair. 
 
1 8o BLADES O ' BL U£ GRASS. 
 
 Quick blushes came to her cheeks so brown 
 When I said a simple word of praise. 
 She heeded not, she went her ways, 
 
 She lifted not her eyes to crown 
 The rarest of my joyous days. 
 
 So Margery went from the crowded town. 
 Out of the busy, hurrying street. 
 Away to where the green fields meet. 
 
 And the apple blooms are drifting down 
 To their beds in the clover sweet. 
 
 Daniei, E. 0'Sui,i,rvAN. 
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 Is it wise, I have wondered, to build them, 
 , Those castles so bright and so fair. 
 With nothing on earth to support them, 
 The castles we build in the air? 
 
 They are lofty, magnificent structures, 
 
 As grand as our fancies can build, 
 And their rooms are all filled with our treasures. 
 
 Our hopes that may ne'er be fulfilled; 
 
 The dreams and the fond aspirations. 
 The good deeds we think we will do, 
 
 All the last New Year's good resolutions. 
 The heart secrets tender and true. 
 
 Ah, yes, let us build and enjoy them! 
 
 Reality comes all too soon; 
 And if Time with his touch must destroy them, 
 
 Let memory dwell in the ruin. 
 
 Alwne Brother. 
 
WORTHINESS. l8l 
 
 WORTHINESS. 
 
 Whatever lacks purpose is evil: a pool without pebbles 
 
 breeds slime; 
 Not any one step hath chance fashioned on the infinite 
 
 stairway of time; 
 Nor ever came good without labor, in toil, or in science or 
 
 art; 
 It must be wrought out thro' the muscles — born out of the 
 
 feoul and the heart. 
 
 Why plow in the stubble with plowshares? why winnow 
 
 the chaff from the grain? 
 Ah, since all of His gifts must be toiled for, since truth is 
 
 not born without pain ! 
 He giveth not to the unworthy, the weak, or the foolish in 
 
 deeds ; 
 Who soweth but chaff at the seed-time shall reap but a 
 
 harvest of weeds. 
 
 As the pyramid builded of vapor is blown by his whirl- 
 winds to naught, 
 
 So the song without truth is forgotten : His poem to Man 
 is man's thought. 
 
 Whatever is strong with a purpose in humbleness wrought 
 and' soul-pure, 
 
 Is known to the Master of Singers : He toucheth it saying, 
 " Endure." 
 
 CHARI,ES J. O'MALtEY. 
 
l82 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A HAPPY WOMAN. 
 
 "I SHALi, be happy!" she said, 
 As she gathered the poppies white and red; 
 " I will pull the blue grapes over the wall, 
 And sit in the shade and eat them all, 
 And count the butterflies, one by one, 
 As they fly along in the morning sun ; 
 I shall be happy!" she said. 
 
 "I shall be happy!" she said. 
 As they placed the orange-wreath on her head; 
 "lyife will be lovely, and love will be true; 
 I shall drink the wine without the rue; 
 I will share my joy with the poor and sad. 
 And help to make the world more glad; 
 I shall be happy!" she said. 
 
 "I shall be happy!" she said. 
 
 And they strewed white lilies over her — dead. 
 They closed the eyes and smoothed the hair, 
 And one who stood there dropped a tear; 
 They folded the hands on the quiet breast — 
 Poor empty hands — and what was the rest? 
 "And she was happy," I said. 
 
 Eugenia Parham. 
 
WHERE THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER. 183 
 
 WHERE THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER. 
 
 Where the Beautiful River smooth wanders along, 
 Lives the maid that I love, the theme of my song, 
 Her eyes are as bright as sunbeams in rain, 
 And light is her heart as the spray on the main. 
 
 When twilight comes forth and mellows the hour. 
 Away speeds the maid to gather the flower. 
 Which in the bright vale in its earliest bloom. 
 Gently throws on the air its fragrant perfume. 
 
 Her ringlets of gold sweetly wave in the air. 
 As if glad that they hung 'round a bosom so fair, 
 Her cheeks are like roses that bloom in the Spring, 
 Her step is as Ught as a bird on the wing. 
 
 Her tones are as sweet and her fancy as free. 
 As the wild forest bird, or the bird of the sea. 
 And oft has she told me her soul's only dream 
 When she dies is to sleep by Ohio's bright stream. 
 
 Then Beautiful River, as onward you roll, 
 
 Let no darkling murmurs arise from your soul. 
 
 But ever as now let your mirroring tide, 
 
 Flow gently when Laura shall sleep by your side. 
 
 Ai<EXANDER Evans. 
 
l84 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 HOW SPRING COMES IN THE BLUEGRASS. 
 
 March lions ramping, with snow-brindled manes, 
 Leap with the storm along the airy floors 
 Whereon the mad winds roll, and with loud roars 
 
 Bound, with soft-padded feet, across the plains — 
 
 Sere from the frost and beaten by the rains — 
 Denting the tufted grasses by the shores 
 Of shuddering, shallow pools which dot the moors ; 
 
 Wherefrom, in driven loops, like hurtling chains. 
 Scared birds swift-wing'd outfly the speeding gale. 
 The battling clouds, above the woodlands gray. 
 
 Flaunting dim banners, pass in hurrying flight 
 Like some tumultuous dream. A nightly wail 
 Comes from the writhing trees; and, far away, 
 
 The billowy landscape meets the coming night. 
 
 And when night comes — behold ! the winds are still ! 
 Like floating mountains the great clouds divide 
 And in the space, with one star at her side. 
 
 Floats the bright-mantled moon. The dripping hill 
 
 Looms in dark silence, and the little rill. 
 Pleased with its own soft music, threads the wide 
 Faint-glimmering lands where broad cloud-shadows glide, 
 
 Changing the features of the fields at will. 
 The fields — they may be bare or matted deep 
 With tawny grasses, brown with weeds, or green 
 
 With winter wheat; or lands whereon they fling 
 The weathering hemp, or maize-camps, fast asleep — 
 All, now, are blent in one fantastic scene 
 
 Made for the moonlight's noiseless reveling. 
 
 The moonlight's noiseless revel! Does she know — 
 Yon princess of the ever-changing sky. 
 Floating serene amidst the clouds on high — 
 That, where the woven shadows come and go 
 Among fine-lacing twigs, and on the flow 
 
HOW SPRING COMES IN THE BLUEGRASS. 185 
 
 Of chilly streams, while the slow night goes by, 
 There is uplifted many a tearful eye ? — 
 
 Pale blooms, close-nestled in the dappled snow. 
 Fair woodland spirits, tremulous and frail. 
 
 Clad in soft garb — in timid loveliness 
 Through dead leaves peeping, and by rugged rocks; 
 111 can they bear the unfriendly time, the shocks 
 And buffets of the storms, the ruthless hail, 
 
 The whirling snows and drenchings merciless. 
 
 The whirling snows ! With morning comes the sun. 
 Spangling the air and earth with glinting spears; 
 From emerald knolls the white vail disappears, 
 
 And merrily the snow-fed rillets run 
 
 Their sparkling, transient courses. One by one 
 The deeper streams grow loud with song that cheers 
 The listening vales; the preening field-lark hears. 
 
 And pipes for joy of days not yet begun. 
 Uncertain are the skies; precarious mirth 
 
 Rings from the drying thickets; on the peach, 
 Whose pink buds bloomed amidst the falling snows. 
 The robin tries his note; far off the crows 
 Call down through films which float from the moist earth 
 
 Towards the blue, which they will never reach. 
 
 Towards the flashing blue — the crystalline, 
 Unfathomable sea of dazzling light 
 Where rides the sun. Soon are they vanished quite, 
 
 And only winds, low-breathing, intervene 
 
 'Twixt the miraculous heavens and the scene 
 Of earth's enchantments. Every moment's flight 
 Brings the immortal wonder of life's might; 
 
 Within the hour the banks are tinged with green. 
 
 One knows not how it came; a quickening flame 
 Stole past the woodland, down yon slope of gray 
 
 Among the russet leaves. Anon, there came, 
 Though all was silent there but yesterday. 
 
 Soft-echoing by the stream, a carol clear — 
 
 The bluebird's note ! 'T is past, the Spring is here. 
 
 Robert Burns Wilson. 
 
1 86 BLADES O ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 TO A PIN. 
 
 At the fancy dress ball given at the Athletic Club many beautiful 
 women congregated. One in particular attracted general attention, 
 not only by the historical accuracy of her costume, but by the rare 
 charm of her face and form. Her shoulders and her throat gleamed 
 like polished marble. She was physically perfect, but across her bust 
 was a long and angry pin scratch, as if Pygmalion had, in a fit of 
 temper, drawn his sharpest chisel across Galatea's bosom. The inci- 
 dent was sufficient to drive The Critic's poet to a production of the 
 following lament: 
 
 I. 
 
 Why, luckless wight, 
 
 Didst thou indite 
 Upon her bosom white and fair, 
 
 In thy carouse, 
 
 Such carmine vows, 
 And leave thy words forever there? 
 
 II. 
 
 Upon the brink, 
 (If pins do think) 
 Thou viewed that virgin page below, 
 As if to say, 
 " I '11 plow my way 
 Across that trackless waste of snow." 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou might have crept. 
 
 And softly slept 
 Upon her breast, her heart above — 
 
 But, saints anoint! 
 
 Thou turned the point 
 Of thy poor joke against thy love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O foolish pin ! 
 Thou can not win 
 Thy love by such caresses; 
 
THE KISS T STOLE. 187 
 
 To win the prize, 
 The swain who 's wise, 
 His passion suppresses. 
 
 V. 
 
 Farewell, fool pin, 
 
 Thy mortal sin 
 Can not be lightened by a laugh — 
 
 And yet, and yet, 
 
 I can't forget 
 How well thou wrote thy autograph. 
 
 Daniei< E. 0'Sui,i,rvAN. 
 
 THE KISS I STOLE. 
 
 A RONDEAU. 
 
 The kiss I stole when Mary closed her eyes 
 (The day was hot beneath those Southern skies) 
 And sat there dreaming 'neath a great pine tree, 
 Her dark brown curls the Gulf wind blowing free, 
 I treasure yet, a memory — and a prize ; 
 She sought from me her feelings to disguise 
 (But showed too plain a sense of glad surprise). 
 And blushed me welcome to the kiss, did she — 
 The kiss I stole. 
 
 A memory only I may idolize, 
 
 For Mary no more glads me with her eyes; 
 
 Oh! no, her sweet smiles are no more for me; 
 
 She's married, and her husband — a clever fellow he — 
 
 Owns all and guards them well — except one prize — 
 
 The kiss I STOLE. 
 
 Jo. A. Parker. 
 
1 88 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 HIS BIRDS. 
 
 How doth He shelter them, His birds 
 That call among the brakes and fens 
 At twilight when the snowy herds 
 Stray down within the hollow glens? 
 
 Ah, whither do they rest 
 
 When, from the stormy west. 
 Fierce-blown the flakes are hurled 
 I/ike ashes across the world. 
 Covering the earth and every helpless thing? 
 Do they cower with piteous wing 
 Under the leaves that rattle in the sleet? 
 
 Or grasp with cold, bare feet 
 The swaying branches of the forest trees 
 That all night moan regretful threnodies? 
 Snowy and bent is every leaf and stem: 
 
 Where doth He shelter them? 
 How doth He shelter them. His birds? 
 
 lyO ! now it is the night ! 
 
 The woods are spongy white; 
 
 The twilight crofts are still; 
 Frozen the little stream below the hill. 
 That sang thro' summer all His poet-words; 
 
 Stark-stiff the marsh-pool lies 
 
 Gazing with icy eyes 
 Up to the hurrying clouds that ride in troops; 
 
 I<ost in the blinding snow 
 
 The shelterless cattle low 
 Over the bleak, bare fields in shivering groups; 
 Nature her gates hath shut on Day's vast brim, 
 And great Night sits perched on Dusk's blue rim- 
 Where doth He shelter them? 
 
 II. 
 
 As one who from a lighted chamber goes 
 
 Suddenly out seeth nought but darkness quite. 
 
HIS BIRDS. 189 
 
 I<ater beholds across the lifting snows 
 
 All things take shape in a serener light; 
 So, when the heart walks outward from base glare 
 
 Into a purer air, 
 Shot is the arrowy soul thro' planes of vaster height. 
 And things before unseen themselves to us disclose. 
 
 How doth He shelter them? Behold, 
 Housed 'neath its roof, the brook with life sings warm 
 Under its ice, shut from the whirling storm; 
 The timid rabbit, trembling with the cold. 
 At twilight creeps into his nest of weeds ; 
 
 Under his thatch of reeds 
 And warm marsh-grasses steals the shivering hare; 
 The sleek, brown field-mouse silent doth repair 
 Under the grass-tufts and the hillocks bare; 
 Yule-nuts the squirrel cracks within his oak. 
 Like a rough yeoman with his jest and joke. 
 By the last embers of the smouldering year. 
 Sitting a-gossip with his nuts and beer. 
 
 Drunk with the music of the dripping eaves. 
 Nothing of His doth He leave shelterless. 
 None whom His pity seeks not and relieves; 
 Behold, 
 Out of the storm and cold. 
 The warm-fleeced sheep are gathered in a fold 
 
 Under His beechen boughs; in quietness 
 The patient kine lie sheltered in a croft. 
 
 While the thick snows aloft 
 Are whirled in gusts to the adjacent hill, 
 Where now the garments of the dusk hang chill 
 And dim in the pale splendor of a day 
 Poured from the peaks of morn on twilight's vestments 
 
 gray. 
 Nothing of His does He leave shelterless; 
 
 Even the toads have holes wherein to bide; 
 By nooks and crofts in the white wilderness 
 He spreadeth couches on the bare hillside 
 Where his wild flocks may lie; 
 Shall then His pitying eye 
 
1 90 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Unseeing pass those humblest watchers by 
 Who trust and wait His coming patiently, 
 
 When the white feet of I/ight 
 With slow steps walk the hill-tops silently, 
 And from the mournful north 
 The sexton winds start forth 
 Plowing black graves thro' the swart sands of Night! 
 
 III. 
 
 Nothing so low but His care reacheth it, 
 Mild as a day-flush on eve's twilight rim. 
 Groping in darkness, stained of soul, unfit, 
 Oft clasp we hands unknowingly with Him, 
 
 And He doth lead us in 
 Out of the snow-gusts to His shepherd tents 
 That lowly rise 'yond the high domes of Sin, 
 Unseen at dusk by our thick eyes of sense: 
 In reverence knock; the Master waits within; 
 O Soul! my Soul! go out in thy distress 
 And seek His tents, and rest in lowliness ! 
 Beneath thick clouds that overhang the plain. 
 Between white gusts that seek the broken pane 
 In yon poor hut where shivering Poverty 
 Stirs his last coals, I look and see again 
 Visions of warmth, such as they fail to see 
 Whose bleeding feet touch not life's high Gethsemane : 
 Under the warm ricks and the byres 
 That lie a-field, white with the frost's keen fires. 
 In hedges, hay-mows, fodder shocks that stand 
 Like ghosts thick-dotted on the broad, white land. 
 Or housed in barns beneath the roof's great boards, 
 Robins and linnets, birds of snow in hordes. 
 Or warm in grass-tufts where the snows fall dim, 
 Fill they those homes which He hath ordered them, 
 Thatched with His care which shields night's bitter cold : 
 
 Thus doth His love enfold 
 All things of His that life hath upon earth. 
 
 Charges J. 0'Mali,EY. 
 
My L UTE SO LO VED IS NO W UNSTR UNG. 191 
 
 MY LUTE so LOVED IS NOW UNSTRUNG. 
 
 My lute so loved is now unstrung, 
 
 Its music tones liave fled, 
 The plaintive air that once it sung — 
 
 That touching air is dead. 
 No fingers round its cords entwine 
 
 To wake the charming strain, 
 The hand that once had touch divine 
 
 Can not that touch regain. 
 
 If then my lute is silent now. 
 
 And tuneless hangs in hall, 
 Let her who wears the marble brow 
 
 Our fondest love recall. 
 When maiden shall her first love own. 
 
 To former vows be true. 
 My heart shall grace a royal throne. 
 
 My lute be strung anew. 
 
 Then lute and maid, a fond adieu. 
 
 Our morning love was bright. 
 But ere the twilight wept its dew. 
 
 Our hopes were veil'd in night. 
 If on the shore beyond the grave. 
 
 Our souls shall meet again. 
 Beside the lake, life's silver wave. 
 
 We'll weld love's broken chain. 
 
 Alexander Evans. 
 
192 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 I HEARD a little maiden call 
 Her pretty pigeons three, 
 " Reality, and snowy Art, 
 And sweetest Poetry." 
 
 "Reality" flew to her hand; 
 " Art " found a golden rest 
 Amid her curls; while "Poetry" 
 Was clasped unto her breast. 
 
 I clasp hands with Reality; 
 
 My head bows down to Art; 
 While Poetry is fondly clasped 
 
 Forever to my heart. 
 
 Mrs. W. Leswe Coi,i,ins. 
 
 VANISHED. 
 
 When suddenly there passes from your sight, 
 And from the life around you, some sweet face 
 Which you have looked to as the ideal grace 
 
 Of your best being, and the guiding light 
 
 Of each and every common day and night. 
 By which to measure your ambition's pace. 
 Your soul's high aims, your hopes for nobler ways. 
 
 Your love of truth, your purer sense of right 
 And better faith in men; and when missed so. 
 
 You realize that, as the years unfold. 
 You shall not greet it in the ebb and flow 
 
 Of all the human faces, nor behold 
 
 It in your loneliest hour, then you may know 
 
 How great a void so small a world may hold. 
 
 Eugenia Parham. 
 
HENRY CLEVELAND WOOD. 
 
A KENTUCKY TWILIGHT. 193 
 
 A KENTUCKY TWILIGHT. 
 
 Tawn as the yellow gold 
 Cheeks of the panther 
 Stormeth the restless flame 
 Of the great twilight 
 Under the oak boughs. 
 Horses neigh and plunge, 
 Cattle low and call, 
 Sheep in the dusk outbleat 
 On the deep meadows. 
 Children laugh and cry. 
 Voices rise and fall. 
 Heard, thro' the gray dusk 
 In the white village. 
 Over which lean the stars 
 I/ike pale maidens. 
 While the moon rushes on 
 Over the steep roofs. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thick, on the quiet hills 
 Eastward out-kneeling. 
 Gather the purple leaves 
 Under the nightfall; 
 Carols the little wren. 
 Twitters the red-bird, 
 IvOw pipes the russet quail 
 On the dark upland, 
 And the brown robin 
 Hymns to the twilight fields 
 Of late November; 
 Purpler the hills become. 
 Slower the streams run on. 
 Dusker the valleys. 
 And on the shocks of maize. 
 Dotting the lowland, 
 I/ike a brown garment loosed 
 Falleth the darkness. 
 13 
 
194 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 III. 
 Now like a purple flame 
 Under the oak boughs 
 Hushed are the meadow-fields 
 In the gray nightfall — 
 Silent the pastures. 
 Far in the village 
 I^amps like red stars gleam out 
 From the deep windows, 
 Pendulous icicles 
 Under the shadowy eaves 
 Gossip and gabble, 
 While, a great sheaf of gold 
 Blown thro' the heaven. 
 On flies the rushing moon 
 
 Over the house-tops. 
 
 CharIiEs J. 0'Mai<i<ey. 
 Round Table. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 A BIRD sang in the orchard trees, 
 Sang every nodding flower awake, 
 Sang on as if its heart would break: 
 
 The music rippled down the breeze. 
 And laughed across the clover bloom, 
 And seemed to bring the sweet perfume. 
 
 Within the shadows, on my wall. 
 
 Imprisoned in a golden cell. 
 
 Another bird sang just as well: 
 It answered every joyous call 
 
 And flooded all the house with song 
 
 In mellow measures — loud and long. 
 
 Ah! — longing — still seem echoing 
 The gladdest songs that Joy can sing. 
 
 Danibi. E. 0'Sui,i,ivan. 
 
/ SHALL FIND REST. 195 
 
 I SHALL FIND REST. 
 
 "A LiTTivE further on — 
 There will be time — I shall find rest anon : " 
 Thus do we say, while eager youth invites 
 Young hope to try her wings in wanton flights, 
 And nimble Fancy builds the soul a nest 
 On some far crag; but soon youth's flame is gone — 
 Burned lightly out — while we repeat the jest 
 With smiling confidence, "I shall find rest 
 A little further on." 
 
 "A little further on 
 I shall find rest" — half-fiercely we avow. 
 When noon beats on the dusty field, and Care 
 Threats to unjoint our armor, and the glare 
 Throbs with the pulse of battle, while life's best 
 Flies with the flitting stars : the frenzied brow 
 Pains for the laurel more than for the breast 
 Where Love soft-nestling waits. Not now, not now. 
 With feverish breath we cry, "I shall find rest 
 A little further on." 
 
 "A little further on 
 
 I shall find rest" — half-sad, at last, we say. 
 
 When sorrow's settling cloud blurs out the gleam 
 
 Of Glory's torch, and to a vanished dream 
 
 Love's palace hath been turned, then — all depressed. 
 
 Despairing, sick at heart — we may not stay 
 
 Our weary feet, so lonely then doth seem 
 
 This shadow-haunted world. We, so unblest. 
 
 Weep not to see the grave which waits its guest; 
 
 And feeling round our feet the cool, sweet clay. 
 
 We speak the fading world farewell and say: 
 
 " Not on this side, alas ! — I shall find rest 
 
 A little further on." 
 
 RoBKRT Burns Wilson. 
 The Century. 
 
196 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE MODERN TITHONUS. 
 
 Thk rose that blessed the balmy air of June 
 
 Is but a fragrant reminiscence now, 
 The leaf that mocked the sultry summer noon 
 
 With grateful shade has fallen from the bough; 
 But oh! the blood is warm, the heart is young. 
 And still of all the songs the sweetest are unsung. 
 
 For I<ove is IvOve, although the roses fall. 
 And lips are luscious, though the leaf be dry, 
 
 And still my voice unto thy cheek can call 
 Its crimson flush, although the summer die: 
 
 Then let it die! so thou and I can live, 
 
 And I have aught to ask, and thou have aught to give. 
 
 The Past is Past, the Future is not yet; 
 
 To-day we are — let that content us, Sweet; 
 The wild winds roar! aye, let them sob and fret. 
 
 While I lie prostrate at thy dainty feet. 
 And still consume thy love in my great need, 
 And feed on thee, and hungrier grow the more I feed. 
 
 The rose of Spring blooms for me on thy cheek. 
 The balmy breath of May is in thy sigh; 
 
 Thy arms are soft as June, and who would seek 
 A sweeter summer than thy melting eye 
 
 Bestows upon him! Oh! my I,ove, my Life, 
 
 Thou art my Spring, my Summer; thou, my bride, my 
 
 wife ! 
 
 J. Soui,E Smith. 
 
A MADONNA. 197 
 
 A MADONNA. 
 
 She does not dwell in sheltered nook apart, 
 In gloomy cloister or cathedral shade^ 
 
 Where priest and people come with prayer and so&g 
 To do her homage or implore her aid. 
 
 Nor from the wayside shrine look helpless down, 
 As rolls along the sad, salt tide of life. 
 
 Bathing her hallowed feet with bitter tears, 
 Filling her ears with sounds of hopeless strife. 
 
 Nor does she stand in calm and perfect grace, 
 Where eager pilgrims crowd from every clime. 
 
 The rare fulfillment of a poet's dream — 
 Immortal Beauty wed with Art divine. 
 
 She is a woman, one whose heart is filled 
 With love of her own kind, whose simple creed 
 
 Holds pure uprightness in her daily life. 
 And help, where'er she may, for others' need. 
 
 Meekly she serves, nor does her right hand e'er 
 
 Unto the left its mission blest reveal; 
 Humility, like green about a flower, 
 
 But makes the fairer what it would conceal. 
 
 Her shrine is in our hearts, which she hath healed; 
 
 Ever our love and prayers like incense rise. 
 And bear a tribute to this holy soul. 
 
 Where it at last must dwell, beyond the skies. 
 
 And so she treads the world's most crowded ways — 
 Hands strong to help, eyes quick to see, its needs; 
 
 And so we praise and bless her evermore. 
 Our I/ady of Kind Words and Gentle Deeds. • 
 
 Patty Bi,ackburn Semplb. 
 
198 BLADES O • BL UEGRASS. 
 
 GEORGE MOORE * 
 
 Down where the waters of the Golden Gate 
 Kiss San Francisco's story-haunted shore, 
 
 With wail as dreary as his mournful fate, 
 Doth sleep the pride of rugged Amador. 
 
 When on his brow the cruel hand of Death 
 Did leave that summer night his impress pale, 
 
 His ermine was, until his latest breath. 
 As spotless as the robe of mighty Hale. 
 
 And his big heart as gentle as the boy's 
 Whose childish lips have never breathed his name — 
 
 That heart that felt for others' griefs and joys. 
 And loved the right far more than wealth and fame. 
 
 Great Matthew Hale ! Aristides the Just ! 
 
 I bare my head before you both. 
 But yet I dare to tell you, mighty dust! 
 
 You did no grander thing than he whose oath 
 
 To be an upright judge did lead him on, 
 Through fields of honor, to an early grave; 
 
 From lofty place, by splendid genius won, 
 To rest beside the most ignoble slave 
 
 That e'er was food for worms. He spurned the gold 
 Laid at his feet by devilish tempter hands; 
 
 He lived, he died with honor yet untold. 
 And now he sleeps 'neath fair Pacific sands. 
 
 That are not whiter than his soul. O stricken ones^. 
 
 That weep for him an hundred times a day. 
 You oft have seen those daily dying suns 
 
 That live again with morning's earliest ray. 
 
 *A native of Kentucky; a Judge of the Supreme Court of California; assas- 
 sinated August, 1884. 
 
YESTERDAY. 199 
 
 Take solace from the lesson, night is now — 
 
 But night must fade and morning soon must break, 
 
 And then will come a day for such as thou. 
 When sorrowing hearts shall ever cease to ache. 
 
 San Francisco, thou of Asis ! thou 
 
 Whose feet the paths of endless penance trod, 
 Whose pious lips did waft on high a vow. 
 
 That all who asked it for the love of God 
 
 Should have thy blessed care, guard tenderly 
 The well-loved ashes of our vanished friend 
 
 In their long sleep beside the Western Sea, 
 Which seems to moan o'er his untimely end. 
 
 And thou, the Saint upon whose natal day 
 I write for love these poor memorial lines, 
 
 Is not this the saddest, tell me, pray. 
 The saddest and the oddest of all Valentines? 
 
 Stuart Murray. 
 
 YESTERDAY. 
 
 At dawn a white-sailed vessel touched the pier, 
 Laden with gold and jewels rare for me; 
 
 All day she lay in port, but in the clear. 
 Calm even with her gems she put to sea. 
 
 And mingling with a fleet, with bitter tears 
 I see her white tops glimmer far away, 
 
 Sailing across the sea of wasted years, 
 And know my gems are lost fore'er and aye. 
 
 W. H. FlEl,D. 
 
200 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE CRICKET. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS IDYL. 
 
 Where the wild rose dangles 
 O'er the half-hid brook; 
 
 Where the fisher angles, 
 
 And the white perch wrangles 
 
 And tangles 
 
 In the coil about the hook; 
 
 As the twilight closes, 
 
 And the bosky roses 
 
 Blossom sweeter round the nook; 
 
 And the moonlight, dreaming moonlight. 
 
 Points the tardy rising June night — 
 Comes the spider from his web, 
 Hums the bee into the hive, 
 Flows the hawk across the sky. 
 Glows the fire-fly in the grass, 
 Hies the swallow home to roof. 
 Sighs the gray frog in the marsh, 
 Creeps the brook rat from his lurk. 
 And the nook bat from her den — 
 
 Oh, there tinkles, tinkles, tinkles ! 
 Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! 
 
 One jolly, unseen visitor. 
 In the thicket 
 By the wicket — 
 
 Cricket! Cricket! Cricket! 
 Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! 
 
 II. 
 
 When the noisy kettle 
 
 Sings, like a humming bug. 
 And the kittens settle 
 
 Close in the hearth-hold rug — 
 
THE CRICKET. 30I 
 
 When the faggots sparkle, 
 
 And the corners darkle, 
 
 And the wainscot panels, 
 
 (Full of mice and annals) 
 
 Do begin A. cricking, 
 
 I/ike the clock a-ticking, 
 
 And the low of cattle, 
 
 And the tattling rattle 
 
 On the pane — and prattle 
 Of the little ones in cozy chairs close by the chimney lug-^ 
 
 Come a thousand unheard voices, 
 
 With these mellow, snow-sent noises. 
 
 Mingling with our Christmas fancies. 
 
 As we dream of old romances. 
 
 In the days of sighs and dances, 
 Ere we were thus one and snug; 
 
 But above them each and all. 
 
 Thrills that fireside Christmas call, 
 
 For from chimney, hearth and wall. 
 Sings the cricket, cricket, cricket, 
 Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! 
 As by wicket. 
 Under thicket, 
 
 Cricket! Cricket! Cricket! 
 Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! 
 
 Henry Watterson. 
 
202 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 IN THE AIR. 
 
 Who is it singing, a maid or lovef, 
 
 Waifs of a song so near? 
 Form of no human can I discover, 
 
 Whose is the voice I hear, 
 Sudden as laughter, as clear and strong. 
 Bantering the birds for a burst of song? 
 
 Is it some sprite of the waterfall, 
 Some spirit the warm wind frees, 
 
 Ranging the bounds of the forestwall. 
 Joying among the trees. 
 
 Under concealment of reed and vine. 
 
 Charming the dwellers of oak and pine? 
 
 Is it a Peri, some fair outcast, 
 
 Mantled in pink and gold. 
 Vailed in yon cloudlet just floated past. 
 
 Filling with memories old. 
 Chanting, as idly the airship strays, 
 Dreamful refrains of her Eden-days ? 
 
 April it is ! As the soft air clears, 
 
 Sweet is the joy of her, 
 Tripping as wont down the columned years. 
 
 Setting earth's heart astir, 
 Making the woods and the welkin ring, 
 Filled with the praises of God and spring ! 
 
 RUFUS J. CHIIiDRESS. 
 
THE LEVEL AND THE SQUARE. 203 
 
 THE LEVEIv AND THE SQUARE. 
 
 Wb meet upon the IvEvel, and we part upon the 
 
 Square — 
 What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are ! 
 Come, let us contemplate them ; they are worthy of a 
 
 thought — 
 With the highest and the lowest and the rarest they are 
 
 fraught. 
 
 We meet upon the level, though from every station come. 
 The king from out his palace and the poor man from his 
 
 home; 
 For the one must leave his diadem without the Mason's 
 
 door, 
 And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered 
 
 floor. 
 
 We part upon the square, for the world must have its due; 
 We mingle with its multitude, a cold, unfriendly crew; 
 But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, 
 And we long, upon the level, to renew the happy scene. 
 
 There's a world where all are equal — we are hurrying to- 
 ward it fast — 
 
 We shall meet upon the level there when the gates of death 
 are past; 
 
 We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be 
 there 
 
 To try the blocks we offer by His own unerring square. 
 
 We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence de- 
 part; 
 
 There's a Mansion — 'tis all ready for each zealous, faithful 
 heart; 
 
 There 's a Mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there. 
 
 Who have met upon the level and been tried upon the 
 square. 
 
204 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Let us meet upon the level then while laboring patient 
 here — 
 
 Let us meet and let us labor, though the labor seem se- 
 vere; 
 
 Already in the western sky the signs bid us prepare 
 
 To gather up our working tools and part upon the square ! 
 
 Hands 'round, ye faithful Ghiblimites, the bright fraternal 
 
 chain ; 
 We part upon the square below to meet in Heaven again. 
 Oh ! what words of precious meaning these words Masonic 
 
 are — 
 
 We meet upon the Level, and we part upon the 
 
 Square ! 
 
 Robert Morris. 
 
 TO POESY. 
 
 Sweet Poesy! divinest of the arts 
 
 Which man has framed to soothe his restless soul, 
 
 When genius weds with thee and takes control. 
 Thou by most potent spells doth bind all hearts; 
 And when thou fliest far thy shining darts, 
 
 Be their alighting near to either pole, 
 
 Where liveth not so cold and dense a soul 
 But thou to it some heart-warm heat imparts, 
 
 Kindling therein some smothered sense of beauty. 
 Awakening mind and heart to emulate 
 
 The grand achievements of his fellow-men, 
 
 And cause him wish to see arise again 
 The trenchant thoughts and deeds which make men great 
 
 And raise their souls to more ennobling duty. 
 
 Howard Miubr; 
 
MARBLE HEART. 205 
 
 MARBLE HEART. 
 
 [mARCO and RAPHAEL.] 
 
 " I 'vE gazed upon thy matchless grace, 
 The peerless beauty of thy face, 
 
 Dear Marco fair. 
 
 With golden hair 
 And luster beaming from your eyes 
 That vie in shadow with the skies." 
 
 "And I too, Raphael, often sigh. 
 Darling one, when thou art nigh, 
 
 I know not why. 
 
 Unless 'tis I 
 Am like a statue in thy eyes — 
 A statue that you will despise." 
 
 "Aye, I would bow at beauty's shrine 
 If I could call Queen Marco mine; 
 
 But I'll go home 
 
 And live alone. 
 Marco, we should dwell apart; 
 They say you have a marble heart." 
 
 "Then fare thee well, brave King of Hearts; 
 Our lives are filled with phantom starts — 
 
 'Tis gold I crave. 
 
 And gold I'll have; 
 Go chisel on your statue — arts — 
 The world is full of marble hearts." 
 
 "Aye, Marco, I would die for thee, 
 And from this mental trouble free, 
 
 Oh! Marco fair, 
 
 With golden hair, 
 A light to me from heaven gleams; 
 I leave the statue of my dreams." 
 
 Alice Hawthorne. 
 
206 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 Wedding bells ! wedding bells ! 
 
 Now their merry, silvery chime 
 Seems to tell of naught but gladness; 
 
 How it wakens into rhyme 
 All that's fairest, all that's brightest. 
 
 All that 's tend'rest, all that 's best. 
 All that's dearest, all that's truest 
 
 In the heart within our breast. 
 
 Wedding bells ! wedding bells ! 
 
 What a soft and rosy haze, 
 What a rainbow-tinted glamour 
 
 Cast they o'er our coming days ! 
 Life seems all one summer garden — 
 
 Endless bloom without decay; 
 Grief and care but empty shadows 
 
 That a breath can trace away. 
 
 Wedding bells ! wedding bells ! 
 
 Oh! how broad the path appears. 
 Flower-crowned and bright with sunshine, 
 
 Down the mystic vale of years ! 
 And the thorns amid the roses, 
 
 And the rocks we fain must meet. 
 Know no terrors, and detain not 
 
 Our unwearied, untried feet. 
 
 Wedding bells! wedding bells! 
 
 Must their echoes die away? 
 Must the clamor and the tumult 
 
 Of life's still advancing day 
 Drown the sweetness and the music 
 
 Of their distant, gladsome chime. 
 Break the charm and pierce the brightness 
 
 Of our early morning time? 
 
WEDDING BELLS. 20^ 
 
 Must the slowly dawning wisdom 
 
 Of the ever-passing years 
 Bring to eyes unknown to weeping 
 
 Dreary shadows, bitter tears, 
 As we catch the saddened cadence 
 
 As it rises, as it swells, 
 That is mingled with the chiming 
 
 Of the bells — the wedding hells? 
 
 "Wedding bells ! wedding bells ! 
 
 Is there nothing that survives 
 Of the beauty and the freshness 
 
 Of the morning of our lives. 
 Nothing that when youth has left us, 
 
 And our heads are bowed and gray, 
 We can claim of all the brightness 
 
 That shone o'er our bridal day. 
 
 Ah! we know our steps shall falter, 
 
 And our sparkling eyes grow dim, 
 Hope shall fade and Death shall gather 
 
 Many dear ones unto him; 
 But within our hearts, perennial 
 
 In its beauty, ever dwells 
 Love, the changeless, the immortal. 
 
 Of the bells — the wedding bells. 
 
 I/Ove! the burden and the cadence 
 
 Of their ever joyous strain. 
 Sometimes faint; but in its fullness 
 
 Do we catch the sweet refrain 
 When, the tumult and the striving 
 
 Of life's noonday conflict past, 
 Battle-scarred, we turn our faces 
 
 To the evening shades at last? 
 
 Wedding bells! ah, then, all golden 
 
 Shall the mighty touch of Time 
 Wake the ever growing brightness 
 
 Of their chime — their silvery chime, 
 
3o8 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Golden with the fair efifulgence 
 Of that holy, heavenly place, 
 
 Where in all His dazzling glory 
 We shall see God "face to face." 
 
 Cl<ARA I/. MCll<VAIN. 
 
 AS IN THE I.ONG AGO. 
 
 SwEKTHEART, I love thee still, as when 
 
 Amid the flowers and showers of June, 
 We strolled through many a shaded glen. 
 
 And climbed o'er many a rugged hill, 
 Or praised the silvery beauty of the moon, 
 
 Which threw its light — 
 A shower of star-rays scattered free 
 
 Upon the waters wide and white — 
 Upon the dear old Tennessee. 
 
 Still flowers bloom and showers fall; 
 
 The hills and glens have shade for all — 
 
 The silvery summer moon is still as rare 
 
 As when it crowned you with its halo fair. 
 
 The star-beams light the Tennessee; 
 
 All, all are there — ^^save only me. 
 
 But still I dream of dear old Yore — 
 
 Of flowers and showers and shade — and more — 
 
 And still I tear in my impatient way 
 
 The thick'ning veil of gray old Time away. 
 
 Once more I stroll beside the Tennessee 
 
 In Paradise, my Southern maid, with thee! 
 
 Jo. A. Parker. 
 
m^m^ 
 
 MHTTIE PEARSON SMITH. 
 
THE IMMORTAL THREE. 209 
 
 THE IMMORTAL THREE. 
 
 'Tis thought by many to this day 
 That spirits, disembodied, may 
 Revisit scenes below at will 
 Throughout the world and — lyouisville. 
 The thought is dear to every one 
 That we poor mortals, as we run, 
 Are watched and tended on our way 
 By loved ones who have passed away. 
 
 In this connection I have dreamed 
 Of things that to my memory seemed 
 As clear as if they 'd surely passed 
 Before my eyes, and never asked 
 To have them fully verified 
 By evidence from o'er the tide 
 Which separates this world of ours 
 From that where dwell diviner powers. 
 
 It seems to be my pleasing fate 
 To have such dreams quite oft of late. 
 The other day, in musing mood, 
 I dreamed an angel near me stood — 
 (Or something of angelic kind, 
 For it had little wings behind); 
 He, tipping me a smile and bow, 
 I asked of him, "What news hast thou?" 
 
 He said he'd been to Saturn sent 
 On mission of some high portent ; 
 But, having thirty minutes leisure, 
 He'd dropped around this way for pleasure. 
 From what he 'd heard of it — the Karth — 
 He thought it full of joy and mirth, 
 He said, though he had ne'er before 
 Set foot upon its beauteous shore. 
 14 
 
2IO BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 His talk I could with ease distinguish 
 (The language taught up there is English)— 
 Long time ago the language used 
 Was quite mixed up, and much confused 
 With Dutch, and French, and Welsh, and Greek; 
 But Shakespeare taught them all to speak 
 By trumpet, wire, and telephone, 
 The grand old Anglo-Saxon tone. 
 
 I asked him if he knew Shakespeare — 
 The one who one time lived down here? 
 At mention of that name he spake. 
 And, reaching out his hand, said: "Shake? 
 I know him well — have heard him talk 
 Of this great actor, of that ' gawk ; ' 
 And since he 's been in realms above 
 He's ne'er forgotten his first love." 
 
 He said a court had lately sat, 
 A sort of high commission, at 
 Which Shakespeare, Goethe and Lord Byron 
 (That all-bewitching earthly siren) — 
 Had full instructions to report 
 As to which actor this high court 
 Gave greatest fame — ^who'd had no peers 
 Within the current hundred years. 
 
 The claims of Couldock were discussed : 
 In him they all held quite high trust. 
 When Byron named young Billy Florence 
 Applause came down in perfect torrents. 
 John Owens, too — old ducky dear! — 
 Was praised quite warmly by Shakespeare ; 
 But when it came down to the test 
 No one could show which was the best. 
 
 They argued long, both pro and con, 
 As to which actor they'd place on 
 The royal badge of " First in Art." 
 So well had each one "played his part" 
 
TO AD E UNA PATTI. 311 
 
 That Shakespeare, who was in the chair, 
 Arose and said he thought it fair, 
 As they could not on one decide, 
 To " move " the honors to divide. 
 
 This grand commission then arose. 
 
 As their proceeding neared its close. 
 
 When Shakespeare spoke — the mighty chief — 
 
 They all joined him in his belief. 
 
 That Owens, Couldock, and young Florence 
 
 Should each one hold their royal warrants 
 
 That none of them have had their peers 
 
 In mimic art these hundred years. 
 
 OWVBR IvtTCAS. 
 
 TO ADELINA PATTI. 
 
 I 'VE seen the empress of a summer's night, 
 Swinging her amber censer up and down, 
 And all so lavish was her regal light 
 
 The diamond splendor of the stars did drown ; 
 While shower on shower of moonlight rare 
 Made every changing current of the air 
 Rich with the treasure trembling in its hold, 
 As though the miser heavens had spilled their gold. 
 
 So I have heard the priceless fount of song 
 Gush from thy golden throat so joyously, 
 As if great Pan piped once more to the throng 
 
 Of shepherds 'midst the meads of Arcady; 
 Its music quells the tumult of the mart 
 And drives the tenant care from every heart; 
 I know the "morning stars" sang not more true. 
 When all the virgin world was sweet and new. 
 
 DANIEI, E. O'SUIfLIVAN. 
 
312 BLADES O ' BL UE GRASS. 
 
 A BALLADE OF POETS. 
 
 Since bold Admetus reigned a king, 
 
 And blond Apollo was his thrall, 
 Song seems a less immortal thing — 
 
 Some earthly leaven degrades it all. 
 Aye, since the lord of music's fall 
 
 From the bright gods' resplendent palace, 
 Don't swear by news the poets bawl, 
 
 Take what they say cum grano salts. 
 
 Once poesy was in its spring, 
 
 But now, close-driven to the wall. 
 It loses its celestial ring — 
 
 Some earthly leaven degrades it all. 
 Our lutes are out of tune ; we drawl 
 
 Some hackneyed song to Nan or Alice — 
 Poets will fib and steal and brawl; 
 
 Take what they say cum grano salts. 
 
 No more the gods to earth we bring, 
 
 Sweet Fancy's heroes seem less tall, 
 And song, alas! to which we cling — 
 
 Some earthly leaven degrades it all. 
 There is no David now for Saul, 
 
 There is no wine in Music's chalice. 
 And poets get their goods from Gaul; 
 
 Take what they say cunt grano salts. 
 
 Base rhyme poor Pegasus must haul, 
 Some earthly leaven degrades it all. 
 And poets? — ah, in jest or malice. 
 Take what they say cum grano salts/ 
 
 Elvira Sydnor Miller. 
 
TO A ROBIN. 213 
 
 TO A ROBIN. 
 
 Thy song with morning breaks, 
 Sweet robin, and its short refrains 
 Soft on my casement splash like sudden rains 
 Of flowers which shatter into flakes ; 
 All unaware my soul from slumber wakes 
 
 Full of thy cheery strains. 
 
 Thou dpst not skyward soar 
 Nor thy song bubble through the trees 
 Swelling with mortal pain; but on the breeze 
 Borne leaf-arousing, dancing o'er, 
 What time the dawn begins to pour 
 
 Its glory o'er lands and seas. 
 
 No keen wound subtly pains 
 Thy heart, no woe that inly grieves 
 Into my spirit, crying, wanly weaves; 
 Which, when thou ceasest, still complains 
 
 robin, pouring ever-joyous strains 
 
 Amid the dewy leaves ! 
 
 Oft in my deeper dreams 
 
 1 hear thee dwindled to a tone 
 
 I/ike Love's own lute ere Love has sorrow known. 
 Or flutings wound along the streams 
 Of fairy-land by stilly twilight gleams, 
 From elfin pipers blown. 
 
 Thin flageolets and veins 
 Of music faint and far away. 
 Which lure me forth from Sleep's oblivious sway 
 Wherein the woeful present wanes. 
 And lead me laughing into rosy lanes 
 
 Where feet of childhood stray. 
 
 Bird of melodious powers. 
 Before thee what green valley swells. 
 What fountains blue, that from thy full throat wells 
 
314 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 But gladness only? — fadeless flowers, 
 Unclouded sky and scented Summer bowers 
 Where Joy forever dwells! 
 
 To woo and win from Death 
 Shows thee a wondrous conjurer; 
 Thy song creeping into the dreamful ear, 
 The Heart's red blossom shattereth; 
 Once more I feel the fresh and fragrant breath 
 
 Of hopes about to stir. 
 
 The dainty germs that gem 
 With light the cloud that shields the whole, 
 The young hopes nested in the sinless soul, 
 O soon to be, blest brood of them, 
 I<ike winged flowers in ruby seas a-swim 
 
 With Heaven for their goal! 
 
 These years with all they hold 
 Of weary burdens that increase. 
 Annihilated, melt away and cease; 
 Once more around me as of old. 
 The bloom-bewildered orchards are unrolled 
 
 In breezy joy and peace. 
 
 With self-same look it wore, 
 IvOoms the old homestead green and grand! 
 Now happy voices reach me where I stand. 
 And oh! I see once more, once more. 
 My youthful mother in the open door. 
 
 The distaff in her hand. 
 
 O house where I was born — 
 Where I was reared and reached the goal 
 Of manhood, free from ills that now control; 
 Where I, amid the flowers and corn, 
 In boyhood romped with ne'er a dream forlorn 
 
 Preying upon my soul ! 
 
AT SET OF SUN. 215 
 
 Your scenes before me laid 
 Are all familiar: glad and bright 
 The wavering landscape broadens in my sight; 
 Here first I yielded undismayed, 
 Then felt my young soul stir within me, swayed 
 
 By song and sorrow's might ! 
 
 Alas ! I do not err ! 
 I felt it in a mournful thrill 
 Among my spirit's leaves, like winds that fill 
 The murmurous groves of pine and fir; 
 The spirit's leaves that Song hath set a-stir 
 
 Can never more be still ! 
 
 What wonder that I said. 
 In touch with things that made me weep, 
 "1/Ove lift thy wing and let me safely creep 
 Thereunder — I am so afraid;" 
 The red dawn blushing, like the sky had bled. 
 Did all earth oversweep ! 
 
 RUFUS J. Chii<dress. 
 
 AT SET OF SUN. 
 
 The soft'ning twilight creeps apace 
 
 The after-mood of stormful day. 
 And close within its fond embrace 
 
 The yielding shadows fade away. 
 At set of sun. 
 
 The heart's soft twilight creeps apace 
 
 The after-mood of stormful day, 
 And hides within its calm embrace 
 
 The pride that held imperial sway, 
 
 At set of sun. 
 
 Anna J. Hamiwon. 
 
2l6 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 TOPPING THE LOCUSTS. 
 
 The author's father in his advanced years found it necessary to 
 top two locust trees which stood near the old family residence. He 
 wrote to his son that he had "topped the Locusts," though he did 
 it with great reluctance, adding, "Now they may put out new tops 
 and give shade to a new generation." The sentiment expressed sug- 
 gested the lines below. 
 
 Two Locusts, in a grove of beech, 
 Their giant arms up skjrward reach. 
 Four yards their ancient trunks are 'round, 
 Their tops with leaves and branches crowned. 
 A hundred years their ages tell, 
 They've kept their vigor wondrous well, 
 They've stood a hundred winters' rage. 
 As often spread their foliage. 
 
 Oh, these are trees for axe to spare. 
 For many a tale could they declare. 
 How first they grew for him whose hand 
 Upreared the house, and cleared the land, 
 And made the home for them to shade. 
 Whilst 'neath their boughs his children played. 
 
 To kinsfolk, neighbors, strangers, friends. 
 Their hospitable shade extends; 
 Here lovers whispered happy dreams, 
 'Midst silvery sprays of soft moonbeams. 
 And at the close of Sabbath days 
 Through arching boughs went up God's praise, 
 While sweetly borne on evening's breeze 
 The church-bell chimes sang through the trees; 
 Oh, let the axe these old trees spare, 
 Is memory's earnest, pleading prayer. 
 
 But now these skyward reaching arms 
 Have grown so tall their height alarms, 
 Lest storms may bring them crashing down 
 The old paternal roof upon; 
 
NOVEMBER. 217 
 
 So keen-edged axe and cruel saw, 
 Strong arm to wield and a rope to draw, 
 Soon send the grand old tops below 
 To kiss the ground they've shaded so. 
 
 No more a grateful shade they'll cast, 
 No more defy the winter's blast; 
 But though no graceful top remains. 
 Each trunk a mighty life retains, 
 And spreading glories yet will crown 
 The locust trees whose tops are down — 
 Glories of leaf and fragrant bloom 
 
 For generations yet to come. 
 
 Thomas Spked. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Chili,-browed elf, November, 
 Casting your shadow and frown, 
 
 I^ending a touch of amber — 
 Shading it into brown. 
 
 Hiding the smile of the sun, 
 Chasing Summer away — 
 
 Turning green into dun. 
 Then curtaining it in gray. 
 
 Robbing the grim old oaks 
 
 Of their summer frond, 
 Stopping the froggish croaks, 
 
 Stilling the meadow pond. 
 
 Hushing the hum of the brook 
 That waded through the vale. 
 
 Stealing into every nook 
 Whispering your autumn tale. 
 
 Clint Ruby. 
 
2l8 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 IvOVE. 
 
 Oh ! what is love ? a fading flower, 
 The fleeting vision of an hour, 
 The bow that decks the summer sky, 
 The passing breeze that flutters by, 
 A meteor flash across life's heaven, 
 A word, a promise idly given, 
 A strain of music come and gone. 
 Whose memory passeth with its tone, 
 A star that kindly beams awhile, 
 Then leaves us darker for its smile; 
 Say, is this love? 
 
 Ah, no! Love is a quenchless flame, 
 Forever burning, still the same; 
 A fire that angel torches light 
 To cheer our life's long, gloomy night; 
 A sun that will around us cast 
 A flood of brightness to the last; 
 The dearest boon to us is given. 
 The radiance of reflected Heaven, 
 Which when death comes will brightly shine, 
 l/osing the Human in Divine; 
 Oh! this is love! 
 
 Cl,ARA L. MCltVAIN. 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 219 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Poet, whose heritage was dreams and tears, 
 Blue are thy loved Virginia skies to-day; 
 Amid the leaves the lutes of spring-time play 
 
 Sweet strains of ecstacies and hopes and fears; 
 But thou, whose lyre was swept by heaven's own breath, 
 Hast rendered all thy minstrelsy to Death. 
 
 Canst thou not hear beneath the veiling sod, 
 The warm earth breaking o'er the daffodils. 
 In whose green stalks the pulse of April thrills? 
 
 Canst thou not hear young grasses grow? Dear God, 
 Hard must it be to leave the glorious light, 
 Aye, all fair things, and bid the world good night. 
 
 Poet, thy dear South bears a rose for thee 
 
 Far fairer than unfading asphodels. 
 
 From fields beyond the region of farewells, 
 Washed by the white waves of eternity. 
 
 Behold, this rose of love, whose bloom divine 
 
 Is a censer and thy grave a shrine. 
 
 Sweet be the silence of these fleeting years 
 
 To thee who left us, ere Fame's sunshine came, 
 
 The heritage of thy immortal name, 
 Whose bread was sorrow, and whose wine was tears; 
 
 Sweet be it, oh thou lord of language rare, 
 
 Mad minstrel of a most divine despair. 
 
 The pulse of trade now falters in the mart 
 
 At breathing of thy name, and love forgets 
 
 The lips, the kisses, so this sorrow sets 
 All crowned and sceptered in each feeling heart, 
 
 Yea, deep in mine, for singer I would be 
 
 E'en as a strain of music praising thee. 
 
220 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 For thee the dream-gods poured rare draughts of wine, 
 The splendid drink of immortality, 
 Till drunken with such nectar thou didst see. 
 
 Beyond the sunsets, lands that are divine, 
 And o'er earth's clamor heard weird voices call 
 From parapets cut in the sky's blue wall. 
 
 The tears of fallen angels sadly smote 
 Upon thy trembling lute-strings, and soft blown 
 
 Through golden portals fell the raptured note 
 Of seraph's song and mingled with thy own, 
 
 So thus unto each earth-born strain was given 
 The sigh of Hell, the ecstasy of Heaven. 
 
 Endowed with visions of mysterious things, 
 Upon a ship of song thyself didst stand. 
 And like Columbus hailed a grand new land. 
 
 Oh! dweller under Fame's outstretching wings, 
 Alas, alas ! that in thy prime of day 
 Death's darkness fell, like frosts on blooms of May. 
 
 Perchance life's sorrow made thy heart grow old; 
 The sight of haggard faces and sad eyes 
 Made dim the brightness of thy paradise. 
 
 And on thy music jarred the clink of gold ; 
 So thou didst faint beneath the heavy cross. 
 While all the world laughed, knowing not its loss. 
 
 Though thou hast stood a beggar at the gate 
 Of splendor, asking for a bit of crust. 
 Thy hot tears falling thickly in the dust 
 
 Of rich men's chariot wheels. Oh, cruel Fate, 
 Why e'er delaying? Better wine and bread 
 For genius living — laurels mock the dead. 
 
 Ye statesmen weaving webs for souls of men, 
 Ye victors from the glory-giving fray, 
 Take back your honors; 'twas but yesterday 
 
 He asked for bread, and silence answered then. 
 P.oor singer! even Beauty would not spare 
 One gem for thee from out her scented hair. 
 
TOBOGGANING DOWN' THE HILL. 221 
 
 Now, glorious is thy resting-place, thou king 
 
 Of songs and dreams. The splendid lights of Heaven, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, for lamps to thee are given. 
 
 Red leaves of autumn and green mists of spring 
 Fold softly o'er thee; for thy music, hear 
 The psalm of nature waking ever near. 
 
 Mute poet, as the burning west grows cold, 
 Lo, I will write upon this fair head-stone 
 (The mocking gift Fame gave thee for thine own): 
 "Here Genius lies, that died for lack of gold;" 
 And, passing by, the laughing world shall see 
 Its baseness and thy immortality. 
 
 EiyViRA Sydnor Millbr. 
 
 TOBOGGANING DOWN THE HILL. 
 
 Upon the summit of Life's slope, 
 We stand in vigor, full of hope. 
 With beauteous snowdrifts all around : 
 What grander scene could e'er be found? 
 Let 's get aboard of Life's swift sleigh 
 And grandly down pursue our way, 
 Enjoying each delicious thrill 
 As we toboggan down the hill. 
 
 But, ah ! this charming thrill can 't last ! 
 The gait is pleasing, but too fast ; 
 Too soon we '11 reach, so swift we sail, 
 The gloomy shadow of the vale. 
 But take the sleighing as it goes. 
 And make the most of winter's snows — 
 Enjoy the ride, let come what will, 
 As we toboggan down the hill. 
 
 OwvER Lucas. 
 
222 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 When Autumn's breeze fans through the trees 
 
 And leaves begin to fall, 
 The leaves and wind bring to the mind 
 
 The certain fate of all. 
 
 The breeze of time which constant blows 
 
 On man with potent blast, 
 Though one by one it overthrows. 
 
 Still all must fall at last. 
 
 With men it is as with the leaves. 
 
 Each springs from mother Earth, 
 They rise and grow, and fade and fall 
 
 To where they had their birth. 
 
 On the oak you'll see — the stateliest tree 
 
 In all the forest 'round — 
 Some leaves of humble, modest height, 
 
 And scarce above the ground. 
 
 Whilst others rise almost to skies 
 
 Upon the topmost bough, 
 Yet when they fall they're scattered al 
 
 Promiscuously below. 
 
 Thus 't is with man, do all he can 
 
 To elevate his head, 
 In earth at last with millions past 
 
 He mingles with the dead. 
 
 Gay scenes adorn man's vernal morn 
 
 In fancy's pleasing views. 
 One object gained, another feigned 
 
 He ardently pursues. 
 
 Then come his cares in riper years. 
 
 The Summer of his day 
 With toil and strife, in future life 
 
 His labors to repay. 
 
A SEA SHELL. 233 
 
 His end attained, fruition gained, 
 
 His Autumn more serene, 
 But wealth nor ease here long can please, 
 
 For he must quit the scene. 
 
 As years prevail his pleasures fail. 
 
 His strength declines apace, 
 And Winter's bleak and chilling gale 
 
 Shall end his mortal race. 
 
 Then pause, Oh man ! an emblem see 
 
 In every falling leaf 
 Of that frail body given to thee, 
 
 Ponder, but not with grief 
 
 Thy noble past, thy Heaven born mind. 
 
 If virtuous it be, 
 
 Enjoys when free and unconfined 
 
 A blest eternity. 
 
 Thomas Speed. 
 
 A SEA SHELIv. 
 
 It tells in its lonely sighs. 
 
 In its misere wild, 
 Its love for its far-oflf ocean home, 
 
 This exiled ocean-child. 
 
 I send it unto thee. 
 
 Type of my own full heart, 
 That sings and sighs for its native land 
 
 Though doomed to dwell apart. 
 
 And when in thy listening ear 
 
 Its plaintive music rings, 
 I/et it tell of love for thee and thine 
 
 That flows from my heart's deep springs. 
 
 Annie Chambers Ketchum. 
 
224 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE BORE. 
 
 'Neath every sun, in every land, 
 
 Th' impartial breezes e'er have fanned 
 
 The cheek of modest merit and 
 
 That other cheek, 
 'Gainst which a hurricane might dash 
 And tempests rave and lightnings flash, 
 They wouldn't harm or e'en abash 
 
 The bore's dread beak. 
 
 In fact, the storm that sweeps the main 
 And plays sad havoc on the plain. 
 Might beat upon the bore in vain — 
 
 He'd face the breeze, 
 And, with his never-ceasing tongue, 
 Backed by a wondrous strength of lung. 
 He'd blow a "Norther" back among 
 
 The Arctic seas. 
 
 The bore he boreth every soul 
 Who yieldeth him a button-hole. 
 And then in his obnoxious role 
 
 Begins to blow; 
 The while his victim, in distress. 
 Hearing but little, heeding less. 
 Murmurs "I reckon," "no," and "yes," 
 
 In tones of woe. 
 
 Now, Noah's ark contained a pair 
 
 Of all things breathing God's pure air 
 
 Except the bore — he wasn't there. 
 
 Or else the "crew," 
 Through forty days and nights of rain, 
 Would surely have been talked insane. 
 And 'neath the waters eased their pain, 
 
 With Noah, too. 
 
HENRY COOLIDGE SEMPLE, 
 
GOD'S POEM. 225 
 
 You recollect that Babel's rise 
 
 Was checked before it reached the skies 
 
 By too much talk, and I surmise — 
 
 (I may be wrong) — 
 That Lucifer, chagrined and sore. 
 Then, out of gas, evolved the bore 
 To torture man forevermore 
 
 With stories long. 
 
 In t'other land we'll gladly miss 
 
 The bore who tortures us in this; 
 
 In that bright land's antithesis 
 
 He '11 sit and sigh 
 
 To even feel the humid breeze 
 
 From an old-fashioned, healthy sneeze. 
 
 Or on his blistered tongue to squeeze 
 
 A dish-rag dry. 
 
 A. W. Kei<i,EY. 
 
 GOD'S POEM. 
 
 Patchks of shimmering sunlight everywhere 
 Filtering through clouds white, airy, opalescent — 
 Skies to the eastward glowing, iridescent; 
 
 A restful, holy calm, unwonted, rare, 
 Like that which in our fancy broods abOve 
 
 The peaks of Paradise ; a drowsy glory 
 
 That radiates from regions fresh with flora. 
 Enshrouding all; a sense of that vast love 
 
 (Illimitable, infinite as Heaven), 
 That fashioned all, alike pervading all; 
 These are thy revelations, June, thy call ! 
 
 O! may they not in vain to us be given; 
 Written on sea and sky, on leaf and sod. 
 Thou art an idyl from the hand of God ! 
 
 MaTTie N. Brown. 
 15 
 
226 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 THE NIGHT DISPLAYS THE STARS. 
 
 The storm displays the rainbow, 
 
 Tlie night displays the stars, 
 And twilight's gathering darkness 
 
 The sunset's golden bars. 
 
 The rain begems the meadow 
 
 With shining rills of light. 
 And fills the flowers' dew-cups 
 
 With honey clear and bright. 
 
 The winter fills the world 
 
 With winds of wailing woe, 
 But clothes the moon-lit valleys 
 
 With glist'ning robes of snow. 
 
 'Tis thus, when gloomy shadows 
 
 O'erspread us and combine. 
 The hidden virtues in us 
 
 I/ike stars begin to shine. 
 
 And as the starry heavens 
 
 Of night surpass the day. 
 So noble souls in sorrow 
 
 Their loftiness display. 
 
 But if, when sorrow-smitten. 
 
 No virtues in us shine, 
 Then we are full of darkness. 
 
 And void of light divine. 
 
 Thomas Walsh. 
 
THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY. 2^^ 
 
 THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY. 
 
 The following poem, bright in humor and tender in sentiment, 
 ■was written several years ago by A. W. Kelley (Parmenas Mix), and first 
 published in The Century, then Scribner's Magazine. 
 
 I AM lying at rest in the sanctum to-night — 
 
 The place is deserted and still — 
 To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white, 
 
 To my left are the ink and the quill — 
 Yes, the quill, for my master 's old-fashioned and quaint, 
 
 And refuses to write with a pen; 
 He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint, 
 
 Used a quill, and he '11 imitate Ben. 
 
 I love the old fellow — together for years 
 
 We have managed the Farmers' Gazette, 
 And although I am old, I 'm his favorite shears 
 
 And can crowd the compositors yet. 
 But my duties are rather too heavy, I think. 
 
 And I oftentimes envy the quill 
 As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink 
 
 While I 'm slashing away with a will. 
 
 But when I was new — I remember it well, 
 
 Though a score of long years have gone by — 
 The heaviest share of the editing fell 
 
 On the quill, and I think with a sigh 
 Of the days when I'd scissors an extract or two 
 
 From a neighboring editor's leader. 
 Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew 
 
 In behalf of the general reader. 
 
 I am being paid oflF for my merriment then. 
 
 For my master is wrinkled and gray. 
 And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen 
 
 Except when he wishes to say, 
 
228 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 "We are needing some money to run this machine, 
 And subscribers will please to remit;" 
 Or, "that last load of wood that Jones brought us was 
 green. 
 And so knotty it couldn't be split." 
 
 He is nervous and deaf, and is getting quite blind 
 
 (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter). 
 And I 'm sorry to say, it 's a puzzle to find 
 
 Head or tail to the most of his matter. 
 The compositors plague him whenever they see 
 
 The result of a luckless endeavor, 
 But the darling old rascal just lays it to me. 
 
 And I make no remonstrance whatever. 
 
 Yes, I shoulder the blame — very little I care 
 
 For the jolly compositor's jest, 
 For I think of a head with the silvery hair 
 
 That will soon, very soon, be at rest. 
 He has labored full long for the true and the good, 
 "'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us;" 
 His emoluments, raiment and food. 
 
 And — a pass, now and then, to the circus. 
 
 Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright 
 
 Of a lass with the freshness of clover, 
 Who used me to clip from her tresses one night 
 
 A memorial lock for her lover. 
 The dear little lock is still glossy and brown. 
 
 But the lass is much older and fatter; 
 And the youth — he's an editor here in the town — 
 
 I 'm employed on the staff of the latter. 
 
 I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night — 
 
 The place is deserted and still — 
 The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight 
 
 Through the trees on the brow of the hill ; 
 Clouds hurry along in undignified haste. 
 
 And the wind rushes by with a wail — 
 Hello! there's a whopping big rat in the paste — 
 
 How I 'd like to shut down on his tail ! 
 
 A. W. Ke]:,i,ev. 
 
AMABERE ME. 339 
 
 AMABERE ME. 
 
 When the white snow left the mountains, 
 When the spring unsealed the fountains, 
 When her eye the violet lifted, 
 Where the autumn leaves had drifted 
 'Neath the budding maple tree, 
 Amabere Me. 
 
 Now the summer flowers are dying. 
 Now the summer streams are drying. 
 Yet I cry, though lone I linger 
 Where the autumn's wizard finger 
 Burns along the maple tree, 
 Amabere Me. 
 
 As the wild bird, faint and dying. 
 Follows summer faithless flying, 
 So my heart, doubt's blank air beating, 
 Broken-winged, is still repeating 
 While it follows, follows thee, 
 Amabere Me. 
 
 Soon will winter, gaunt and haggard. 
 Shroud a new grave, sodless, beggared; 
 Still, though not a flower be planted. 
 Not a requiem be chanted. 
 Not an eye with tears be laven. 
 On a gray stone will be graven 
 'Neath the leafless maple tree, 
 Amabere Me. 
 
 Annie Chambers Ketchum. 
 
230 BLADES O' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 There is a beauty on Night's queen-like brow, 
 
 With her rich jewelry of blazing stars, 
 
 That to the heart, which yearns for purer scenes 
 
 And holier love than greets it here, appeals 
 
 With a resistless force. Great Nature then 
 
 Asserts her empire o'er the souls of those. 
 
 Ne'er favored children, on whose eager ears 
 
 There falls no wind which hath no melody, 
 
 And to whose eyes each star unfolds a world 
 
 Of glory and of bliss. The poet feels 
 
 The inspiration of an hour like this, 
 
 When silence like a garment wraps the earth. 
 
 And when the soundless air seems populous 
 
 With gentle spirits hovering o'er the haunts 
 
 Which most they loved while prisoned in their clay. 
 
 The mysteries of the universe then woo 
 
 His mind, and lead it up from height to height 
 
 Of lofty speculation to the Throne 
 
 Round which all worlds and systems roll. 
 
 The Past for him unlocks her affluent stores, 
 
 And human crowds, long gathered home by death 
 
 To his dark kingdom, people earth again. 
 
 ^fe Sfc ^tc Sfc ^Ic ^t£ ^ 
 
 Such is the talismanic power divine 
 
 Of Genius over death and time and space. 
 
 It reads the dim memorials on the tombs 
 
 Of buried empires — peoples solitudes — 
 
 And sways its scepter o'er the realms of night. 
 
 In its blest missions to the homes of men 
 
 It turns aside from palaces and pomp. 
 
 And gently stoops to kiss the pearly brow 
 
 Of the boy peasant 'neath the humblest roof. 
 
 With eye anointed it hath read the stars. 
 
 And traced out on the boundless blue of heaven 
 
 The wanderings of worlds. Its voice goes forth. 
 
THE PASSING OF MARCH. 23 1 
 
 And o'er the billows of Time's wasteful sea 
 
 It roUeth on forever. It hath sung 
 
 Old Ocean's praise, and with his surges' roar 
 
 Its song will ever mingle. 
 
 Thomas H. Shreve. 
 
 THE PASSING OF MARCH. 
 
 The braggart March stood in the season's door 
 With his broad shoulders blocking up the way, 
 
 Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore 
 And from the fringes of his kirtle gray. 
 
 Near by him April stood with tearful face, 
 With violets in her hands, and in her hair 
 
 Pale wild anemones; the fragrant lace 
 Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair. 
 Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there. 
 
 She on the blusterer's arm laid one white hand, 
 But he would none of her soft blandishment ; 
 
 Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand. 
 For even the fiercest hearts at last relent. 
 
 And he at last, in ruffian tenderness. 
 
 With one swift, crushing kiss her lips did greet; 
 Ah, poor starved heart — for that one rude caress 
 
 She cast her violets underneath his feet. 
 
 Robert Burns Wilson. 
 
232 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 SPRING THUNDER. 
 
 We know by the breath of the balmy air, 
 The springing grass and the sunshine fair, 
 By the soft rain falling — as if in love 
 The sleeping blossoms and bulbs above — 
 By the tint of green on the forest brown, 
 By the fallen tassels of aspen down, 
 By the lilac-bud and the tufted larch, 
 That we have done with the wayward March. 
 
 We know by the call of the nestling bird 
 When she feels her mother impulse stirred, 
 By the venturing forth of the lonely bee 
 I,ike the dove sent out o'er the olden sea, 
 By the croak of the frog in his willowy pond, 
 By the dove's low moan in the copse beyond, 
 By the quickening pulse and the thrilling vein, 
 That April laughs into life again. 
 
 But not the sunshine, the breeze, the showers, 
 
 The tender green on the embryo flowers, 
 
 The voices of birds or the quickened sense, 
 
 Appeal with such startling eloquence 
 
 To the heart that yearns for the Summer's reign, 
 
 Weary and earth-sick from Winter's chain. 
 
 As that sound which seems through space to ring. 
 
 The first low thunder of wakened Spring. 
 
 O marvel not that the men of old 
 Deemed its deep music by gods controlled, 
 And, by the power that within them strove. 
 Called it the wrath of the mystic Jove — 
 For we are stirred with an awe profound 
 By that mysterious and sullen sound — 
 Nor give we faith to the birds and bloom 
 Till we hear that fiat of Winter's doom. 
 
THE LEAF. 233 
 
 So in the Spring of our life's career 
 We stand and gaze on the opening year, 
 "We feel the sunshine, we drink the breeze, 
 But no source of feeling is stirred by these; 
 Not till the voice of the stormy soul 
 Swells like the sound of the thunder's roll — 
 Not till the flood-gates of sorrow break 
 In passionate tears — doth our Summer wake. 
 
 Catherine A. WarpieIvD. 
 
 THE LEAF.* 
 
 So rudely torn from thy support, 
 Where goeth thou, poor withered leaf? 
 
 I do not know. The tempest's sport 
 Is the dire cause of all my grief. 
 
 It felled the oak, upon whose bough 
 My slight form clung since early spring; 
 
 And from that dreadful day till now 
 The fickle wind upon his wing 
 
 Hath borne me o'er the spreading plain, 
 And through the forest's shady nooks. 
 
 And o'er the rugged mountain chain, 
 And by the valley's babbling brooks. 
 
 Without complaint, and without grief, 
 I go where every thing else goes. 
 
 Where goes the slender laurel leaf, 
 Where goes the soft leaf of the rose. 
 
 Mrs. W. IvEswe Coli,ins. 
 
 * Translated from the French of Fenelon. 
 
234 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A WII.D VIOLET IN NOVEMBER. 
 
 Alas, dear flower ! child of the morning sun, 
 
 Of April showers and spring-time's kindly breath, 
 Against what odds hath thy sweet life begun ! 
 All nature bodes thee ill. Thou mayst not shun 
 
 The hard mischances of this changing world, 
 Nor 'scape the sad presaging of this sky. 
 
 To-day thy gentle beauty is unfurled, 
 To-morrow in the lap of sleep to lie. 
 All cheerfully the wonder of thine eye 
 
 I/Ooks upward, smiling in the face of death. 
 
 Is nature then forgetful and unkind? — 
 
 Unknowing of her time to send thee forth 
 Uncared for, unprotected from the wind, 
 
 Whose threat'ning voice stirs from the pallid north? 
 Or hath the sun, made fierce with Autumn's wine. 
 
 Too fondly wooed, too soon, the drowsing earth, 
 So that she stirs uneasy in her rest. 
 
 And dreams she must put forth some tender sign 
 Of love's sweet troubling in her yearning breast, 
 
 And so, unwitting, gives thy beauty birth? 
 
 Hast thou no fear? Ah, poor unconscious waif! 
 
 No dew-drop hast thou but compassion's tear. 
 Would that an angel now might bear thee safe 
 
 To some sure hiding place ! Dost thou not hear 
 The anger of the coming storm, that fills 
 
 The sky with gloom and shakes the earth with dread. 
 Voiced in the deep mouths of the bellowing hills, 
 
 Wherefrom bright Autumn in despair hath fled 
 And left the gray trees naked to their ills. 
 
 Each holding mournfully some farewell shred 
 Torn from the rich robe of the passing year? 
 No help of noine, alas ! can bring thee cheer. 
 
A WILD VIOLET IN NOVEMBER. 235 
 
 Here will I heap the leaves about thy bed, 
 That I may leave thee, when the storm draws near, 
 
 A friendly shelter for thy drooping head. 
 Soon will thy life be done, and mine more drear. 
 
 That I shall seek for thee and find thee dead. 
 
 Now from the far horizon sweeps the blast. 
 
 Distress and desolation in the sound. 
 Swift through the moaning forest, driving past 
 
 The frantic leaves along the rustling ground. 
 Now on the drear fields night is closing fast, 
 
 The shadows and the darkness fill the air; 
 Dun Melancholy leaves her haunts at last. 
 
 And wails along the hillsides in despair. 
 
 Far from the fading valley bursts the boom 
 
 Of distant echoes, and the darkness reels 
 Where sightless chariots, thund'ring through the gloom. 
 
 Bear down the tree-tops with their crackling wheels. 
 Sheer down the shattered silence of the sky 
 
 The fierce, white steeds of Winter plunging go; 
 Swift on the level of the storm they fly, 
 And from their gleaming manes, as they rush by. 
 
 They shake the hoar-frost out, like moon-lit snow. 
 Now is the summer as if it had not been; 
 
 The autumn but a fancy and a jest; 
 All is but night, and phantoms come again. 
 
 The rounded moon sinks in the tangled crest 
 Of yon dark hill. Are all but shadows then? 
 
 And what should I do other than the rest — 
 
 A dreamer of the whisp'ring fields at best? 
 
 Why am I grieved? What matter should it be 
 That flowers must fade; that every joy should fly; 
 
 And all things change? Why am I pained to see 
 That good can fail and gentle beauty die? 
 
 One violet less on earth ! What 's that to me ? 
 Alas! I know not; no, in truth, not I. 
 
236 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Farewell ! I draw my cloak about me now ; 
 
 Far hence upon the midnight fields I go; 
 Cold is the whistling gust upon my brow; 
 
 Crisp is the frosted grass and white as snow; 
 Gone is the moon, deep darkness and the stars 
 
 Gird now the sleeping earth; and I alone 
 Must go to battle in the silent wars 
 
 That rend the soul with thought's unuttered moan. 
 
 Still shall I seek the dawning and the light, 
 Loth to believe that Nature was designed 
 
 To be but cruel. Though her ways may thrill 
 My soul with doubts, and though her front may fright 
 
 My longing with a grave which I must fill; 
 Yet shall despair not mount on hope resigned; 
 Her beauty and her love are life. I find 
 
 More cheer and comfort in her worst of ills 
 Than in the choicest babbling of mankind. 
 
 From thee, frail creature of the mind divine. 
 My soul is loth to part. I linger near. 
 
 Vexed with a boding that is not, and is — 
 A contemplative sense of wounding fear, 
 
 Where fain I would find comfort and repose. 
 
 Hath God made man a gentler heart than His? 
 
 There is a nameless agony that grows 
 Too burdensome to melt with pity's tear; 
 And I, who bend in helpless sorrow here. 
 
 Pained with regret and longing, that, God knows, 
 I got not of myself — a wild despair 
 
 That death should ride upon the breath that blows 
 Fresh from the sky's far solitudes — I get 
 No answer. Silence mocks my cry. And yet 
 Thy faith-face bids my doubting soul forget 
 
 The cloud of gloom that closes over me 
 
 With thinking why so hard a thing should be. 
 Thus am I lessoned by this trust of thine, 
 
 Thy beauty's charm and sweet content, which shows 
 Thy life is sheltered from the blight of care 
 As though a guard of gods encircled thee. 
 
ICH LIEBE DICH. 237 
 
 Farewell, sweet flower ! We yet perhaps shall meet 
 
 At some time, somewhere. God, He knows ; not I. 
 But if this life be not a useless cheat — 
 
 A farce for fiends to laugh at, and a lie — 
 Then sure I know that in some land unknown 
 
 To which we journey, we shall meet again. 
 And if there be not this — if life be grown, 
 
 Heart, soul and mind, a fleeting dream and vain, 
 Born of the earth and nurtured by the sun, 
 
 A nothing and a shadow, but to be 
 Whiles that a few short years of time shall run. 
 
 And vanish then forever — still, I say 
 
 Farewell! Farewell! It is but clay to clay. 
 
 Thou goest now, and I shall follow thee. 
 
 Robert B. Wilson. 
 
 ICH IvIEBE DICH. 
 
 " ICH LIEBE DICH," was all he said. 
 And why I should have blushed so red 
 I can not say — I do not know ; 
 The words could not have moved me so — 
 It must have been his look instead. 
 
 But why should I have hung my head. 
 And really almost felt afraid, 
 When what he meant I did not know? 
 " Ich Hebe dich." 
 
 "Three German words" they were, he said. 
 
 " Teach me the meaning? No, instead 
 
 The words themselves he 'd teach, and so 
 
 The meaning soon enough I'd know." 
 
 And soon my faltering lips he led 
 
 To say the words himself had said — 
 
 " Ich Hebe dich." 
 
 Jean Wright. 
 
238 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 The twilight falls in gloom; 
 All day the fitful sun and sparkling show'r 
 Have played at hide-and-seek amid the bloom — 
 
 The varied tints of Spring's fresh bow'r. 
 Oh, sure each bud and blossom knows the spell, 
 Their subtle fragrance weaves about my brow; 
 Oh, sure a mystic tale their echoes tell — 
 
 Love's soft, low-whisper'd vow. 
 
 The deep'ning sky o'ercast. 
 The shadows slowly length'ning 'neath the trees, 
 The tender leaves swift in the vernal blast. 
 
 To catch the music of the breeze; 
 The young lush grass a-peep above the earth. 
 The trailing vines that to the lattice cling. 
 Ah, these to fancies warm and true give birth. 
 
 And o'er my senses fling. 
 
 On landscape charms I glance; 
 The city's distant hum is luU'd to rest, 
 Athwart the sunset dark'ning clouds advance. 
 
 And shut from sight the rosy west; 
 A dreamy orison enshrines my heart. 
 Deep shelter'd in the sacred haunts of home, 
 Where elfin sprites among the eeries dart, 
 
 Irradiate in the gloam. 
 
 Shine out, sweet love, unveil 
 Thy ecstasy erst wrought in accents wild; 
 Within my soul there breathes an anguish'd wail, 
 
 Unsoothed by resignation mild. 
 I would not, if I might, give back the joy 
 That sweeps my pulses with enraptured thrill; 
 In transport pure the moments can not cloy — 
 
 My craving lingers still. 
 
SPRING AND SUMMER. 239 
 
 Nor time may rend the tie; 
 The fealty that holds the captive will 
 In potent thrall, if sever'd, soon must die, 
 
 Poor human faith a-blight and chill. 
 O, birdlings, blossoms, leaflets, flow'rs, 
 Give forth chaste spirits to enchant the air; 
 I,et silver'd mem'ries glad the lonely hours, 
 
 And crown my picture fair. 
 
 The night comes on apace; 
 The cricket's chirp, the woodland murmur's swell. 
 Bid nature's changeling melodies efiace 
 
 The glamour of yon phantom spell. 
 The flashing morn adown the glist'ning aisles, 
 A dew-embower'd hill and grove and lea, 
 With ruthless light will scatter fairy wiles, 
 
 Nor leave my love to me. 
 
 Eugenia Duni^ap Potts. 
 
 SPRING AND SUMMER. 
 
 I HEARD a footstep on the hill; 
 The little brook began to trill. 
 I looked — a sweet and childish face. 
 Reflected like a blooming vase. 
 Was smiling from the water clear 
 With buttercups behind her ear. 
 
 A flock of swallows hove in sight; 
 On came Summer clad in white, 
 With sunshine falling from her hair 
 Upon her shoulders white and bare, 
 And, pressing through the tangled grass, 
 A daisy rose to watch her pass. 
 
 Katydid. 
 
240 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 LA GLU. 
 BRITTANY FOLK SONG. 
 
 Once upon a time there was a poor boy. 
 
 — Oulie oulai oulie oula — 
 Once upon a time there was a poor boy 
 
 Who loved one 
 
 Who loved him not. 
 
 She said to him, "Bring me to-day," 
 
 — Oulie oulai oulie oula — 
 She said to him, "Bring me to-day 
 
 The heart of thy mother 
 
 For my dog." 
 
 He goes to his home and his mother kills. 
 
 — Oulie oulai oulie oula — 
 He goes to his home and his mother kills. 
 
 Seizes the heart 
 
 And runs away. 
 
 In running away down he falls. 
 
 — Oulie oulai oulie oula — 
 In running away down he falls. 
 
 And the heart 
 
 Rolls on the ground. 
 
 As it rolls it speaks to him. 
 — Oulie oulai oulie oula — 
 As it rolls it speaks to him — 
 
 Ivisten thou 
 
 To what it says. 
 
 As it rolls it weeping says, 
 
 — Oulie oulai oulie oula — 
 
 As it rolls it weeping says, 
 
 "Art thou hurt 
 
 My poor child?" 
 
 Jean Wright. 
 
■JENNIE dIONES CUNNINGHAM. 
 
LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 241 
 
 LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIEIvD. 
 
 What, was it a dream ? Am I all alone 
 In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? 
 
 Hist ! — Ah, it was only the river's moan ; 
 They have left me behind with the mangled slain. 
 
 Yes, now I remember it all too well ! 
 
 We met, from the battling ranks apart ; 
 Together our weapons flashed and fell, 
 
 And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart. 
 
 In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done. 
 
 It was all too dark to see his face; 
 But I heard his death-groans, one by one, 
 
 And he holds me still in a cold embrace. 
 
 He spoke but once, and I could not hear 
 The words he said, for the cannon's roar; 
 
 But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear — 
 O God! I had heard that voice before! 
 
 Had heard it before at our mother's knee. 
 When we lisped the words of our evening prayer I 
 
 My brother ! Would I had died for thee — 
 This burden is more than my soul can bear ! 
 
 I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, 
 And begged him to show me, by word or sign. 
 
 That he knew and forgave me; he could not speak, 
 But he nestled his poor cold face to mine. 
 
 The blood flowed fast from my wounded side. 
 And then for a while I forgot my pain. 
 
 And over the lakelet we seemed to glide 
 In our little boat, two boys again. 
 
 And then, in my dream, we stood alone 
 On a forest path where the shadows fell; 
 
 And I heard again the tremulous tone. 
 And the tender words of his last farewell. 
 16 
 
242 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 But that parting was years, long years ago, 
 He wandered away to a foreign land; 
 
 And our dear old mother will never know 
 That he died to-night by his brother's hand. 
 
 The soldiers who hurried the dead away 
 Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace. 
 
 But laid them to sleep till the judgment day. 
 Heart folded to heart, and face to face. 
 
 Bryant's Library of Poetry and Song. Sarah T. Boi,ton. 
 
 5 : 30 A. M. 
 
 Oh, that proverbial early bird — 
 
 The one that caught the worm — 
 I would that I had never heard 
 Of that proverbial early bird ! 
 A pious fraud, a snare absurd, 
 
 I boldly do affirm. 
 Was that proverbial early bird — 
 
 The one that caught the worm. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 And Prince, the worm— 
 ' He also rose betimes. 
 And yet, methinks his was a cruel fate. 
 
 Would it not seem the moral of the tale 
 Were this — 'twere best to lie full latef 
 
 Juan Wright. 
 
SONG OF THE RAID. 343 
 
 SONG OF THE RAID. 
 
 On the Cumberland's bosom 
 
 The moonbeams are bright, 
 And the path of the raiders 
 
 Is plain by the light; 
 Across the broad riffle 
 
 And up the steep bank, 
 The long winding column 
 
 Moves rank after rank. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then Ho ! for the Bluegrass — 
 
 And welcome the chance — 
 No matter the danger 
 
 That bids us advance; 
 The odds must be heavy 
 
 To turn or deter 
 The lads who make war 
 
 With the pistol and spur. 
 
 We haunt the wild border, 
 
 We ever are near, 
 Giving hope to our friends 
 
 And to enemies fear. 
 We hold idle armies 
 
 Here, guarding this soil, 
 We snatch from swift battle 
 
 Its glory and spoil. 
 
 Through the woodland's deep shade. 
 
 By the meadow's green side. 
 Up hill and down valley 
 
 We steadily ride; 
 But hushed now the laughter 
 
 And silent the song, 
 As all night the squadrons 
 
 Tramp swiftly along. 
 
244 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Th' advance guard is marching 
 
 Away in the van, 
 Bold leader the captain, 
 
 Tried soldier each man. 
 No challenge is passed 
 
 When a foe they descry, 
 But the charge comes as fast 
 
 As the hail from the sky. 
 
 By morn we see Glasgow, 
 
 Columbia at noon. 
 Then march on again 
 
 'Neath the smiles of the moon. 
 And at midnight on I,ebanon 
 
 Sudden swoop down 
 To flush the blue-jackets 
 
 Who hold the good town. 
 
 lycave Bardstown to westward, 
 
 Our right pushes in 
 The pickets to Danville 
 
 With clatter and din ; 
 Through Harrodsburg charging, 
 
 Press hotly the chase, 
 Till Frankfort may witness 
 
 The dust of the race. 
 
 Let lyouisville listen. 
 
 And Lexington wait, 
 We are lords of the heart 
 
 Of the beautiful State. 
 The best steeds on Elkhorn 
 
 We take as our right ; 
 We must fight when we will. 
 
 We must win when we fight. 
 
 We reach merry Georgetown — 
 There 's risk in delay — 
 
 But whatever happen 
 We '11 tarry one day ; 
 
THE SIGHT OF ANGELS. 245 
 
 Then down the white pike 
 
 Cynthiana shall hear 
 The rifle's bold music, 
 
 The rebel's wild cheer. 
 
 But now we draw bridle, 
 
 Our purpose is done; 
 Our leader commands, 
 
 And we turn with the sun; 
 But strong hearts are swelling, 
 
 And eyes throb and burn. 
 For many go southward 
 
 Who'll never return. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Farewell to the Bluegrass, 
 
 So sweet in my sight — 
 To its pastures so green 
 
 And its waters so bright; 
 If it pass to the stranger, 
 
 Be lost to the brave, 
 I '11 ask of my birthland 
 
 Enough for a grave. 
 
 B. W. DUKB. 
 
 THE SIGHT OF ANGELS. 
 
 The angels come, the angels go. 
 
 Through open doors of purer air ; 
 Their moving presence oftentimes we know, 
 
 It thrills us everywhere. 
 
 Sometimes we see them: lo, at night. 
 
 Our eyes were shut but open'd seem: 
 
 The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light- 
 
 And then it was a dream! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
246 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE WORKS OF NATURE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 I LOVE on Nature's lovely face to look; 
 
 Upon the landscape, stretching far and wide 
 
 Like a bright panorama to the view, 
 
 With its rich garniture of woods and fields, 
 
 And hills and vales and glens, and crystal streams 
 
 Gliding o'er golden sands. 
 
 I love to gaze 
 On the high mountain with its rugged peaks 
 Piercing the skies, until at last it wreathes 
 Around its azure head a misty veil. 
 I love the thundering cataract to view. 
 Rolling in grandeur o'er the rocky steep. 
 While, like a diadem, upon its brow 
 The brilliant rainbow sits. 
 
 I love to stand 
 On the broad lake's green margin, and to see. 
 Reflected in its sleeping waters clear, 
 O'erhanging cliffs and trees, and the blue vault 
 Of heaven in all its glory mirrored there. 
 
 And at the close of day, when sinks the sun 
 
 Behind the mountain-tops that bound the west. 
 
 Or slowly down into his ocean bed, 
 
 I love to watch the ever-changing clouds, 
 
 Now hung like crimson banners in the sky. 
 
 Now stretched, like gold-edged curtains, far and wide 
 
 The bright and gorgeous drapery of Heaven. 
 
 And when, at night, the starry hosts appear 
 
 I fix my eyes upon those brilliant orbs 
 
 That move in silent grandeur o'er my head. 
 
 And think of Him whose glory they declare. 
 
 ******* 
 
 All Nature is an open book; and all 
 
 Who will may read therein — may read and learn 
 
THE WORKS OF NATURE. 247 
 
 Their Maker ; see His goodness and His power 
 
 In living characters displayed. And yet 
 
 How many look, like brutes irrational, 
 
 On this fair transcript of His attributes, 
 
 Nor love, nor power, nor goodness there behold. 
 
 Though plainly all appear! 
 
 Mr ^If ^J^ ^If ^f ^Ir ^^ 
 
 Of all created beings, man alone 
 
 With reason is endowed, that he may read 
 
 This wide-spread volume. 
 
 He alone is made 
 
 "With countenance erect," that he may look 
 
 "From nature up to nature's God." 
 
 And yet 
 How oft does man, though fitted thus to hold 
 Communion with his Maker through His works, 
 Fix, like the brute, his dull and vacant gaze 
 On Heaven's great laboratory, and perceive 
 Nothing but what the brute itself may see. 
 And nothing feel but what that too may feel ! 
 
 "Rural Minstrelsy." Wii,i,iam A. Washington. 
 
2+8 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 DAVID AND GOLIATH. 
 
 A full and true account, in common metre, of this single combat, 
 by an Irish Bard. 
 
 The brightest boy ould Jesse had 
 
 Was David — youngest son: 
 He was a bould and active lad. 
 
 Well liked by ivery one. 
 
 Altho' he had to moind the sheep, 
 
 To I'arn he was so sharp, 
 Whin other boys wor' fast asleep, 
 
 He 'd practice on the harp. 
 
 'T would make the birds of heaven hide 
 
 Their heads to hear him sing; 
 He 'd murther half the country side 
 
 Wid pebbles and a sling. 
 
 And thin the sootherin' ways he knew 
 
 To capture young and ould; 
 The female sex — Och, whillielu! 
 
 'T was there wor' his best hould. 
 
 Whin David was some eighteen year 
 
 Of age, or thereabout, 
 Betwane the haythen and Judaar 
 
 A bloody war broke out. 
 
 His brothers 'listed for the war; 
 
 Begorra! they wor' daisies — 
 His father tuk a conthract for 
 
 To sell the army chaases. 
 
 "David," the ould man said one day, 
 "You'd loike a little thramp; 
 Jist load some chaases on the dhray. 
 And take 'em down to camp." 
 
DAVID AND GOLIATH. 249 
 
 He dhrove to camp and sought straightway 
 
 The commissary's tint; 
 He got a voucher for his pay, 
 
 Thin to his brothers wint. 
 
 He found 'em lookin' mighty blue 
 
 And in a dhreadful fright; 
 Retrate was what they wished to do, 
 
 But divil a bit to fight. 
 
 A big, black bully, tin feet tall, 
 
 Was bluffin' all the Jews, 
 And throops and staff and Gin'ral Saul 
 
 Wor' quakin in their shoes. 
 
 Goliath was the craythur's name, 
 
 A howlin' Philistine, 
 His sword was loike the lightnin's flame. 
 
 His spear was loike a pine. 
 
 He wore upon his back and breast 
 
 Tin thousand pounds of brass; 
 The shine of him, complately dhressed. 
 
 Would smash a lookin'-glass. 
 
 And ivery day the baste would sthrut, 
 
 Inflamed wid dhrink and pride. 
 And kept all Israel closely shut 
 
 In lines well fortified. 
 
 "Come out," he'd bawl, "come out of there, 
 Beyant your dirthy works; 
 Come, av ye dare, and fight me fair, 
 Yez bloody Habrew Turks!" 
 
 But ivery faithful Israelite 
 
 Said, " I^ave the blaggard be : 
 Av coorse, no dacint Jew can fight 
 
 Wid sich low thrash as he." 
 
250 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 This sort of thing was well and good, 
 Till David jined the throop; 
 
 Whin he the matter understood, 
 Bedad ! he raised a whoop : 
 
 "It is a burnin' sin and shame," 
 He said, " upon me word. 
 To hear this haythen hound defame 
 The chosen of the I/Ord; 
 
 "And since no other mon has felt 
 
 A wish to tan his hide, 
 I '11 fight him for the champion's belt. 
 And fifty pounds a side." 
 
 The corp'ril of the guard he tould 
 
 The off'sur of the day 
 What David said, and he made bould 
 
 To mintion it at tay. 
 
 The edge-du-kong was in that mess. 
 And heerd the whole discoorse: 
 
 So he — he couldn't do no less — 
 Tould Gin'ral Saul av coorse. 
 
 The Chafe of Staff tould the High Praste 
 To sind perempturous orthers 
 
 For David to report in haste 
 At Gin'ral Saul's headquarthers. 
 
 But whin the son of Jesse kim. 
 
 And Saul beheld the lad. 
 So young, so tindher-loike, and slim. 
 
 It made him tearin' mad. 
 
 "Oh, houly Moses! look at that," 
 Said Saul — "the boy's consate; 
 How can it be that sich a brat 
 Can match that heavy weight? 
 
DAVID AND GOLIATH. 251 
 
 " Wid that blood-suckin' giant thafe 
 This baby can not sthrive; 
 The Philistine, it's my belafe, 
 Would ate him up alive." 
 
 Thin David said, " Me I,ord, it 's thrue 
 
 This seems a rash intint ; 
 Yet while I weigh but nine stun' two, 
 
 I 'm full of divilmint. 
 
 "A lion and a bear kim down 
 
 The mountain's rugged sides, 
 I slew the bastes, and wint to town 
 And thraded off their hides. 
 
 "And since for roarin' brutes loike thim 
 
 I 've found I 'm mon enough, 
 I 'm quite convinced that I can thrim 
 This blaggard pagan rough." 
 
 "Avick ! " says Saul, " ye 're full of pluck, 
 
 And wag your little chin 
 lyoike one who ra'ly thrusts his luck. 
 And manes to thry and win. 
 
 " I '11 give ye my best coat of mail — 
 A new spring suit just made — 
 Tuck it a thrifle in the tail 
 And pad the shoulder blade." 
 
 But David didn't understhand 
 
 The use of sich a thing, 
 And only wanted in his hand 
 
 His staff and thrusty sling. 
 
 Whin Goliath saw little David approachin', after having heerd 
 proclamation that a gra'at champion was comin' out to fight him, 
 musha, he laught fit to split his sides ; and by rason of what passed 
 betune them in the way of talk, I dhrap out of poethry for a bit, 
 bekase, while poethry is mighty foine for a sintimental dialog^ie, it 's 
 no good at all for a ra'al strong, first class, breezy blaggardin' match. 
 
852 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 "Oh, Jases!" said Goliath, wid the wather bilin' out of his eyes 
 for laughin', "what sort av thing is that? May the divil admire 
 me ! " he says, " if I do n't believe it 's a monkey escaped from an 
 organ-grinder." 
 
 " Ye '11 find me a moighty bad thing to monkey wid," says David, 
 "ye big thafe, wid a pot on your head like a cupolo on a sthatue 
 fire ingine, and your dirthy black mouth loike the hole av a coal 
 cellar." 
 
 " Ye little skinned pole-cat ! " says Goliath, beginnin' to grow 
 mad when he diskivered that David's rhethoric was suparior to his, 
 "do ye think I'm a dog that ye've got a sthick to bate me wid?" 
 
 " Bedad," says David, "I wouldn't be afther doin' a dacent dog sich 
 injustice ; but it 's dog's mate I 'm goin' to make of ye.'' 
 
 " Hear that," says Goliath ; " arrah, now, tache yure gran'mother 
 to faad ducks!" 
 
 "Dhry up!" says David, "Bad scran to ye," he says; "ye haven't 
 the sinse of a cat-fish. By the light that shines, yure bad ghram- 
 mar gives me a cramp in me stummick." Och, David had a tongue 
 in his head loike a jews-harp. 
 
 " Tear an' ouns ! " says David. " I '11 give the buzzards a picnic wid 
 yer karkiss, and shure it 'uU make 'em sick to ate ye." 
 
 " Ye 're a liar ! " says Goliath. 
 
 " Ye 're another ! " says David, " and an ophthalmic ould Cyclops 
 to-boot." 
 
 Wid that Goliath lost his timper entirely. He pawed up the 
 groun', and kim at David wid his eyes shut, a bellowin*, and that 
 bhrings me back to poethry: 
 
 Goliath poised his mighty spear, 
 
 'Twas fifty feet in length, 
 And unto David drawin' near, 
 
 He punched wid all his strength; 
 
 But David was surprisin' quick, 
 
 And sphry upon his pins; 
 So dodgin' nately, wid his sthick 
 
 He whacked Goliath's shins. 
 
 Wid pain the giant howled and grinned, 
 And dhrapped both shield and lance 
 
 To rub his leg the lick had skhinned, 
 Thin David saw his chance. 
 
DAVID AND GOLIATH. 253 
 
 Takin' a brick from out his scrip, 
 
 He put it in his sling, 
 And whiriin' it 'round head and hip. 
 
 He let it dhrive full swing. 
 
 Right to the mark the darnick flies, 
 
 As sthraight as to a hod; 
 It smote the wretch between the eyes, 
 
 And stretched him on the sod. 
 
 Thin David, for to prove him dead. 
 
 In sight of all beholders. 
 Chopped off his unbelavin' head 
 
 From his blasphamious shoulders. 
 
 Whin the Phenaysian sailors sought, 
 
 lyong since, ould Erin's strand, 
 A prince of David's blood they brought, 
 
 Who settled in the land : 
 
 From him the Irish race had birth, 
 
 And that's why we delight in, 
 Beyant all other tribes on earth, 
 
 The harp's swate strains and fightin'. 
 
 That this surmeese is no wise thin 
 
 Can aisily be shown. 
 For sthick and harp have iver been 
 
 As Erin's imblims known. 
 
 So let her inemies beware 
 
 How they indulge their hate, 
 I,et England thrimble lest she share 
 
 Goliath's dreadful fate. 
 
 B. W. Duke. 
 
254 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 BENEATH THE VEIL. 
 
 Hooded nun with veiled eyes, 
 Thou in whom the maiden dies 
 Unto Christ a sacrifice ! 
 
 Thou who kneelest at the shrine, 
 Wedded to the love divine, 
 Making all its sorrows thine! 
 
 On thy brow the crown of sticks, 
 On thy lips the gall they mix. 
 On thy breast the crucifix. 
 
 Passion's agony and sweat, 
 Passion's hour when all forget; 
 Passion's cry on Olivet. 
 
 Masses sung and incense cold. 
 Vespers rung and pittance doled; 
 Beads in pain at midnight told; 
 
 Light of windows dim and quaint. 
 Sight of pale and paneled saint, 
 Throe of martyr torn and faint. 
 
 Are thy joys, O child of prayers, 
 Child of vigils, fasts and cares ! 
 Ah, that none thy burden shares ! 
 
 Were I weary, poor, distrest. 
 Thou, to give me shelter, rest, 
 Wouldst of all thyself divest. 
 
 Were I raving, fever-tost. 
 Homeless, friendless, spirit-lost. 
 Thou wouldst seek me, life the cost. 
 
 Were I dying 'mid the dead 
 On the field whence all had fled. 
 Thou wouldst lift my wounded head. 
 
MEMORIES OF GALILEE. 355 
 
 Ah, so tender for His sake, 
 Living but love's part to take, 
 Thou alone my heart dost break. 
 
 Worse am I than travel-worn, 
 Worse than needy, sick, forlorn. 
 Battle-spent or sorrow-torn. 
 
 Death were not so dolorous, 
 As to hear them ringing thus 
 For thy soul the Angelus. 
 
 James Lane; Ai<i,en. 
 
 MEMORIES OF GALILEE. 
 
 Each cooing dove and sighing bough 
 That makes the eve so blest to me. 
 
 Has something far diviner now — 
 It bears me back to Galilee! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O Galilee, sweet Galilee! 
 
 Where Jesus loved so much to be; 
 O Galilee, blue Galilee! 
 
 Come, sing thy song again to me! 
 
 Each flowery glen and mossy dell 
 Where happy birds in song agree, 
 
 Thro' sunny noon the praises tell 
 Of sights and sounds in Galilee! 
 
 And when I read the thrilling lore 
 Of Him who walked upon the sea, 
 
 I long, oh ! how I long once more 
 To follow Him in Galilee! 
 
 Robert Morris. 
 
256 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 MEETING RIVERS. 
 
 These verses were inspired by a scene at the meeting of the Ohio 
 and Kentucky rivers. 
 
 I. 
 The sun on yonder line of hills 
 
 Has placed a coronal of light, 
 And from its woven rays a sheen 
 Gilds their dark livery of green 
 
 And makes its dullness bright. 
 
 He spreads his colors from the sky, 
 Just where the rivers meet in one, 
 
 Until the mingled waters lie — 
 The palette of the setting sun. 
 
 But never mortal artist mixed 
 
 Such colors — wonderful and rare ! 
 And never picture, new or old. 
 Shone in a frame of purer gold 
 
 Than that which glitters there. 
 
 II. 
 The swift Kentucky's somber stream 
 
 Rolls on in silence to the place 
 Where ends its "dark and bloody course," 
 
 Into the Ohio's wide embrace, 
 Ungladdened in its changeless gloom 
 By forethought of its brighter doom. 
 
 But on the glad Ohio's breast 
 A thousand jewels blind the sight; 
 
 Gems that have gleamed since time has run. 
 
 Yet rise with every rising sun 
 And perish with the night. 
 
 Sweet waters, twice named "beautiful!" 
 On them the lingering sunbeams shed 
 Their slanting light till, near the land, 
 Shines clear and white the shell-strewn sand 
 Upon their sloping bed; 
 
"ANSWERED." 257 
 
 And while the dark Kentucky strives to hide 
 Its treacherous depths beneath a muddy tide, 
 They open — plain to every careless glance — 
 Each bright recess beneath their broad expanse. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here, at the river's meeting-place, 
 How fair the sights that greet the eye ! 
 
 How pure the mirrored gold that gleams 
 
 lyike Zion's limpid streets, and seems 
 A pathway to the sky! 
 
 A tiny boat, all sail-clad, floats 
 Straight down the paling path of light. 
 
 And as the white sails fade from view 
 
 The gilded pictures vanish too; 
 
 The sun collects each scattered hue 
 And bids the world "good-night." 
 
 Nannie Mayo Fitzhugh. 
 
 "ANSWERED." 
 
 I TOOK my sorrow where the swelling fields 
 
 Lay circled by the low, caressing sky. 
 The soft enchantment that the morning yields 
 
 Held all the murmurous air, and only I 
 Marred the rejoicing day, and drew apart. 
 
 When joy came flooding till my pulse leaped high, 
 I told my gladness to the woods' deep heart, 
 
 And all the forest answered with a sigh. 
 She heeds — sweet Nature — nay, she is not dumb! 
 
 When from my prisoned soul the bars shall fall. 
 
 There waits an answer to my every cry, 
 Though yet her speech I may not know, in some 
 
 Glad times my soul, bond-sundered, shall recall 
 
 In thousand-fold the sure and blest reply. 
 
 Nannie Mayo FiTzhugh. 
 17 
 
26o BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 . . . Often when the sweet wand of Spring 
 
 Has filled the woods with flowers unsown, 
 Or Autumn's dreamy breeze's wing 
 
 Flutters through falling leaves, alone 
 I wander forth, and leave behind 
 
 The city's dust, the sultry glare : 
 A shadowy dell, far off, I find — 
 
 I know the Buried Organ there ! 
 
 Within the city's noisy air 
 
 I leave the creeds their Sabbath bells ; 
 I cross my hands, my breath is prayer, 
 
 Hearing that Organ's mystic swells. 
 The sweet birds sing, the soft winds blow, 
 
 The flowers have whispers close, apart ; 
 All wake within me, loud or low, 
 
 The Buried Organ — in my heart! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
 NIGHT-THOUGHTS. 
 
 They come, in long procession rise before 
 
 My wakeful sight, sweet thoughts, Beloved, of thee 
 And of thy love, the dearest dream to me 
 
 That ever grew dear truth forevermore; 
 
 For, as to a child in his hush'd bed — the door 
 Half-open where his mother's light may be 
 A comfort to his lonely sense when he. 
 
 Though waking, feels warm slumber reach the core 
 Of his fresh spirit — who drops his lids at last, 
 
 Visiting Fairyland, while numberless 
 Ivithe shadows pass and shapes created fast. 
 
 Charming him till he sleeps, and are his dream: 
 So, while I breathe in tender wakefulness, 
 
 Sleep-bordering thoughts with blissful visions teem. 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
THE STRA WBERR Y BOWL. 361 
 
 THE STRAWBERRY BOWL. 
 
 A private and confidential Epistle to Sam Gaines, Editor of the 
 Hopkins ville New Era. Written for the Kentucky Press Association. 
 
 God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly he 
 never did. — Izaak Walton, 
 
 MbIiROSS Gardbn, May, 1880. 
 
 YE SALUTATION. 
 
 Bring forth the bowl within whose round 
 No heart-consuming draught is found, 
 But berries glittering with the dew 
 Which south winds o'er the gardens strew. 
 Sweet souvenirs of Paradise, 
 With cheeks of flame and breath of spice, 
 Shedding for one bright hour their glow 
 O'er life's long Alpine waste of snow. 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead. 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 "O that I owned a strawberry bed?" 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As he beheld, in cream inumed. 
 Great sugared berries, coral red? 
 If such there be, go, mark him well; 
 Of berries never let him smell, 
 Where gathers the church festival 
 Or rings the merry marriage-bell; 
 Mark him — as thou wouldst mark a steer 
 Or swine — ^by cropping off his ear. 
 
 A WALK IN YE GARDEN. 
 
 Wake, winds of May, yon emerald waves. 
 Crested with flowers, like sea-foam white. 
 Where sparkle in their trefoil caves 
 I/ong coral reefs of berries bright ; 
 Shaped like a gentle maiden's heart, 
 And bleeding, as from Cupid's dart, 
 
262 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 The garden's earliest offering, 
 Crown-jewels on the brow of Spring ; 
 The berry Izaak Walton loved, 
 And Downer's perfect taste approved; 
 Dispensing odors beatific, 
 Kentucky, Cumberland, Prolific, 
 Sharpless, and Monarch of the West, 
 And rare Charles Downing, last and best. 
 Thy leaves, sweet trefoil! symbols three 
 Of Faith and Hope and I^ove shall be; 
 Fair type of Christian hope to all. 
 The vine sleeps low 'neath snowy pall; 
 The resurrection blooms in May, 
 With flowers and fruits in bright array. 
 And soaring larks in countless throng 
 Singing their joyful Kaster song. 
 And choir of mocking-birds on high. 
 Gray-plumed sopranos of the sky. 
 
 YE REVEL ON OLYMPUS. 
 
 Heap high the bowl! Ages ago, 
 
 Before the birth of Faust or Hoe, 
 
 Before New Eras, Posts, and Suns 
 
 Gave specials, paragraphs and puns. 
 
 When only Mercury bore the news 
 
 Around the skies, in winged shoes. 
 
 Such genial revels held the gods, 
 
 Juno and Jove, and other frauds; 
 
 In heaven's blue crystal urn each night 
 
 The stars, like berries, twinkled bright, 
 
 And the Great Dipper skimmed the cream 
 
 Where poured the Milky Way its stream; 
 
 Deserted is the Olympic hill; 
 
 Heaven, stars, girls, strawberries, bless us still. 
 
 YE INVOCATION. 
 
 I/Ord, we adore thy matchless bounty 
 And grace, which, after giving birth 
 To sun and moon and stars and earth, 
 Gave us a land of rarest worth, 
 
THE STRA WBERR Y BOWL. 263 
 
 And cast our lot in Christian County! 
 'Mid meek-eyed Jerseys, gifted mules, 
 Hopkinsville peaches, Public Schools, 
 Tobacco farms and gilt-edged bonds. 
 Wheat-fields and sheep and fishing-ponds. 
 Coveys of quail and double barrels. 
 Opossums, pheasants, doves and squirrels, 
 Damsels whose pamphanescent eyes, 
 If stars were quenched, would light the skies; 
 And for to-night, to make us merry, 
 Provided Izaak Walton's berry. 
 Ten inches round in lawful measure. 
 The garden's glory, pride and treasure — 
 Nor Brenner's brush nor Prentice's pen 
 Could tell their worth — and so. Amen ! 
 
 YE PIC-NIC. 
 
 Fill high the bowl! In blissful vision 
 
 We wander over fields Elysian, 
 
 Through ever-lengthening colonnades 
 
 Of whispering elms and beechen shades ; 
 
 Grave manhood's cares are cast away. 
 
 And all are boys again, to-day. 
 
 By one sure sign we know each other — 
 "The strawberry mark! — Our long lost brother!" 
 
 While all discourse on sylvan pipe 
 
 Of golden cream and berries ripe, 
 
 Or sound, on Memory's silver horn, 
 " I too was in Arcadia born ! " 
 
 Sooth, 'tis a goodly sight to see 
 
 The revellers' mutual ministry: 
 
 Stanton shall drive the Jersey cow, 
 
 Sam Gaines shall cause her milk to flow, 
 
 I<ogan shall hold her by the tail. 
 
 And Kelly bear the foaming pail; 
 
 Woodson shall crush the crystal ice, 
 
 Johnston hand spoons, all polished nice. 
 
 The Courier-Journal pass the berries. 
 
 With brisk champagne and golden sherries; 
 
264 BLADES O' BLUEGKASS. 
 
 And he shall serve his country best 
 Who stores most berries 'neath his vest. 
 By shady glen and waterfall 
 Our early loves will we recall, 
 Maids whom no time can e'er eclipse, 
 With strawberry cheeks and sugared lips, 
 Phantoms which haunted boyhood's dream, 
 I/ife's fragrant, pure creme de la creme — 
 Delicious cream, which soured too soon, 
 And left us with an empty spoon ! 
 
 YE PIONEER'S WILD STRAWBERRIES. 
 
 Father, thy locks are thin and gray. 
 Hast thou no legend for us, pray ? 
 Sing of the wild strawberry's flame 
 When first Kentucky hunters came. 
 
 " 'Tis nigh on ninety years, I guess, 
 By the road called the ' Wilderness ' — 
 Its story's told by Captain Speed, 
 A little book you all should read — 
 We pioneered to Old Kaintuck, 
 Woods swarmed with turkey, bear, and buck, 
 And by the ' Rock Spring ' pitched our tents. 
 Them times wild strawberries was immense; 
 We didn't pick, we scooped 'em up 
 By bushels, with a bowl or cup ; 
 And when our teams came home at night. 
 The critters' legs — they wuz a sight; 
 Seemed like they'd swum in bloody seas. 
 The red juice splashed above their knees. 
 We rode one May-day 'cross the prairie. 
 Me and my wife and little Mary; 
 Come to a holler in the ground, 
 Where lots of strawberries grew around. 
 And herds of trampling buffalo 
 Made the red juice in rivers flow 
 And fill a pool some five foot deep — 
 Bxcuse me, pardners ; I must weep — 
 
THE STRA WBERR Y BOWL. 265 
 
 Thanks! My throat is a leetle dry — 
 God knows I can not tell a lie ! [Applause.] 
 Our bosses slipped and tumbled in, 
 We swum in juice up to tbe cbin; 
 A balf an hour we rose and sank, 
 At last we scrambled to the bank; 
 Me and my wife soon came around — " 
 (Omnes.) "But little Mary?" 
 
 "Ske was drowned!" [Groans.] 
 "Yes, drowned ! My stricken heart, be calm! 
 Hers is the crown, the harp, the palm — 
 Thanks, yes, if you insist, a dram. 
 Blood flowed them days like strawberry juice 
 When Girty let his hell-hounds loose. 
 One day some Injin squaws allfired — " 
 
 There, old man, rest. You must be tired. 
 Share in our feast, Homeric sire ; 
 Thanks to the Muse for such a lyre! 
 
 YE SILENT TOAST. 
 
 Fill high to-night ,the strawberry bowl 
 For friendship's feast and flow of soul, 
 Quickly, ere Psyche's brilliant flight 
 Shall vanish in the coming night. 
 Soon shall the parting word be spoken. 
 Soon friendship's golden bowl be broken; 
 Clasp hands and salutation send 
 To each true-hearted, absent friend; 
 Nor in our circle be forgot 
 The masters who before us wrought, 
 Titans of memorable days : 
 Penn, with his sheathless falchion's blaze, 
 Harney, the dauntless, true and strong. 
 And Prentice of the golden song. 
 Triad whose still ascending track 
 Flings its long rays of splendor back. 
 
266 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 YE SMALL BOY'S DOWNFALL. 
 
 What spectres from the strawberry bowl 
 Flit through the galleries of the soul, 
 With shrill voice crying, "Grieve his heart; 
 Come like shadows; so depart!" 
 Strawberry cake, preserves, and jam! 
 I see thy mild eyes moisten, Sam, 
 Perchance at memory of the closet 
 Where once was stored the rare deposit. 
 High ranged upon the topmost shelf, 
 A skillful mother's richest pelf. 
 I see thee steal, at dead of night, 
 With cat-like footsteps, soft and light; 
 I see thee open slow the door. 
 Peep in, and cautiously explore; 
 I see young Sam the boxes pile. 
 Humming Longfellow's psalm the while : 
 " The heights to which the great have stept. 
 
 Were not attained by sudden flight. 
 But they, while their companions slept, 
 
 Were toiling upward in the night." 
 I hear a sudden scream — a crash — 
 I see a candle's fitful flash — 
 Tableau — A boy with downfallen breeches, 
 lyoud sobs, salt tears, and stinging switches. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Heap high the bowl and pour the cream ! 
 How bright the rosy berries gleam — 
 Red fruit and Jersey cream upon it. 
 The colors of my lady's bonnet. 
 In hues like these the western sun 
 Descends to rest when day is done; 
 And round his flaming couch are rolled 
 Bright curtained clouds of red and gold. 
 Not greedily the fruit devour; 
 Prolong the raptures of the hour ; 
 Stain not with juice your linen fair. 
 And of the "strawberry nose" beware. 
 
THE STRA WBERR Y BOWL. 267 
 
 Think of the lovely — the sublime — 
 Niagara — California's clime ; 
 The Mammoth Cave — Alaska's shore, 
 Where glaciers plunge and billows roar; 
 Balance each berry in your spoon, 
 Sink back in a delicious swoon. 
 And murmur in a Romeo's sigh: 
 " I have seen Naples — let me die ! " 
 
 O, vital sparks of heavenly flame ! 
 Whate'er your lineage, land, or name, 
 Pink buds which Mother Nature clips 
 From infant cherubs' finger tips, 
 Or earth-born babies' little toes, 
 Tinted like sea-shell or the rose. 
 Or notes from songs of home and love. 
 Which, floating to the skies above, 
 Are crystallized in heaven's pure air 
 And turn to crimson berries there — 
 Ambrosial fruit of heavenly birth, 
 By Ariel's fingers dropped on Earth — 
 Come o'er me and possess my soul. 
 Sweet spirit of the Strawberry Bowl ! 
 
 For all the world's a strawberry bowl, 
 I/ife the red fruit which fills the brim. 
 
 The daily papers spoon the whole. 
 And women are the sugar and cream. 
 
 S. C. Mescer. 
 
268 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 I ASKED the artist, dreaming a dream, 
 
 For the ideal of his soul. 
 As he sought to mirror the spirit's light 
 
 That over his senses stole; 
 In the heavy sigh of his sad reply, 
 
 I read how the task was vain, 
 To trace on the vacant canvas there 
 
 The image of heart and brain. 
 
 I asked the poet one summer eve, 
 
 Alone in the spell of his thought, 
 For the form that over his fancy stole. 
 
 The shadow his spirit sought; 
 With a mournful voice he rose to tell 
 
 How wildly and madly he strove 
 To link his rhyme to the silver chime 
 
 Of the ringing stars above. 
 
 I asked his theme, in a musing mood, 
 
 Of the proud philosopher. 
 His soul to the shrine of Nature wed, 
 
 A votive worshiper. 
 He deigned to tell how the Beautiful 
 
 Had lured him from his birth. 
 Leading his eye afar through the sky 
 
 And over the wastes of earth. 
 
 I asked the good man, rising devout, 
 
 One eve, from his silent prayer. 
 If ever a sense of the Beautiful 
 Was his in devotion to share; 
 '"Tis the Spirit of God," was his answer meek, 
 "Abroad in the earth and sky: 
 By day and by night its blazing light 
 As a beacon to the eye." 
 
NOVEMBER. 269 
 
 I saw it then in tlie glow of a star, 
 
 In the hue of the beautiful flower, 
 Its spell abroad in the glaring day, 
 
 In the hush of the midnight hour; 
 Its image bright as a rainbow set 
 
 In the murky cloud of sight, 
 At morn and eve sent down from heaven 
 
 Its fountain of glory and light. 
 
 J. R. Barrick. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Lonesome like an' kinder dreary, 
 
 Winds a sighin', soundin' weary, 
 Leaves a fallin' everywhere. 
 
 Sadness some'ow in the air. 
 Birds so quiet — quit their singin' — 
 
 'Pears like ever' day keeps bringin' 
 Longer hours for to fill, 
 
 Heap o' time that 's hard to kill. 
 Things seem mighty plain to say, 
 " Life is passin' fast away." 
 Makes a fellow sorter blue. 
 
 Sets him thinkin', wonderin' too, 
 'Bout this fleetin' thing called life, 
 
 'Bout the death that ends the strife, 
 'Bout the friends that's come and went, 
 
 'Bout the days already spent, 
 'Bout the absent, 'bout the dead. 
 
 How they look, the words they said. 
 Winds a sighin', soundin' weary. 
 
 Lonesome like an' kinder dreary. 
 
 I/izziE Walker. 
 
270 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 VALEDICTORY. 
 
 Read at the closing meeting of the season of the Shakespearean 
 Club, at Flemingsburg, Kentucky, April, 1888. 
 
 Time moves apace, and speeds tlie moment when 
 With sad'ning words our parting comes at last; 
 And years may pass ere we shall meet again 
 As in the past. 
 
 Some eye of beauty may be dimmed in death; 
 
 Some tuneful tongue forever hushed and still; 
 Some mirthful heart, now stirred by playful breath, 
 Lie mute and still. 
 
 Though one by one we fall, like autumn leaves 
 
 From woodland boughs, tall oak, and creeping vine, 
 As Death moves on to gather home his sheaves 
 From Love's pure shrine, 
 
 Yet still to those who hold to memory dear 
 
 The past, with all its lights and shadows gone, 
 Some beams of joyous sunshine reappear 
 To cheer us on. 
 
 From mem'ry's page, O let the hand of Time 
 
 No line erase — no dark'ning shadows cast 
 O'er childhood's grave, o'er manhood's glorious prime — 
 The buried past! 
 
 Throw wide the book — close not the simple page, 
 
 However marred by some ungrateful pen, 
 As mem'ries sweet retrace the steps of age 
 To youth again. 
 
 What though we gaze upon life's sweetest cup, 
 
 And see, far down the lengthened space of years, 
 Youth's bright and sunny hours come bubbling up 
 Through smiles and tears; 
 
VALEDICTORY. 371 
 
 What though, as yet we live each moment o'er, 
 Ivong shadows creep adown the beaten track. 
 And spirit-voices fling from yonder shore 
 Sad echoes back. 
 
 Does not the rainbow span the sunlit storm — 
 The rosy morn move in the wake of night — 
 The stars their nightly office stiU perform 
 Of love and light? 
 
 Does not the shade to happy sunshine yield, 
 And to our weary steps its mantle spread, 
 And night, alike o'er meadow, heath, and field, 
 Her dew-drops shed? 
 
 The green oasis 'mid the scorching plain 
 
 With welcome greets the weary traveler's eye. 
 And cooling shades and gurgling streams again 
 His thirst supply. 
 
 Then why despair? Why tune the burthened heart 
 
 To songs of sadness, bitterness, and woe? 
 Since sweetest strains in choral accents start 
 From long ago. 
 
 By faded lines with eager hands we trace 
 
 The steps that mark the path of youth to age. 
 And meet with joy some long-forgotten face 
 On mem'ry's page; 
 
 And so, in dreams, to life again recall 
 
 The scenes we loved — bright childhood's sunny hours — 
 And gilded hopes — and blooming over all, 
 lyife's sweetest flowers. 
 
 For here and there, as down the path we stray 
 
 And catch upon the breeze their sweet perfume. 
 Among the thorns that choke the narrow way 
 Some flowers bloom. 
 
272 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 The merry laugh — the groan of age — the breath 
 Of rosy spring — the chill of wintry blast — 
 The morn of life — the twilight eve of death, 
 Come flitting past. 
 
 Though pleasures here may thrill us with delight, 
 
 And future hopes like shadows come and go, 
 Remember this: Each day must have its night 
 For weal or woe. 
 
 And scanning thus our lives, this lesson then 
 We learn, whate'er we hope to do or dare, 
 Our lives are not alone what we have been. 
 But what we are. 
 
 'Mid saddest grief, the very tears we shed 
 
 Are but the dew-drops of the heart's pure love. 
 That strengthen hope, and lift the heart and head 
 To thoughts above. 
 
 If hard the task, as o'er life's course we run. 
 If by Thy hand we feel the chast'ning rod, 
 Then be it so — Thy will, not ours, be done 
 On earth, O God. 
 
 Then let us each with energy anew 
 
 Resume the toils allotted to our sphere, 
 Resolved our daily course of life pursue 
 With happy cheer; 
 
 And profit by whatever here we 've gained 
 
 Of Friendship, Truth, Intelligence, and Love ; 
 To Honor true, in Virtue's cause sustained 
 By Heaven above. 
 
 That when at last, life's toils and cares are done, 
 
 And all we are is veiled to mortal ken. 
 Our souls with well-earned Christian honors won, 
 May meet again. 
 
IWGRHiVL CROCKETT, 
 
CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 273 
 
 And answer to the name of each, enrolled 
 
 Upon the book of life; to live and be 
 Where Truth and I^ight supernal shall unfold 
 Eternity. 
 
 So then to Truth and Honor let us live; 
 
 To Faith and Hope forever firm and true; 
 As each fond heart in Friendship's ties receive 
 
 A kind Adieu. 
 
 M. M. Tbager. 
 
 CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 
 
 Tranquil and eager-eyed, 
 
 The solitary pride 
 Of lonely garden-walks and leafless bowers, 
 Smiling where buried lie the summer flowers. 
 
 Ye were not once so fair, 
 
 Your smiles were not so rare. 
 Before Jack Frost, with bitter, blighting breath. 
 Had kissed your fragile sisters to their death. 
 
 The leafless maples spread 
 
 Their white arms overhead, 
 And, hopping in and out, the friendly sparrow 
 Chirps out his praise to you, to them his sorrow. 
 
 Thus on life's common way 
 
 Of toil and tempest they 
 Shine brightest in the end, who dauntless stand. 
 Bidding defiance to Fate's ruthless hand. 
 
 Mattie N. Brown. 
 
 18 
 
274 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS PANSY. 
 
 I CHiDBD thee but now, sweet flower, that thou hast dared 
 
 to bloom, 
 To shed a gleam of radiance o'er summer-beauty's tomb, 
 To come amid the darkness, the rain, and wintry sleet, 
 A sign, the joyous impress of the Christmas Angel's feet. 
 
 There is an ancient legend, these violets have their birth 
 Where'er the feet of angels have touched the darkened 
 
 earth; 
 If so, my garden flower-bed is henceforth holy ground, 
 For there these angel foot -prints at Christmas have been 
 
 found. 
 
 Thou pretty little trembler, caught 'neath our alien skies, 
 Thou'st wandered from the gardens of the golden Paradise, 
 And it is thy sweet mission to bring to one of earth 
 The hallowed recollections of the gentle Savior's birth. 
 
 The wintry winds are coldly rude to smite thy velvet cheek, 
 To freeze the pearly tear-drop in thine eye so softly meek; 
 But more rude are they to thee, fair summer's orphan 
 
 flower. 
 Than was this life to Jesus from his earliest mortal hour. 
 
 'Tis said some sisters of thy race sprang from the holy sod. 
 Where Jesus in his agony was bowed before his God, 
 And as in loving sympathy, expectant, near they stood. 
 Their tender leaves were sprinkled with the fearful sweat of 
 blood. 
 
 Empurpled by these priceless drops, the meek -eyed angel- 
 flower 
 
 Has worn its robe of mourning since that midnight's awful 
 hour. 
 
 And always is it cherished now the dearer for the stain. 
 
 Which brings to mind His agony. His undeserved pain. 
 
DEATH— A LIVING KING. 275 
 
 Heart's Ease ! the name of all thy names the dearest to my 
 
 heart, 
 What tender recollections thy presence doth impart! 
 Tjrpe of the everlasting Love, which 'mid the wintriest 
 
 gloom 
 
 Shows to the soul a cheering glimpse of life beyond the 
 
 tomb. 
 
 Florence Anderson Clark. 
 
 DEATH— A LIVING KING. 
 
 A DAY is done; 
 The sun adown the west 
 
 Will light another day begun. 
 While this doth sleep and rest. 
 
 A love is done; 
 The heart with its bequest 
 
 Will cheer another love begun, 
 While this doth sleep and rest. 
 
 A life is done; 
 The soul so oft oppressed 
 
 Will crown another life begun. 
 While this doth sleep and rest. 
 
 Then whyfore sad? 
 Each day, each love, each strife, 
 
 Though hid from view, still maketh glad 
 Some other form of life. 
 
 Anna J. Hamilton. 
 
276 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 IN LOOKING ON THE HAPPY AUTUMN FIELDS. 
 
 Ah, happy fields, at rest from fruitfulness ! 
 No careless storm of the ungentle Spring 
 Uptore your venturing roots, nor pierced the sting 
 
 Of spiteful frost your early promises. 
 
 The skies were blue above you. With caress 
 Of gentlest beams the sun lured you to bring 
 Your blushing blossoms forth, and from the wing 
 
 Of night were shaken dews their thirst to bless. 
 For shadows had ye but the bounteous clouds 
 
 That, passing, spanned you with the arch of hope; 
 No canker-worms made of your leaves their shrouds. 
 
 Nor envious hand sowed tares on every slope. 
 And now the jocund harvesters have blest you. 
 Ye happy fields, that from your labors rest you. 
 
 Kind Heaven! so order the uncertain days 
 Of my brief mortal season, so defend 
 From frost and drought and tempest, so befriend 
 
 With sun and dew, and bows of promise raise. 
 
 So temper to me all the cold world's ways 
 That not in vain my toiling strength I spend, 
 But come in ripeness to the perfect end. 
 
 And be at rest in life's autumnal haze! 
 Nought were it then upon the heart to take 
 
 The ice of death and in it lie entombed, 
 As when on you the snows of winter break. 
 
 Ye mourn not for the spring-time when ye bloomed. 
 Ah! let me know the harvesters have blest me, 
 Ere I from all my labor come to rest me ! 
 
 James Lane Allen. 
 
BUILDING CASTLES. 2TJ 
 
 BUILDING CASTLES. 
 
 I SIT me where the fire-light's glare 
 
 Before my vision dances, 
 And castles fair build high in air, 
 
 Adorned with idle fancies. 
 My wife so true and children two 
 
 Sit by my side unheeding — 
 Content are they, with naught to say, 
 
 Some pleasant stories reading. 
 
 And fairer days shed brighter rays 
 
 Athwart my dreamy vision; 
 Sweet prospects rife crown all my life, 
 
 Through golden fields Elysian. 
 In wreaths and curls the smoke it whirls 
 
 In shapely forms around me ; - 
 From my pipe of clay I puff away. 
 
 Redoubled joys surround me — 
 
 Amid the daze of smoke and blaze. 
 
 My heavy eyelids closing. 
 As Morpheus plays in luring ways. 
 
 And sets me all a-dozing; 
 To my surprise I ope my eyes,. 
 
 For some one I hear calling — 
 And rousing me, what do I see. 
 
 But all my castles falling. 
 
 ALFRED W. Harris. 
 
278 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 DREAMY SEPTEMBER. 
 
 The work of the year seemeth ended, 
 
 And Nature is taking a rest, 
 As she sleeps through this dreamy September, 
 
 With hands folded loose on her breast. 
 
 The great busy loom of the spring-time 
 
 In indolent silence doth stay; 
 No threads of a leaf to be woven 
 
 Are wound on its shuttle to-day; 
 
 No buds to be chiseled or polished. 
 
 Or carved into eloquent grace — 
 And the tools are so quietly hanging. 
 
 No sign of their presence we trace. 
 
 Scarce a breath stirs the infinite stillness 
 
 Of the languorous, luminous air — 
 E'en the fall of a shadow might startle 
 
 The silence so golden and rare. 
 
 'Tis delicious, oh, dreamy September, 
 To fall in with thy sweet, restful mood 
 
 And attune all my soul to the quiet 
 With which every day is imbued. 
 
 To sit with my hands idly folded. 
 
 Forgetting to dust or to sweep, 
 To drive every care from my bosom. 
 
 And rock all my sorrows to sleep; 
 
 To cherish the idlest of fancies. 
 
 And think through a portal of rose. 
 
 With naught to disturb the Elysian 
 I find in this perfect repose. 
 
 BEi,i,E Wilson Stapp. 
 
A DASH THROUGH THE LINES. 279 
 
 A DASH THROUGH THE LINES. 
 
 A ROYAL night for the row before us, 
 The moon goes down in a bank of cloud, 
 
 One star to westward trembles o'er us. 
 Wrapped like a corpse in its pallid shroud. 
 
 The lamp burns dim in the fisher's dwelling 
 
 Filled with the Southern refugees; 
 Hist! to the cannon's thunder swelling 
 
 Far away on the tired breeze. 
 
 I can hear the creek's black waters lapping 
 The sandy beach and the wooded shores. 
 
 And the dying wind like a night-bird flapping 
 Its dusky wings o'er the idle oars. 
 
 Five miles off is the wide, wide river — 
 
 Five miles off the Potomac flood ; 
 I can scarcely tell why I pause and shiver. 
 
 Dragging the boat up out of the mud. 
 
 'T is a risky thing we 're about, old fellow, 
 
 Deserters afloat on the river wide. 
 Where the gunboats peer, with their eyes so yellow, 
 
 lyike panthers loose on the sullen tide. 
 
 'T is the last, last time I shall venture over. 
 Risking my neck for the gold so bright — 
 
 Just one long whiff of the Maryland clover. 
 One last dash through the lines to-night. 
 
 lyift up the lantern and hold it steady; 
 
 Call out the women, the children, too ; 
 The moon is down and the boat is ready. 
 
 But the blockade running is yet to do. 
 
 All aboard ! Push off now quickly, 
 We must hug the shore till the river shines. 
 
 Look, where those lights burn pale and sickly. 
 Over there are the Union lines. 
 
28o BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 I can see the river straight before us; 
 
 Muffle the oars, nor cry, nor speak. 
 Let us hurry on, through the darkness o'er us, 
 
 Into the river and out of the creek. 
 
 Woman, hush ! there are foes behind us. 
 The wolves are seeking their prey abroad: 
 
 Quiet the children or death will find us — 
 For you the water, for me the cord. 
 
 Hist! 'tis only the black waves creeping 
 Under the stern of our trusty boat. 
 
 The Yankee gunners must all be sleeping 
 To leave us here on the tide afloat. 
 
 God be thanked, we are half way over ! 
 
 Near at hand are the welcome shores. 
 I can smell the blooms of the Maryland clover; 
 
 Row for the land, now bend to the oars. 
 
 Haste, make haste, ere the gray dawn whitens 
 Over the east, for I dreamt last night 
 
 I walked through a land that no beam e'er lightens, 
 With a troop of spectres gaunt and white. 
 
 I must reach the shore but to look once only 
 
 On a face upraised to the skies above; 
 'Mid the green woods there, in her cottage lonely, 
 Waiting to greet me, is she I love. 
 
 She — there 's a light — hush, hush, no screaming ; 
 
 Keep quite still in your places here; 
 'Tis the lamp from a prowling gunboat gleaming 
 Over the waters far and near. 
 
 Make for the land — strike out — they've seen us. 
 
 Zip! 'twas a cannon's deadly hiss, 
 But there's many a watery gap between us — 
 
 They may fire again — so they fire and miss. 
 
THE INGLESIDE. 281 
 
 They 're bearing down on us sure and steady, 
 
 Zip, zip, zip — how the water boils ! 
 Crouch, so the next shot finds us ready — 
 
 A few strong pulls and we 'scape their toils. 
 
 We'll hurry in where the bank curves under 
 That fringe of trees whose long boughs enlace; 
 
 Then, while their cannon boom and thunder, 
 We'll seek the woods for our hiding-place. 
 
 A few more strokes and we leave the river; 
 
 The land lies there where the long waves swell; 
 God! how the balls ricochet and shiver 
 
 Till the air is strong with the powder's smell. 
 
 One stroke more — oh, my God ! 't is over ! 
 
 That last shot told ; ah, they aimed aright ! 
 Good-bye to the Maryland fields of clover. 
 
 And — tell her — I can not — come — to-night. 
 
 Ei:,viRA Sydnor Miller. 
 
 THE INGLESIDE. 
 
 It's rare to see the morning bleeze. 
 
 Like a bonfire frae the sea; 
 It's fair to see the burnie kiss 
 
 The lip o' the flowery lee; 
 An' fine it is on green hillside. 
 
 When hums the hinny bee; 
 But rarer, fairer, finer fair 
 
 Is the ingleside to me. 
 
 Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, 
 
 The birds may fill the tree. 
 An' haughs hae a' the scented ware 
 
 That simmer's growth can gie; 
 But the cantie hearth where cronies meet. 
 
 An' the darling o' our e'e. 
 That makes to us a warld complete, 
 
 O, the ingleside 's for me. 
 
 Hew AiNSiriE. 
 
283 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 Once more the golden harp is strung, 
 
 Attuned to joy and welcome cheer; 
 The voice of Love, the tuneful tongue 
 
 To Friendship sweet — to mem'ry dear, 
 The light and blithesome heart of youth — 
 
 Sweet dreams and hopes of long ago — 
 The pledge of Friendship, Love, and Truth, 
 
 With all its measured numbers flow. 
 
 Now gently touch that harp once more — 
 
 Call forth the sweet, melodious strain; 
 Faint echoes from the distant shore, 
 
 Restored to Love and life again. 
 As vespers on the light winds play. 
 
 Each joyous note, each gentle trill. 
 Like angel voices far away. 
 
 Comes floating down through mem'ry still. 
 
 Here, fifty years ago to-night. 
 
 Those notes did hope and joy awake, 
 And Heaven two hearts in one unite 
 
 Till Heaven the silken cord should break; 
 And here again, at Love's pure shrine. 
 
 Those hearts, still faithful, constant, true. 
 About each brow fresh laurels twine. 
 
 And o'er life's path fresh flowers strew. 
 
 And as the joyous echoes start 
 
 From far-off whispers, soft and low, 
 We see again here rolled apart 
 
 The faded scroll of long ago; 
 And here, upon the sacred page. 
 
 As each fond hope renewed appears. 
 The bloom of youth, the frosts of age 
 
 Attest the lengthened flight of years. 
 
THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 283 
 
 Old age, far down the slopes of time — 
 
 Mid age upon the heights above — 
 Stem youth, in manhood's early prime — 
 
 Sweet prattling innocence and love ; 
 I^ohg-cherished friends of other days — 
 
 Strong hearts, untouched by grief or fear — 
 Gay, joyous mirth, sweet songs of praise, 
 
 With beauty's bloom are mingled here. 
 
 How sweet, when mem'ry steals along 
 
 Where life's cool murmuring waters flow, 
 To hear once more the rapturous song 
 
 That thrilled us fifty years ago; 
 To call, in beauteous visions, up 
 
 Again each well-remembered face 
 Of those who pledged to us the cup 
 
 Of joy through life's eventful race. 
 
 To live those hallowed moments o'er 
 
 When first our plighted faith was given, 
 And sealed with solemn vows before 
 
 The bright eternal courts of Heaven. 
 To look beyond where first began 
 
 I/ife's toils, its sorrows, griefs, and fears. 
 And measure but a single span 
 
 To bridge the tide of fifty years. 
 
 But sweeter is it far to dwell. 
 
 With furrowed cheek and care-worn brow, 
 Upon each word, as lisping fell 
 
 From trembling lips the nuptial vow; 
 To breathe those sacred words again, 
 
 And know still, ere life's sun is set. 
 The hearts we pledged each other then 
 
 Are faithful to each other yet. 
 
 M. M. TeaGER. 
 
284 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 Harness me down with your iron bands, 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the power of your puny hands 
 
 As the tempest scorns a chain. 
 How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boast of human might. 
 
 And the pride of human power. 
 
 When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas. 
 Creeping along, a snail-like band. 
 
 Or waiting the wayward breeze; 
 When I marked the peasant faintly reel 
 
 With the toil which he daily bore. 
 As he feebly turned the tardy wheel 
 
 Or tugged away at the oar; 
 
 When I measured the panting, courser's speed. 
 
 The flight of the carrier dove. 
 As they bore the law of a king decreed. 
 
 Or the lines of impatient love, 
 I could not but think how the world would feel 
 
 As these were outstripp'd afar. 
 When I should be bound to the rushing keel 
 
 Or chained to the flying car. 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last; 
 
 They invited me forth at length; 
 And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast. 
 
 And laughed in my iron strength. 
 O then ye saw a wondrous change, 
 
 On the earth and the ocean wide. 
 Where now my fiery armies range, 
 
 Nor wait for wind nor tide. 
 
THE SONG OF STEAM. 285 
 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the waters o'er, 
 
 The mountain's steep decline, 
 Time — space — have yielded to my power; 
 
 The world! the world is mine! 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, 
 
 Or those where his beams decline, 
 The giant streams of the queenly West, 
 
 Or the Orient floods divine. 
 
 The ocean pales where'er I sweep — 
 
 I hear my strength rejoice; 
 And the monsters of the briny deep 
 
 Cower, trembling, at my voice. 
 I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, 
 
 The thoughts of his god-like mind; 
 The mind lags after my going forth, 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 
 
 My tireless arm doth play. 
 Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, 
 
 Or the dawn of the glorious day; 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden caves below, 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength are made; 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint ; 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
 And all of my doings I put into print 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I 've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay. 
 
 No bones to be "laid on the shelf," 
 And soon I intend you may "go and play," 
 
 While I manage this world myself. 
 
386 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 But harness me down with your iron bands, 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the power of your puny hands 
 
 As the tempest scorns a chain. 
 
 George w. Cutter. 
 
 A BUNCH OF MAGNOLIAS. 
 
 He; gathered a bunch of poems 
 From a garden in the sky. 
 
 And they were flower poems 
 That came from oh, so high! 
 
 He gave one to a lady, 
 Because her slender hand 
 
 Seemed made to hold a poem 
 That came from blossom-land. 
 
 And one went to a prison. 
 And a sweet message took — 
 
 One far away is dreaming. 
 Its smile pressed in a book. 
 
 One, filled with angel whispers. 
 He to my boudoir gave. 
 
 And one weeps in his memory. 
 Its face hid on — a grave. 
 
 Katydid. 
 
RAPTURES. 387 
 
 RAPTURES. 
 
 PROCUL ESTE PROFANA. 
 
 While youth in blooming Spring invites 
 To warm embraces, sweet delights, 
 
 I '11 yield to nature's voice, 
 I '11 clasp my dear Narcissa, press'd 
 Close to my love-enraptured breast 
 
 In mutual melting joys. 
 
 From flowery vales and verdant trees 
 The genial gales and balmy breeze 
 
 O'er worlds enchanted move. 
 And nature all around conspires 
 To kindle all the soft desires 
 
 Into a flame of love. 
 
 And can that fascinating frame 
 A cold, unfeeling heart contain 
 
 Which passions never move; 
 A heart unform'd the joys to know 
 Which from the thrills and transports flow 
 
 Of life-entrancing love. 
 
 No, the dear image of that day, 
 When in her circling arms I lay 
 
 In ecstasy divine. 
 May something more than hope impart. 
 It tells my fondly fluttering heart 
 
 She will be ever mine. 
 
 Each fond endearment of every kiss 
 Is present joy — and promised bliss — 
 
 From my all-yielding bride, 
 While fancy's fairy power employs 
 The dear remembrance of past joys, 
 
 As pledge for joy untried. 
 
 Wii,i,iam: Littei<i<. 
 "Festoons 0/ Fancy." 
 
288 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 EVENING THOUGHTS. 
 
 Most beautiful is the dark midnight sky: 
 Above ten thousand worlds in grandeur roll, 
 Hymning their Author's praise in anthems sweet 
 And high. The pulses of our being throb 
 In solemn awe ; we tremble, and our life 
 Seems but a thought of the Eternal Mind 
 That formed this glorious scene of wonder, light, 
 And majesty. 
 
 Beneath and all around 
 What silence and what beauty! On each flower 
 There hangs a drop of silver dew serene 
 And bright and trembling, while a zephyr cool 
 Soothes it to slumber with her gentle wing. 
 
 And now a soft, low music thrill floats out 
 
 Upon the air, so dim, so faint, we still 
 
 Our breathing, lest we lose the echoing 
 
 Of its strange sweetness. O'er the lake's bright waves 
 
 The airy zephyr lingers long to kiss 
 
 The stars that tremble there, like bright, glad thoughts. 
 
 Which struggle from the imprisoned soul to leap 
 
 Up to the fount of all true beauty, love. 
 
 And holiness. 
 
 How softly rests the moon's 
 Calm smile on yonder sweet and grassy slope, 
 Where 'neath the cypress dear I^eoi-a sleeps : 
 Her life was like the rose-bud but half blown. 
 Within whose fragrant breast the poison worm 
 Ivies hid; or like a harp, whose strings were tuned 
 To notes of joy, but which a careless hand 
 Too rudely broke. She faded gently, like 
 The bright close of a peaceful summer day. 
 And 'mid the flowers we laid the fair young head 
 Which once was fairer than themselves. 
 
 Ah, life 
 Is a most fearful thing. Our being may 
 
.i3_£5t^'^ 
 
SONG. 289 
 
 But seem a gentle star-beam flashing o'er 
 Time's rushing waters, but its light will guide 
 "With fearful truth the frail and tossing bark 
 Of many wanderers o'er life's mystic sea. 
 Bright be our guidance then, and tho' our song 
 May be but faint and low, it yet may wake 
 Within some heart a happy dream, and bid 
 Sweet flowers of hope to softly bloom again 
 With dewy freshness in some saddened breast. 
 
 jBNNiE T. McHenry. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A GENTLE wind, unvoiced. 
 
 Along its viewless way. 
 By chance smote on a Lily bell 
 
 Wherein a Dew-drop lay; 
 The drop in perfumed fragments fell, 
 
 And whispering in my ears. 
 The Spring wind sigh'd and sweetly said, 
 "I've kissed a Beauty's tears." 
 
 II. _ 
 
 That wind was as my thought. 
 
 Which wandered here and there, 
 Loving, but restless not to find 
 
 A love-shrine anywhere, 
 Till smiting on thy love-dewed heart 
 
 The spell of silence broke, 
 
 And through the chambers of my soul 
 
 Exquisite music woke. 
 
 J. V. Cosby. 
 
 19 
 
ago BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 THE BOATMAN'S HORN. 
 
 O, Boatman! wind that liorn again, 
 
 For never did the listening air 
 
 Upon its lambent bosom bear 
 So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain! 
 
 What though thy notes are sad and few. 
 By every simple boatman blown, 
 
 Yet is each pulse to nature true. 
 And melody in every tone. 
 
 How oft in boyhood's joyous day. 
 Unmindful of the lapsing hours, 
 
 I 've loitered on my homeward way 
 By wild Ohio's bank of flowers; 
 
 "While some lone boatman from the deck 
 Poured his soft numbers to that tide. 
 
 As if to charm from storm and wreck 
 The boat where all his fortunes ride. 
 
 Delighted, Nature drank the sound. 
 
 Enchanted, Echo bore it 'round. 
 
 In whispers soft and softer still. 
 
 From hill to plain and plain to hill, 
 
 Till e'en the thoughtless frolic boy. 
 
 Elate with hope and wild with joy. 
 
 Who gamboled by the river's side 
 
 And sported with the fretting tide, 
 
 Feels something new pervade his breast. 
 
 Change his light steps, repress his jest. 
 
 Bends o'er the flood his eager ear. 
 
 To catch the sounds far off, yet dear — 
 
 Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why 
 
 The tear of rapture fills his eye. 
 
 And can he now, to manhood grown. 
 
 Tell why those notes, simple and lone. 
 
 As on the ravished ear they fell. 
 
 Bind every sense in magic spell? 
 
 There is a tide of feeling given 
 
TWILIGHT IN KENTUCKY. zgi 
 
 To all on earth — its fountain heaven — 
 Beginning with the dewy flower 
 Just ope'd in Flora's vernal bower, 
 Rising creation's orders through, 
 With louder murmur, brighter hue. 
 That tide is sympathy. Its ebb and flow 
 Give life its hues, its joy and woe. 
 Music, the master spirit that can move 
 Its waves to war or lull them into love. 
 Can cheer the sinking sailor 'mid the wave. 
 And bid the warrior on, nor fear the grave. 
 Inspire the fainting pilgrim on his road 
 And elevate his soul to claim his God. 
 Then boatman wind that horn again; 
 Though much of sorrow mark its strain, 
 Yet are its notes to sorrow dear; 
 What though they wake fond memory's tear. 
 Tears are sad memory's sacred feast. 
 And rapture oft her chosen guest. 
 
 Wm. O. Buti,er. 
 
 TWILIGHT IN KENTUCKY. 
 
 The day was weary and upon the West 
 Had leaned. 
 Night held one star aloft. 
 And slow and soft 
 
 The twilight screened 
 The sun for Nature's rest. 
 
 How gently came repose — a whisper bold 
 Of song 
 From a near woodland bird 
 Was all we heard, 
 
 Save where a throng 
 Of lambs cried for the fold. 
 
292 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Across the field the weary farmer sped 
 
 Knee deep 
 In rye; behind him lay 
 Fresh furrows — Day 
 
 Smiles though asleep 
 
 And points him to his bed. 
 
 Katydid. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 We stood beside the window — 
 
 It was the very same 
 Where years ago together 
 
 We wrote each other's name. 
 I listened for the dear words 
 
 I used to hear from thee — 
 I listened, but there came not 
 
 One loving word for me. 
 
 I looked into the blue depths 
 
 Of those beloved eyes ; 
 I longed to. see them glisten 
 
 With thoughts of former ties. 
 I looked, but oh! they spoke not 
 
 The tenderness of old; 
 I thought my very heart-strings 
 
 Would break, they were so cold. 
 
 My hand, I laid it gently — 
 
 How gently! — on to thine; 
 I thought its pulse beat quicker; 
 
 I thought it answered mine. 
 But no, there was no pressure; 
 
 My dream of bliss was o'er; 
 I knew the spell was broken — 
 
 That I was loved no more. 
 
 FoRTUNATus Cosby. 
 
THE BLUEBIRD. 293 
 
 THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 Though Winter's power fades away, 
 
 The tyrant does not yield; 
 But still he holds a waning sway 
 
 O'er hill and grove and field. 
 
 But while he still is lingering, 
 
 Some lovely days appear-^ 
 Bright heralds from the train of Spring, 
 
 To tell that she is near. 
 
 It is as if a day of heaven 
 
 Had fallen from on high, 
 And God's own smiles for sunlight given 
 
 Were beaming through the sky. 
 
 The bluebird now with joyous note 
 
 His song of welcome sings; 
 Joy swells melodious in his throat; 
 
 Joy quivers in his wings. 
 
 No cunning show of art severe. 
 
 But soft and low his lay — 
 A sunbeam shining to the ear — 
 
 Spring's softest, brightest ray. 
 
 Those magic tones call from the past 
 
 The sunny hours of youth; 
 And shining hopes come thronging fast 
 
 From worlds of love and truth. 
 
 The harmony is seen and heard, 
 
 For notes and rays combine. 
 And joys and hopes and sun and bird 
 
 All seem to sing and shine. 
 
 NOBtE BUTI^ER. 
 
294 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 TO WHITTIER, 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-SIXTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 How lightly falls the snow of age 
 Upon the whitening locks of one 
 
 Who, be he poet, priest, or sage. 
 Can say, at life's declining sun: 
 " Master, from that thou gavest me, 
 
 A hundred-fold I bring to thee." 
 
 That heart retains its freshness still. 
 Though time-worn be its house of clay. 
 
 That like some calm and shaded rill 
 Keeps ever singing on its way, 
 
 "While all around it storm and strife 
 
 Rage fiercely on the shore of life. 
 
 Thus, Poet, on thine honored head 
 The snow of age doth gently fall. 
 
 And thou mayst seek thy restful bed 
 When Death's resistless voice shall call. 
 
 Wrapped close in tender dreams, as one 
 
 Assured the day's work was well done. 
 
 How like an evergreen thy heart. 
 
 Retaining all its verdure still, 
 Though long ago did spring depart 
 
 And leave thee to the winter's chill; 
 Yet, resting on its foliage green. 
 Is summer's lingering beauty seen. 
 
 Ah! soft and sweet thy melodies 
 
 Shall sound through many a troubled heart; 
 
 Though tuneless then, the silent keys 
 On which thy hand hath played its part. 
 
 Chords from thy music-soul shall be 
 
 Thus wafted to eternity. 
 
TIVO SONGS. 295 
 
 Beloved Poet, though my song 
 With rhythmic flow charm not thine ear, 
 
 From all the world's applauding throng 
 Thou ne'er hadst tribute more sincere. 
 
 Accept these words, that would express 
 
 To thee a heart's deep tenderness. 
 
 Mrs. W. p. McDoweli,. 
 
 TWO SONGS. 
 
 "I '1,1, make my song so grand and high — 
 So high," he said, " that those who hear 
 WiU stand and gaze into the sky. 
 As on a soaring bird they fear 
 That earthward turns. 
 And where some planet shines alone 
 
 My song shall sit, and those who see 
 Will say the star has higher grown. 
 And all, perchance, because of me 
 It brighter burns." 
 
 "And I would stay close to the grass — 
 
 So near that a sweet child could kiss 
 
 My song," she said, " where those who pass 
 
 Would brush its bloom, and I could miss 
 
 One fragrance less. 
 
 I 'd have my song so sweet, its wing 
 
 So fragile yet so perfect wrought. 
 
 That both would seem some spirit thing 
 
 Of comfort, down from Heaven brought 
 
 For men to bless." 
 
 Katydid. 
 
296 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 GENTLENESS : A SONNET.* 
 
 Far in mid-ocean rose a rugged cliff. 
 
 Seas lashed its feet in fury; storm and wind 
 
 Roared round its wrinkled head, hoarse, cold, unkind. 
 
 Flocks of wild sea-birds flying over, stiff 
 
 And stark fell headlong down, their life resigned. 
 
 Dark vapors rolled about its hoary height 
 
 In murky density. There suns glowered pale; 
 
 Nor moon nor stars came in the shadowed night 
 
 To vex its solitude. In the far flight 
 
 Of time men came, and with an iron hail 
 
 Of cannon 'gainst this crag did thundering ring. 
 
 The rock disdainful stood. At last a flower. 
 
 The asphodel, waif on a zephyr's wing. 
 
 Touched it in love. It trembled to love's power. 
 
 ■Wii<i,iAM J. Davis. 
 
 * Ptolemy Hephestion, in his geography of the world, tells of a rock in the 
 ocean, famous in his day, which, shaped like a huge inverted cone and resting 
 on a narrow foundation, resisted the violence of winds and waves, and all human 
 efforts to destroy its equilibrium, but was shaken to its center when its surface 
 was touched by the little flower called asphodel. 
 
MARCUS BLflKEY flLLMOND. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
BIOGRAPMICAL SKETCHES 
 
 OF AUTHORS REPRESENTED IN THIS VOLUME. 
 
 PROFESSOR MARCUS BLAKEY ALLMOND, A. M. 
 
 Born in Stanardsville, Virginia, 1851. Married Miss Virginia Carey 
 Meade, of that State, -who is the real heroine of his poem "Estelle." 
 President Noah Porter, of Yale College, wrote him a very compliment- 
 ary letter upon this, his longest poem, in which letter he says: "It is 
 sweet in its spirit, lovely in its picture, and admirably felicitous in its 
 diction. What could I say more? and I should not say less, if I say 
 any thing." Professor AUmond held the chair of Ancient Languages 
 in the Male High School of Louisville, Kentucky, for several years, 
 and is now President of the University School in that city. He was 
 magazine medalist at the University of Virginia, of which institution 
 he is a graduate. * » * 
 
 HEW AINSLIE 
 
 Was born in Scotland in 1792. When Sir Walter Scott, James Hogg, 
 and others were making Scotland a " hunting field" after her " ancient 
 minstrelsie," he was a clerk in the Register House, Edinburgh. In 1822 
 Mr. Ainslie emigrated to America and settled in the then "far West," 
 making his home in Louisville. In 1855 he published a volume of 
 poems in his mother tongue, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and 
 Poems." He died in Louisville. » i^ 
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN. 
 
 The friends who know Mr. Allen best say that his full strength is 
 yet untried, that the best in him is yet untold, and that with health 
 and time he will give it permanent artistic shape. He has already won 
 the first place among American short-story writers. An English critic 
 compares him to Washington Irving, another to Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 He has written less poetry than prose, and always takes a modest view 
 of his own work. By birth, rearing, and education Mr. Allen is a Ken- 
 tuckian. He was born near Lexington, Kentucky, on a bluegrass farm 
 not far from the spot where the generations of his family had lived 
 since the first emigration from Virginia. Mr. Allen began his career as 
 a writer several years ago in Harper's Monthly and The Century, with 
 a series of articles descriptive of life, character, and social institutions 
 
300 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 in Kentucky. He has continued to be a favorite with those magazines, 
 and has an article in one or both nearly every month. His beautiful 
 story of " The Flute and The Violin " is illustrated and sold in book 
 form, and one could not conceive of a more exquisite story. 
 
 Sarah H. Henton. 
 JOSEPH ALLGOOD 
 
 Is connected with The Bradley and Gilbert Company, of Louisville, 
 and is very modest as to his ability as a writer, yet his poems are seen 
 in all the leading newspapers, and he certainly has many friends who 
 admire his unaffected style. » „ 
 
 JAMES R. BARRICK 
 
 Was born in Barren County, Kentucky, in 1829. Attended Urania 
 College at Glasgow. Began to write poetry at an early age, and was a 
 frequent contributor to the " Poet's Corner " of the l/ouisville Journal. 
 There has never been a volume of his poems published, but his family 
 have a splendid collection ready for the press. During the Civil War 
 he went South and edited several different papers. At the time of his 
 death, which occurred April 30, 1869, he was editor of the Atlanta Con- 
 stitution. 
 
 SARAH T. BOLTON 
 
 Is now seventy- two years old ; a resident of Indianapolis, Indiana. 
 She was born in Newport, Kentucky, but became an adopted child of 
 our sister State in early girlhood, and was married at the age of sixteen 
 to Nathaniel Bolton, then editor of a paper at Madison. After marriage 
 financial reverses came, and her singing was hushed for a while. She 
 met these troubles bravely, and when the clouds passed away, as a 
 cloud passes from before the sun, and the brightness shines forth into 
 every comer, so did her sweet songs burst forth and fill all the land 
 with their radiance. During her sojourn abroad, when her husband 
 was Consul to Geneva, Switzerland, she caught the sweet influence of 
 the beauties of the country and wove them in her songs. "Lake 
 Leman,'' "Mont Blanc," and others instance this. W.D.Gallagher, 
 our venerable Kentucky poet, in writing of Mrs. Bolton, said: "She 
 sings because song is the language of her heart, and she must sing 
 or her heart must ache with its suppressed emotions." The chan- 
 nel of the Ohio River is not so broad — Mrs. Bolton has built a bridge 
 —of song. » * * 
 
 MISS ALLINE BROTHER 
 
 Is the only daughter of Dr. William Brother, of Fort Spring, Wood- 
 ford County, Kentucky. Born in the heart of the bluegrass country, 
 she combines much fresh young beauty with rare intellectual gifts. 
 Is a writer of both prose and poetry. ^i, » 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 301 
 
 MARY E. BETTS. 
 
 Mary E. Wilson-Betts -was born at Maysville, Kentucky, 1830, and 
 was married to Morgan L. Betts in 1854. She died the same year. 
 
 MATTIE N. BROWN. 
 
 Born in 1844, and reared among the romantic hills of Spencer 
 County, Kentucky. Her poetic talent developed early, and she left a 
 ■volume of poems which receive much praise. Married Salem Brown, 
 of Louisville, and died in that city, March 4, 1887. ^ ^ 
 
 STANTON PIERCE BRYAN 
 
 Was born in Spencer County, Kentucky, July 22, 1827. Is an active 
 practitioner of medicine in Oldham County, having taken a full course 
 of study in Dublin, Ireland. Married Adelaide Thomas in 1853, and 
 raised five daughters, one of whom recently died a missionary in 
 China. In the midst of his duties as a physician Dr. Bryan finds it 
 a recreation to indulge his passion for writing poetry, and finds an 
 entrance to the leading papers and magazines. ^ ^ 
 
 WILLIAM O. BUTLER. 
 
 Born in Jessamine County, Kentucky, 1793. Was a lawyer by pro- 
 fession, but enlisted in the war of 181 2. At the battle of Raisin he 
 was one of the few who escaped massacre after being wounded. Was 
 Major-General in the war with Mexico, and led the charge at Monterey. 
 In early life wrote some excellent verse. ^ ^ 
 
 NOBLE BUTLER 
 
 Was born in Pennsylvania, but became a citizen of Kentucky in 
 early life, and was identified with the schools of Louisville — teaching 
 as a profession and writing text-books — prominent among which his 
 Grammar took high rank, being adopted in all the schools. He wrote 
 much for the press, but little poetry. ^ a 
 
 MISS JENNIE CASSEDAY 
 
 Is a resident of Louisville, and her name is a household word. She 
 is extensively known for her charities. Has recently built "Rest Cot- 
 tage" at Pewee Valley, a summer home where working girls from the 
 city may spend a vacation of rest. Miss Casseday is President of the 
 Flower Mission for the Universe, and her sweet influence reaches to 
 every land; yet she has been an invalid thirty years. She composes 
 some beautiful verses and calls them " Night-time Songs." She says 
 they come to her as an inspiration in the lone, wakeful night-hours. 
 To know her is a sweet inspiration for good. # * 
 
-^oa BLADES O' SLUEGRASS. 
 
 MADISON CAWEIN. 
 
 Born in Louisville, March 23, 1865. Was graduated from the High 
 School in 1886. Has published successively "Blooms of the Berry,'" 
 " Triumph of Music," "Accolon of Gaul," " Lyrics and Idyls," and " Days 
 and Dreams." His latest volume is entitled " Moods and Memories." 
 Although a young man he has won the appreciation of such critics as 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman, W. D. Howells, Frank Dempster Sherman, 
 and James Lane Allen. James Whitcomb Riley dedicated his last book 
 of poems to Mr. Cawein, and says of him: "He is a soul as well as a 
 singer." 
 
 The following extract is from the New York World, whose literary 
 editor pays Mr. Cawein a handsome tribute : 
 
 "Mr. Cawein is a Kentuckian. To a foreigner unacquainted with 
 our geography and social latitudes that statement may mean nothing 
 more than the indication of a section with a curious name. To many 
 Americans it signifies no more than a place where quick-tempered 
 men and pretty women abound, and where the thoroughbreds prance 
 in pastures of bluegrass. The New Englander, even the Northern 
 poet, may think of Kentucky as one of the fertile divisions of the 
 Union, which may in time produce a cultured Daniel Boone. The 
 Southerner alone knows what Kentucky is, and he knows it is, as 
 Joaquin Miller would say, ' God's own country.' So, of course, from 
 Kentucky we might expect a poet to come. American poetry must 
 puzzle the less informed of our foreign readers, especially the Ger- 
 mans, and every educated German now reads our poetry. Poetry, 
 more decidedly than prose, is identified by its ' atmosphere.' How 
 confusing must our different atmospheres be to strangers. And to 
 complicate matters, here is a Southern poet with the Greece of Keats 
 in his fancy, the Italy of Rossetti in his expression, and occasionally 
 the imagination of Coleridge." 
 
 RUFUS J. CHILDRESS, 
 
 A poet of the people, was born on a small farm near Paducah, Ken- 
 tucky, in the year 1852. His fondness for literature manifested itself 
 at a very early age, and most of his spare time was spent poring over 
 ' books or setting his vagrant fancies to song. While a mere youth he 
 published a small volume of verses, the modest success of which in- 
 spired him with a desire to seek a broader field for his talents. Later 
 on, therefore, we find him at Louisville, where his contributions to the 
 local papers- speedily attracted the attention of all lovers of pure 
 thought and delicate imaginings. Though a dweller in the mart, toiling 
 unceasingly from morning till night, Mr. Childress has never ceased 
 to be an Arcadian ; his songs breathe of the woods, the green country- 
 side, blue skies, and murmuring waters, and through the smoke and 
 dust, the turmoil and striving of Babylon, the dream of these fair 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 303 
 
 things shines always starlike before him. Mr. Childress has been a 
 welcome contributor to the Courier-Journal, Belford's Magazine, the 
 Round Table, the New South, and other well-known magazines and 
 journals. A brief biography, and some of his poems also, appeared in 
 the Library of Western Song, published at Chicago. I am pleased to 
 state that he is now engaged in compiling a second volume of verse, 
 which will probably appear in the near future. Having been honored 
 with his friendship for many years, I can say nothing but what is good 
 of him. He is a devoted husband, an affectionate father, a faithful 
 friend, and upright citizen. Would there were more like him. 
 
 EtrVIRA SYDNOR MILI/ER. 
 
 FLORENCE ANDERSON CLARK 
 
 Was reared in the beautiful bluegrass region of Kentucky, where 
 nature in its fairest aspects fostered the dreamy tendencies of a poetic 
 temperament. In 1869 she was married to Captain James B. Clark, of 
 Jackson, Mississippi, who was for six years editor of The Kentucky 
 People, at Harrodsburg, Kentucky. For this paper much of Mrs. 
 Clark's literary work was done. In 1875 they removed to Austin, 
 Texas, where her husband is Librarian of the State University. 
 
 * * 
 FORTUNATUS COSBY, Jr. 
 
 Was born near the city of Louisville, May 2, 1802. He studied at 
 Transylvania University, but was graduated from Yale College. After- 
 ward studied law and was admitted to the bar, but his talents were of 
 a too versatile nature to allow him to remain loyal to that engrossing 
 profession, and we find him a clerk in the Treasury Department at 
 Washington, and subsequently, for several years, United States Consul 
 at Geneva, Switzerland. Between 1840 and 1850 he was a frequent con- 
 tributor of toth prose and verse to newspapers at Louisville, and was 
 intimately associated with the brilliant George D. Prentice, and died 
 but six months after him, June, 1871. 
 
 MRS. JENNIE JONES CUNNINGHAM 
 
 Is a native of Tennessee, but has lived in Louisville, Kentucky, for 
 sixteen years. Her poems have been readily accepted by leading 
 papers. She is well known as a writer, but lives a very quiet and rather 
 oriental life. She is the wife of J. A. Cunningham, who is the author 
 of several books on scientific and theologic research. 
 
 MRS. W. LESLIE COLLINS 
 
 Lives at Frankfort. She published a small volume of poems in 
 1888, entitled, " Sea Waifs and Other Poems." 
 
304 BLADES <9' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 REV. JOUETT VERNON COSBY. 
 
 A native of Staunton, Virginia, but for many years a citizen of 
 Bardstown, Kentucky. A theologian of note. Wrote many fugitive 
 poems, but never published a volume. 
 
 INGRAM CROCKETT. 
 
 Born at Henderson, Kentucky, 1856. His father, John W. Crock- 
 ett, was famous throughout the State for his powers of oratory. 
 His mother was a Miss Ingram, daughter of one of the early settlers 
 of Henderson. Mr. Crockett has been more successful than most 
 young writers. His poetry is eagerly sought, and he has been wel- 
 comed by the leading periodicals. In all his writing there is a quiet, 
 gentle dignity and loftiness of purpose which illustrate his " manliness 
 of soul." Mr. Crockett was married in Henderson, and is connected 
 with the Planters State Bank at that place. ^ ^ 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CUTTER 
 
 Was born in Massachusetts about 1809, and died in Washington 
 City in 1865, but he was many years a resident of Kentucky and fully 
 identified with her people. It was while commanding a company of 
 Kentuckians in the war with Mexico that he wrote his beautiful poem, 
 " Buena Vista." He practiced law for several years at Covington. His 
 poem, "The Song of Steam," is widely known. 
 
 GEORGE M. DAVIE. 
 
 George Montgomery Davie was born in Christian County, Ken- 
 tucky. Graduating at Princeton University, New Jersey, in 1868, his 
 life has since been that of a studious and laborious lawyer. He mar- 
 ried, in 1878, Ii^garet Howard, daughter of General William Preston. 
 His home is in Louisville. The exactions of professional life have for- 
 bidden him to seriously indulge his taste for literary work ; his verses 
 have been " occasional " ones, some of which have been published in 
 different periodicals. 
 
 MAJOR WILLIAM J. DAVIS 
 
 Was born in South Carolina, March 23, 1839. After finishing .his 
 education, which was both classical and military, and in both branches 
 of which he excelled, he entered the Confederate service at the begin- 
 ning of the war and continued to its close. After the war he studied 
 law and practiced for some time, but finally became engaged in educa- 
 tional and scientific pursuits. In 1877 he became Secretary of the 
 Board of Trustees of the Public Schools of Louisville, and still holds 
 that place. He is an accomplished scholar, scientist, and writer. 
 
-c^^ 
 
 f/5<^»«- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 305 
 
 MRS. MAY SMITH DOWNS. 
 
 Born in Missouri, but reared in Kentucky. A daughter of Joseph 
 W. Smith, of Glasgow. She was married in 1889 to Professor J. M. N. 
 Downs, the present Superintendent of Public Schools at Somerset. 
 
 GENERAL BASIL W. DUKE 
 
 Was born in Scott County, Kentucky, on May 28, 1837; was educated 
 at Georgetown and at Center College, and commenced the practice of 
 law in 1856 at St. Louis. His taste and talent for military life led to 
 his becoming a captain in the State Guard ; and in 1861 he gave his 
 services to the Confederacy at Bowling Green, Kentucky. His career 
 as a cavalry leader, in a line of service created by himself and General 
 Morgan, was as brilliant as it was novel in warfare. The close of the 
 war found him a Brigadier-General, with an independent command. 
 Returning to civil life with the fall of the Confederacy, he resumed 
 the practice of the law at Louisville ; served in the Kentucky Legis- 
 lature, and, as Commonwealth's Attorney for Louisville, and is now 
 one of the counsel of the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Com- 
 pany. He was married in the year 1861 to a sister of General John H. 
 Morgan. 
 
 During the war General Duke was the author of a " System of Cav- 
 alry Tactics," and, since the war, of a " History of Morgan's Command ;" 
 and for several years one of the editors, in his odd hours, of The 
 Southern Bivouac. His brilliant and versatile talents, his singularly 
 striking and high character, and his social powers and position have 
 given him an enviable place and distinction in Kentucky, p m D 
 
 REUBEN THOMAS DURRETT. 
 
 Born in Henry County, Kentucky, January 22, 1824. After two 
 years at Georgetown (Kentucky) College he went to Brown Univer- 
 sity, Providence, Rhode Island, where he graduated in 1S49. The 
 same year he entered the Law Department of the University of Louis- 
 ville and graduated with the degree of LL. B. in 1850. After thirty 
 years of successful practice at the Louisville bar he was able to retire 
 on the competency he had earned. 
 
 In his earlier years Mr. Durrett yielded to an imagination which 
 demanded the expression of thoughts in verse, and had he not ac- 
 quired distinction in other lines he might have been widely known as 
 a poet. In poetry he was exceedingly versatile, and passed from the 
 humorous to the grave with marked facility. His serious humor, how- 
 ever, predominated, and his best productions may be considered in 
 this vein. His "Night Scene at Drennon's Springs," in 1850; his 
 "Thoughts over the Grave of Rev. Thomas Smith," 1852; and his 
 "Old Year and New in the Coliseum at Rome," in 1856, each of which 
 
 20 
 
3o6 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 was published when written, are fine specimens of classic thought 
 expressed in blank verse, and entitle him to high rank among West- 
 ern poets. 
 
 It is as a prose writer, however, that Mr. Durrett will be most favor- 
 ably and most enduringly known. After retiring from the bar in 1880, 
 he devoted much of his leisure to historic studies, for which he always 
 had an inclination. His numerous historic articles, published in the 
 Courier-Journal since 1880, have been widely read and much admired 
 for their original research and the new colors with which they invested 
 important events and subjects. 
 
 In 1884 a few of his associates of similar tastes joined Mr. Durrett 
 in establishing an association in Louisville for co-operative effort in 
 the collecting and preserving and publishing of historic matter relating 
 to Kentucky. This association was named the "Filson Club," in honor 
 of John Filson, the first historian of Kentucky, and Mr. Durrett, who 
 was made its president, prepared and read the first paper before it. 
 This paper was the "Life and Times of John Filson," which was pub- 
 lished as number one of the series of Club publications. It is a quarto 
 of 132 pages, so full of original matter and so beautifully written that 
 it at once gave the Club a prominent stand among kindred associa- 
 tions. 
 
 In his literary studies Mr. Durrett has always bought the books he 
 needed, and in thus purchasing from year to year he has accumulated 
 a large and valuable library. The volumes and pamphlets and papers 
 and manuscripts upon his shelves number more than fifty thousand, 
 and he is adding to them every day. His collection embraces the best 
 works in almost every branch of human knowledge, but is particularly 
 rich in history, and especially in American history. He is so familiar 
 with his books that he can promptly lay his hands on any one of the 
 fifty thousand volumes without the aid of a catalogue ; but, better than 
 this, he is as familiar with the contents of his books as he is with their 
 location upon the shelves. 
 
 In 1852 Mr. Durrett was married to Miss Elizabeth H. Bates, the 
 only daughter of Caleb and Elizabeth {nee Humphreys) Bates, of Cin- 
 cinnati, Ohio. 
 
 Mr. Durrett, now in his sixty-eighth year, is a well preserved man 
 of health and vigor, who bids fair to be among those who, at the age 
 of seventy-six, will cross over from the nineteenth to the twentieth 
 century. He belongs to the school of old Virginia gentlemen, now so 
 rare among us, and his hospitable home is ever open to those who wish 
 to see him. His collection of books and antiquities has made him a 
 kind of show in Louisville, whither strangers as well as acquaintances 
 resort with an assurance of seeing something worth seeing and learn- 
 ing something worth learning. He is never more delighted than when 
 in his great library with one or more persons in search of information 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 307 
 
 from rare books and manuscripts. In this way most literary persons 
 
 at home and many from abroad have been placed under obligations to 
 
 him, and his constant regret is that he has not been able to do more 
 
 eood to others with his books. ,,, „ „ 
 
 ° Wm. H. Perrin. 
 
 SYDNER DYER 
 
 Was a resident of Louisville for many years, where he entered the 
 ministry of the Baptist Church. In 1845 he published his first volume 
 of poems, and a second one in 1855. He afterward became a citizen of 
 Indiana. ^ ^ ^. 
 
 ALEXANDER EVANS. 
 
 Born in Middletown, Kentucky, November 9, 1814. Engaged in 
 commercial pursuits until 1847, when he was appointed Lieutenant, 
 by President Polk, in the i6th U. S. Infantry. In 1848 the regiment 
 disbanded, and he was again in commercial life until 1861, when he 
 went South and was Major in Breckinridge's Division. Since the 
 close of the Civil War Major Evans has engaged in business pursuits 
 in Louisville until his age forced him into retirement. His poems 
 appeared in the Louisville papers as early as 1837, and from that time 
 at frequent intervals. Even at his advanced age Major Evans writes 
 beautiful verse, filled with all the bright imagery of youth. He has 
 published several books. j. ^ 
 
 MISS NANNIE MAYO FITZHUGH 
 
 Lives at Lexington, and is known as one of the most gifted writers 
 of the Bluegrass State. Her poetry is quite familiar to readers of The 
 Century, Harper, New Orleans Times, and New York Sun, and many 
 other leading periodicals publish her exquisite sonnets. Her descrip- 
 tive powers probably reach their highest limit in the beautiful poem 
 entitled "Meeting Rivers." "T'other Miss Mandy," published by Har- 
 per, has given her a national reputation. ,, 
 
 MANLIUS THOMPSON FLIPPIN. 
 
 Born in Monroe County, Kentucky. He still lives at the county- 
 seat, Tompkinsville, and is Judge of the County Court. Has recently 
 published a volume of poems. « 
 
 THOMAS B. FORD. 
 
 Born in Owen County, Kentucky, but has lived in Frankfort many 
 years. President of the Southern Literary Association and a prime 
 factor in the new literary movement of the South. His life has been 
 devoted principally to public interests. His efforts in a literary way 
 have been very successful. A drama, an opera, and several novels, 
 besides his poetry, show his versatility of talent. ^ ^ 
 
3o8 BLADES O ' BL UEGRASS. 
 
 LAURA CATHERINE FORD, 
 
 Now the wife of Dr. Hugh Smith, who was chief surgeon of the 
 famous " Orphan Brigade," lives in Owenton, Kentucky, in the same 
 county in which she was born. Is a sister of Colonel Thomas Ford. 
 She writes more prose than poetry. ^ ^ 
 
 WILLIAM W. FOSDICK 
 
 Was educated at Transylvania University, Lexington, Kentucky, 
 and after graduating there went to Louisville to pursue the study of 
 law. After completing his studies with Judge Prior he began the 
 practice of law in Covington, where he was a partner of James South- 
 gate. # , 
 
 STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER 
 
 Was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1826. Died in 1864. He 
 lived many years in Kentucky, and gave to us the " Old Kentucky 
 Home." It appears in Bryant's Library of Poetry, and every Kentuck- 
 ian can testify to its touching sentiment who has ever listened to it 
 sung in a strange land. ^ ■,, ^ n, 
 
 WILLLiM DAVIS GALLAGHER. 
 
 Born in Philadelphia, August 21, 1808. After the death of his father, 
 when he was but eight years old, his mother moved to Cincinnati. His 
 first literary work was for an agricultural paper called The Tiller. He 
 was editorially connected with many different newspapers for about 
 three-score years. With the Gazette, of Cincinnati, from 1839 to 1850, 
 and the Courier, of Louisville, from 1853 to 1854. 
 
 The characteristic of Mr. Gallagher's writings is purity of style and 
 purity of matter. A thorough search through the broad range of his 
 writings in the newspapers and periodicals for the last six and sixty 
 years may be made without finding one vulgar sentence or one im- 
 moral sentiment. The cultured gentleman and the unswerving mor- 
 alist go with his pen wherever it is used. 
 
 During the Civil War he was connected with the governmental ser- 
 vice in the Customs and the Pension Departments at Louisville. 
 
 As a poet Mr. Gallagher has been widely and favorably known. He 
 has published several books of poetry. " Miama Woods, A Golden 
 Wedding, and other Poems " was issued in 1881. It is a good volume 
 on which to rest his fame. There are in it descriptions of nature, songs 
 of patriotism, and lyrics of the affections, and legends and odes that 
 will live as long as our country exists and the English language is 
 spoken. He now resides in his humble cottage at Pewee Valley, at the 
 venerable age of eighty-four, full of the priceless riches of literary 
 fame, but poor in this world's goods. ^ ^ DdrrETT. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 309 
 
 MISS ANNA J. HAMILTON. 
 
 Born in Louisville, April 20, i860. Was graduated from the High 
 School in 1878. Occupies the Commercial chair in the Normal School in 
 that city. A late number of the Magazine of Poetry contains an inter- 
 esting sketch of Miss Hamilton and her poetry. She is at present 
 editing the Kentucky edition of " The Women of the Century," to be 
 published soon by Charles Wells Moulton, of Buffalo, New York. 
 
 JOHN M. HARNEY. 
 
 Practiced medicine at Bardstown, Kentucky, and married a daughter 
 of Judge Rowan there in 1814. His wife died in a few years, and he 
 traveled abroad. Receiving a naval appointment to Bueuas Ayres he 
 made that his home for several years, but finally returned to Bards- 
 town, and died on the 15th of January, 1825. He wrote "Crystalina, a 
 Fairy Tale," in six cantos, in 1816, which received much praise from 
 Eastern magazines. It was completed before he reached his twenty- 
 third year. Many other shorter poems met with wide circulation in 
 the leading periodicals of that day. His poem "Echo and the Lover " 
 
 occupies a place in Bryant's Library of Poetry and Song. 
 
 » * » 
 
 WILL WALLACE HARNEY. 
 
 Born at Bloomington, Indiana, June 21, 1831, but was brought to 
 Kentucky by his parents in 1833. Educated at home under Professor 
 Noble Butler. The name Harney is Celtic and signifies strong in 
 mind — headstrong. His father, John H. Harney, was for twenty-five 
 years editor of the Louisville Democrat. 
 
 Mr. Harney was the first principal of the Louisville High School. 
 Held chair of Belles Letters in the Normal Department of Transylvania 
 University. 
 
 Was married in 1868 to Miss Mary St. Mayer Randolph, and moved 
 to Florida in 1869. His wife died in 1870, after which he spent much 
 of his time exploring the Everglades, which he did as far south as 
 Florida Keys. 
 
 His letters descriptive of the climate and the' phosphate beds of 
 Florida, published in the Northern periodicals, attracted much atten- 
 tion to that State. His poetry is published in Harper's and The Cen- 
 tury, and is widely copied in books of selections, both English and 
 American, and much used by elocutionists for qualities adapted to 
 vocal expression. » « 
 
 ALFRED W. HARRIS. 
 
 Born in Louisville, January 27, 1842. Has held several Government 
 positions. Married to Miss Maggie Heimers in 1870. Member of the 
 Filson Club. * 
 
3IO BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 JOEIv T. HART. 
 
 Born in Clark County, Kentucky in 1810. He has made for himself 
 an everlasting record in his life-work, " The Triumph of Chastity," 
 ■which he was twenty years in completing. It was modeled from the 
 same clay used for Powers' " Greek Slave," and is now the property of 
 the ladies of Lexington, Kentucky. Hart's poems were written while 
 he was in Italy, where he spent the best years of his life, and where 
 he died. His remains were brought home and interred at Frankfort. 
 
 COLONEL WILL S. HAYS 
 
 Was born in Louisville, Kentucky, July 19, 1837. He first entered 
 the field of journalism thirty-seven years ago on the Louisville Demo- 
 crat as river editor. He remained with that paper until it went out of 
 existence during the close of the late war, and then spent two or three 
 years of his life on the river as captain and clerk on various boats, the 
 last one being the famous Jacob Strader. He finally drifted back into 
 newspaper life, and was for a long time amanuensis to the. late George 
 D. Prentice. When Prentice died Colonel Hays went over to the Cour- 
 ier-Journal after they were consolidated, and, with the exception of 
 about one year, he has been with that great paper as its marine editor 
 ever since. 
 
 There are few men now living who have done more for the marine 
 interests of the great Southwest than Will S. Hays. His reputation 
 as a song-writer is world-wide. He has written and composed more 
 popular ballads than any man living, and bears his worldly fame and 
 envied name with becoming modesty. 
 
 EDWIN SYLVESTER HOPKINS 
 
 Was born in Covington, of Kentucky parentage, but traces his ori- 
 gin to the Hopkins family of New England. The removal of his par- 
 ents to Greencastle, Indiana, at that time the most prominent seat of 
 learning in the State, placed him in an atmosphere of culture and 
 refinement that largely influenced his subsequent career. 
 
 With a strong afifection for the woods and fields where his holidays 
 were spent, his thoughts naturally sought poetic expression, and among 
 his first contributions to literature was a series of twelve poems illus- 
 trating the various moods of nature during the year, and published in 
 the Indianapolis Journal and in the Courier-Journal. 
 
 After graduation he was elected to a professorship in Franklin Col- 
 lege, Indiana, and was married to a lady in Danville, Kentucky, a grad- 
 uate of Caldwell Institute, and a contributor to several leading maga- 
 zines. After several years spent in teaching he gave up the profession, 
 and removing to the bluegrass region of his native State became a 
 Bourbon County farmer and stock raiser, which calling he still finds 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 311 
 
 congenial, allowing sufBcient leisure for an occasional contribution 
 to The Judge, Peterson's, The Free Press, Indianapolis Journal, and 
 Courier-Journal, and many other publications. 
 
 JOHN HOSKINS. 
 
 Born in Cornwall, England, February 25, 1827. Came to Kentucky 
 in 1845. Has lived in Louisville since 1850. His poems are noticeable 
 for their rhythmic flow, and are easily adapted to music. He writes 
 music as well, and his publications find ready sale. 
 
 COLONEL J. STODDARD JOHNSTON 
 
 Was born in New Orleans, February 10, 1833, but has for long years 
 been a Kentuckian, and comes of a family who were among the pio- 
 neers of the State. He was graduated from Yale College in 1853, and 
 from the Law Department of the University of Louisville in 1854. He 
 was in the Confederate army from 1862 to the close of the war, and 
 held important positions on the staffs of Generals Bragg, Breckin- 
 ridge, and Buckner. Since the war Colonel Johnson has been a lead- 
 ing politician, and held the ofiSce of Secretary of State under Gov- 
 ernors Leslie and McCreary. He was for many years editor of the 
 Frankfort Yeoman. He is an able writer and noted for a wide range 
 of knowledge and scholarly attainments. 
 
 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY. 
 
 Rosa Vertner Jeffrey is one of the most gifted poets of the South. 
 She is a native of Natchez, Mississippi, but in early life removed to 
 Lexington, Kentucky, with her maternal aunt and adopted mother, 
 Mrs. Vertner, by whose name she was known. Her mother (who died 
 when Rosa was only a few months old) was the daughter of an Epis- 
 copal clergyman. Rev. James Abercrombie, at one time rector of old 
 St. Peter's, Philadelphia. Her father, J. T. Griffith, was the well-known 
 author of " Indian Stones," and other writings published both in this 
 country and England. 
 
 At an early age Rosa Vertner was married to Claude M. Johnson, of 
 Lexington, Kentucky. Her present husband was born in Edinburgh, 
 and belongs to a distinguished Scotch family. 
 
 Mrs. Jeffrey resides in Lexington, where she dispenses in a quiet way 
 an elegant hospitality. Her crown of snowy hair enhances the classic 
 features of a still lovely face. She possesses a very versatile genius ; 
 her poetry is of the most genuine kind, natural, lucid, and spontaneous ; 
 her style is refined and without affectation. With the subtlety of her 
 intensely human sjnmpathy for humanity she woos and wins. She is 
 a poet born, not made. When her first volume was published by 
 Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, in 1859, it was received both in the North 
 
312 BLADES O * BL UEGRASS. 
 
 and South without an adverse criticism. I mention this because the 
 trend of thought has been to accord so much less culture in literary 
 pursuits to the South than it really deserves. Mrs. Jeffrey's poems 
 were highly eulogized by the best critics of the day, Theodore O'Hara, 
 George D. Prentice, Paul Shipman, of the Courier-Journal, and many 
 others. 
 
 The following poem, inscribed to her by George D. Prentice, is 
 inserted by request in this sketch: 
 
 TO ROSA. 
 
 Not in the Grecian isles, 
 
 Not where the bright flowers of lUyssus shine, 
 E'er moved a breathing form whose beauty's wiles 
 
 Could match with thine. 
 
 Not where the golden glow 
 
 Of Italy's clear sky is pure and clear, 
 Not where the beauteous waves of Iceman flow, 
 
 Hast thou thy peer. 
 
 Not where the sunlight falls 
 
 On bright Circassia through the perfumed air. 
 Nor in Stamlboul's oriental halls, 
 
 Dwells one so fair. 
 
 No fabled form of old, 
 
 Not hers who rose from out the foaming sea. 
 Though deemed more fair than aught of earthly mould, 
 
 Transcended thee. 
 
 In thy dark eyes a spell 
 
 Of beauty lingers, but their glance of fire, 
 "When thy proud spirit is aroused, might quell 
 
 The lion's ire. 
 
 Thou movest floatingly 
 
 As the light cloud that to the zephyr yields. 
 But with a step proud as a queen's might be 
 
 O'er conquered fields. 
 
 And thou hast that strange gift. 
 
 The gift of genius, high and proud and strong. 
 
 At whose behest thoughts beautiful and swift 
 Around thee throng. 
 
 They come to thee from far, 
 
 From air, and earth, and ocean's boundless deeps ; 
 They rush in glory from each shining star 
 
 On heaven's blue steeps. 
 
 They leap from earth's far bound- 
 Forth from the red volcano's depths they start— 
 
 From bow and cloud they fioat, and gather round 
 Thy burning heart. 
 
■/</'///«/'/ 
 
 ^/. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 313 
 
 Then at thy high command 
 
 They stand all marshaled in thy peerless lay, 
 
 As some great warrior marshals his proud band 
 In bright array. 
 
 Thy hand has power to trace 
 
 Words as enduring as yon planet's flame, 
 Words that forever 'mid our changing race 
 
 Will keep thy name. 
 
 Linked with bright song alone, 
 
 That name o'er time's wild heaving waves will sweep. 
 As o'er the water sweeps the bugle tone 
 
 At midnight deep. 
 
 Thy magic strains will make 
 
 A portion of earth's living music heard 
 Forever, like the cadences of lake 
 
 And breeze and bird. 
 
 The world of nature glows 
 
 In thy bright page more lovely to the eye, 
 As when o'er hills and plain, the sunset throws 
 
 Its golden dye. 
 
 And thou art very dear 
 
 To many hearts, thou bright and gifted one. 
 Aye, men adore thee, as the Persian seer 
 
 Adored the sun. 
 
 The "Legend of the Opal," written at the age of fifteen, is inimitable. 
 "Baby Power," "Nina, or the I/ast Night at Pompeii," "The Frozen 
 Ship," and "The First Eclipse" are choice productions, but too long 
 for publication in this sketch. ^ ^ Hodges. 
 
 ANDREW W. KELLEY. 
 
 In 1872 Kelley left Schenectady, New York, where he had been em- 
 ployed as a reporter on a small afternoon newspaper, and went to Ten- 
 nessee. Here he employed his time with writing poems and sketches, 
 mainly for the New York Mercury, until the autumn of 1873, when he 
 went to Franklin, Kentucky, and took a position as associate editor of 
 The Patriot. He did not remain long on the paper, indeed, no one 
 remained long on The Patriot, and I might say with equal truth that 
 nothing stuck to that paper, absolutely nothing, except a mortgage 
 about the size of an ordinary blanket, and a libel suit brought by a 
 citizen of Bear Wallow, Allen County, whose book of sylvan verse had 
 been " roasted " to such a degree as warranted an action at law. 
 
 It was Kelley's intention, year after year, to go East, but he sat in 
 his room and dreamed and dreamed ; and time, regardless of dreams 
 or poetic fancies, moved steadily along, and finally stopped one day. 
 And then the green sward in the cemetery was disturbed, and the 
 dreamer was lowered into the " dreamless bed." 
 
314 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 A gentle child of genius, smiling or deeply brooding, laughing or 
 in sorrow, he was the soother of distress and the encourager of falter- 
 ing footsteps. In verse, he had a most merry faculty of humor, and a 
 most tender faculty of pathos. In a line he would draw a character 
 tittering with the jollity of its own conceit ; a word-flash, a change, 
 and the mellow light of fond sympathy falls like a yellow drapery of 
 richest silk, and with a warm beauty dignifies drollery and gives to a 
 whimsical chuckle a tone of appealing pathos. 
 
 The country has surely produced greater poets than " Parmenas 
 Mix," but I doubt if we shall ever know a truer lover of Nature's divine 
 impulses. He lightened the heart and made it tender, surely a noble 
 mission ; he talked to the lowly, he flashed the diamond of his genius 
 into many a dark recess. He preached the gospel of good will ; he 
 sang a beautiful song. q^^^ ^^^^ 
 
 MRS. ANNIE CHAMBERS-KETCHUM 
 
 Was born near Georgetown, Kentucky, and is noted for her poetic 
 talent. Her " Semper Fidelis," published in Harper's Magazine sev- 
 eral years ago, is said to be one of the most finished productions of 
 American literature. 
 
 OLIVER LUCAS. 
 
 Born in Orange County, Indiana, June 1827. At the age of sixteen 
 he adopted the business of practical printing. At New Albany he and 
 Hon. A. M. Bradley published the New Albany Democrat. Later he 
 moved to Louisville, where he became connected with the Louisville 
 Democrat. In 1856 he was the legislative correspondent of the Louis- 
 ville Journal at Frankfort, and also reported for the Frankfort Yeoman. 
 In May, 1863, he was elected clerk of the Board of Aldermen of the 
 city of Louisville, and has been elected twenty-eight times succes- 
 sively. It was almost accidental that he became a writer of verse, his 
 productions being principally of a local character, and published over 
 the nom, de plume of "The Poet of the Asfaltus." y Tomfpn 
 
 MRS. MARY THORNTON McABOY 
 
 Has a fadeless reputation as a writer of very sweet songs. She 
 was born in Bourbon County, Kentucky, and contributed her poetry 
 to many of the leading papers in the State, and yet she claimed for 
 it no especial literary merit. 
 
 NELLY MARSHALL McAFEE. 
 
 Louisville, Kentucky, was the birthplace and is the home of Nelly 
 Marshall McAfee. She is the scion of a noble race, who have few 
 peers and no superior. Her ancestral line, without a break in its 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 315 
 
 ramifications, runs back to 1172, when William le Mareschal came 
 over to England with the Army of the Northern Conquerer. " Nelly- 
 Marshall " was the boast and pride of her State, and she has lost none 
 of her prestige since her marriage with Captain John J. McAfee, which 
 event occurred some years ago. 
 
 Mrs. McAfee is not only a writer of verse but of fiction, which has 
 fixed her position in the South and the Southwest as a literary leader 
 in her State. She is a brilliant lecturer, a superb elocutionist, and, 
 remarkable to state, she is called an " orator " rather than a public 
 speaker. She handles hei' pen only when she feels the inspiration 
 move her to industry. Her name ranks high in the histories of her 
 State, and in the biographies and encyclopedias of the country. She 
 sings with no uncertain sound. And she deserves everything kind 
 that could be said of her. Gifted with grace, beauty and genius, these 
 endowments are supplemented by culture, refinement and accomplish- 
 ments. She is a magnificent pianist, and paints with great grace and 
 delicacy. ^ ^ ^ 
 
 THOMAS F. McBEATH. 
 
 Born in Wayne county, Kentucky, 1852 ; completed his education at 
 Urania College, Glasgow, Kentucky, in 1882, and was chosen Valedic- 
 torian of his class of twenty members. His poem, "Biopsis," has 
 been pronounced one of the finest poems that has been contributed to 
 the literature of the South. He is now President of the Normal Col- 
 lege at Daleville, Mississippi. * t, 
 
 MRS. KATE GOLDSBOROUGH MCDOWELL 
 
 Was born in Louisville, and still lives there. A daughter of J. H. 
 Wright, and wife of William Preston McDowell. She has written a 
 great deal but never published a volume. The poet Whittier wrote 
 her a very graceful and complimentary letter of thanks for the lines 
 she addressed him on his seventy-sixth birthday. .j; ^. 
 
 JENNIE T. MCHENRY, 
 
 Of Hartford, Kentucky, wrote over the nom de plume of "Rosine." 
 Her poems were collected and published in a small volume in 1867. 
 
 MRS. CLARA LOVELL McILVAIN. 
 
 Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, November 26, 1836. Was educated at Naz- 
 areth, Kentucky, and became a convert to the Catholic religion. Soon 
 after leaving school she was married to J. Banks Mcllvain, of Louis- 
 ville, Kentucky. In her collection of poems, "Echoes of the Past," 
 edited by her daughter, Charlotte Mcllvaine Moore, will be found the 
 story of her life, breathed in such sweet measures as to win for her 
 the love of all. She died in Louisville, August 26, 1881. 
 
3l6 BLADES 0' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 MRS. KATE SLAUGHTER McKINNEY (KATYDID) 
 
 Was born at London, Laurel County, Kentucky. When she was seven 
 years old her parents moved to Kirksville, Madison County. She was 
 graduated in 1876 at Daughter's College, and some years ago was mar- 
 ried to Mr. J. I. McKinney, now Superintendent of the Louisville and 
 Nashville Railroad at Montgomery, Alabama. She has issued one vol- 
 ume, " Katydid's Poems," made up, for the most part, of the lightest 
 of gentle zephyrs ; but they are laden with the perfume of mountain 
 flowers in the spring-time and with the soothing odors of pines and 
 birches. Their great merit is in their perfect naturalness and sim- 
 plicity. She finds beauty in homely things, and makes them grow 
 into our affections. ^^^^ j 0'Mai,i,ey. 
 
 S. C. MERCER. 
 
 Mr. S. C. Mercer is a resident of Hopkinsville, Kentucky, where he 
 occupies himself as a farmer. He has been connected with the press 
 in various capacities in Kentucky, and from 1862 to 1869 edited a paper 
 in Nashville, Tennessee. He was born in Washington County, Penn- 
 sylvania, but his life has been identified with Kentucky. He is widely 
 known as an excellent and original writer of prose and verse, and a 
 very accomplished literary man. 
 
 MISS ELVIRA SYDNOR MILLER, 
 
 Whose taking fairy tales and beautiful poetry have won for her the 
 widest reputation of any woman writer in Kentucky, was a Virginian 
 by birth and only adopted Louisville as a home. Her great-grand- 
 father was John O. Donnell, Quartermaster General of the Revolution. 
 Her mother's ancestors were Italian ; this probably accounts for the 
 poetic vein which permeates her whole soul. She is a great lover of 
 children, horses, and flowers, and her mother says is a " sad Bohemian." 
 She is brilliant and fascinating, and always leaves a pleasant memory 
 with those who meet her. Besides her " Songs of the Heart," and 
 other volumes, she has ready for the press a story, " The Home of the 
 Dead Belle," which deals with Louisville's social history. ^ jj 
 
 ALICE HAWTHORNE MUDD. 
 
 Descended from the Maryland headlights of literature — Nathaniel 
 Hawthorne and Washington Irving. She was born in Louisville, Ken- 
 tucky, educated at Roseland Academy, Bardstown, Kentucky. In 1876 
 she was on the editor's staff collecting historic facts for the " Encyclo- 
 pedia of Kentucky." The next year she was on the staff of the Sun- 
 day Argus and Trade Gazette, and wrote over the noin de plume of 
 "Patsy Dean" and "George Francis Piltcher." The same year she 
 brought out her first book of poems, " Hawthorne Leaves." ,,5 ^ 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 317 
 
 ROBERT MORRIS. 
 
 Born near Boston, Massachusetts, 1816. He first became a citizen 
 of Kentucky in 1852, locating at Fulton. Was prominently identified 
 with all the interests of Freemasonry, and contributed largely to its 
 literature. His songs, "The Level and the Square" and "Gallilee," 
 are very popular. The latter is found in all modern Sunday-school 
 song-books. He died at LaGrange, Kentucky, July 31, 1888. 
 
 IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS. 
 
 Born in Louisville, Kentucky, October, 1870. Was graduated from 
 the High School in 1888, being elected poet of the class. She was 
 married January 12, 1891, to Mr. Herman Morris, a lawyer of Glasgow, 
 Kentucky. ^ ^ 
 
 ELIZABETH LEE MURPHEY. 
 
 Happy the soul that comes upon its literary mission and finds a 
 public ready to receive it. More happy still that people who entertain 
 these angels unawares. The influence of the cultured man or woman 
 upon the community in which he lives is priceless beyond value in all 
 that goes to make up a great and free people. These thoughts easily 
 adjust themselves to the personal history of Elizabeth Lee Murphey 
 nee Hays, one of the most gifted and useful of Kentucky women. In 
 her home she is the center of a most charming circle, and an earnest, 
 devoted wife and mother. In addition to these duties she has for the 
 past two years been engaged in literary work, and at present is one of 
 the editors of The Round Table, published at Dallas, Texas. She 
 wields a pure influence in the literary world, and her career is watched 
 with much interest by her friends and admirers. She has written 
 many beautiful poems, which haye been widely copied and read, and in 
 them all there breathes the warm, rich spirit of heroism and devotion. 
 Her style is at once gentle and strong, lofty and winning. She stands 
 at the center of the literary life of a big, bustling. Western city, and 
 does much to give tone and direction to its movements. 
 
 A. W. MEi<r,. 
 VIRGINIA P. NOBLE 
 
 Was born in Louisville, but from childhood has resided in Paducah. 
 Her father, Colonel John C. Noble, has for many years been widely 
 known among the literary people of Kentucky, and his researches have 
 covered many fields of thought, and upon his talented daughter has 
 fallen his mantle of greatness. Miss Noble's writings partake largely 
 of the analytic in character. Not, however, after the fashion of most 
 analytical writers are her productions dispassionate. Womanly feel- 
 ing and sentiment are breathed in every line of her poetry and prose. 
 For several years her work has been gladly accepted by Eastern mag- 
 
3l8 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 azines, to which she is a regular contributor. She is the founder of 
 the "Castalian" literary club of Paducah, and is a firm believer in the 
 future literary pre-eminence of Southern talent. ^^^ Brazleton 
 
 THEODORE O'HARA. 
 
 It is purposed here to sketch briefly the life of a Southern soldier 
 who builded for himself an enduring fame as a poet upon four lines. 
 These lines, together with other stanzas of the poem in which they 
 occur, may be seen in the national cemeteries of the United States, 
 cast in iron and placed along the silent ways which wander among the 
 dead, to commemorate the sleeping brave of North and South alike ; 
 and these four immortal lines, which have sufficed to secure their 
 author's name a place in the sacred annals, are inscribed also over the 
 gateway of the National Cemetery at Washington. Though the man 
 who wrote them fought upon the opposing side, even to the end, these 
 lines seem no whit less fitting here than when we find them placed 
 above the wearers of the gray who rest in the cemetery at New Orleans. 
 Thus does the spirit of poesy triumph over material issues, appealing 
 to something within us before which mere difl^erences of political 
 opinion, strong and abiding as they seem to be, sink out of sight and 
 are lost forever. To forget the questions upon which they have been 
 divided to their hurt, let men cherish those truths upon which they 
 are one. 
 
 Theodore O'Hara, soldier, poet, and journalist, was born in Danville, 
 Kentucky, February ii, 1820. He was the son of Kane O'Hara, an Irish 
 gentleman who, after having left his own land on account of political 
 oppression, became distinguished in Kentucky as an educator of great 
 learning and ability. The family finally settled in the vicinity of 
 Frankfort, Kentucky. After being prepared under the teaching of his 
 father, Theodore was sent to St. Joseph's College at Bardstown, Ken- 
 tucky, where he graduated with high honors. After this he practiced 
 law for a time, but in 1845 he held a position in the Treasury Depart- 
 ment at Washington, and the next year was appointed captain in the 
 old United States Army. 
 
 He served through the Mexican War, and was brevetted major on 
 the field for gallantry and meritorious conduct. He then practiced law 
 in Washington for a time, but when Lopez attempted the liberation of 
 Cuba, O'Hara joined the expedition, and led a regiment at Cardenas, 
 in which battle he was severely wounded. Subsequently he was con- 
 cerned in Walker's adventurous expedition to Central America. He 
 afterward conducted several newspapers in the South with great abil- 
 ity and brilliancy, among them the Mobile Register. 
 
 At the beginning of the War of the Rebellion he joined the service 
 at once, and was put in command of the fort at the entrance of Mobile 
 Bay, which he bravely defended until ordered to retire. After this he 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 319 
 
 served on Albert Sydney Johnston's staff, and was beside that officer 
 when he fell at Shiloh. Later on he was chief-of-stafif to General John 
 C. Breckinridge, and was in the famous charge at Stone River. He 
 served as chief-of-stafF until the end of the war. After the war he 
 engaged in some commercial transactions in Columbus, Georgia, but 
 iinally retired to a plantation on the Alabama side of the Chattahoochee 
 River, where he died of fever on the 7th of June, 1867. In 1873 the 
 legislature of Kentucky provided for the bringing back of his body 
 to his native State, and in 1874 he was buried with military honors in 
 the State Cemetery at Frankfort. This is a brief record of O'Hara's 
 life. 
 
 O'Hara wrote only two poems which have been preserved to history 
 — one entitled " The Bivouac of the Dead," and one "A Dirge for the 
 Brave Old Pioneer." These are identical in the manner of their con- 
 struction, and they are both elegiac and commemorative poems. He 
 seems to have written only when special demand was made upon him, 
 and then only in this one vein. It is upon this first-mentioned poem, 
 " The Bivouac of the Dead," that O'Hara's claim for immortality must 
 rest. It was written to commemorate the death of his comrades who 
 fell in Mexico, and was read by him upon the occasion of their burial 
 in the plot of ground set apart by the State for their reception in the 
 eemetery at Frankfort. O'Hara now sleeps within the same ground, 
 and may be said to have sung his own memorial, standing upon his 
 unmade grave. The opening stanza of this poem, especially the sec- 
 ond quatrain of it, remains unsurpassed in its own field. 
 
 From Sketch in The Century. ROBERT BURNS WiLSON. 
 
 CHARLES J. O'MALLEY 
 
 Was born in Union County, Kentucky, in 1857. His mother was of 
 Spanish descent. His father was Irish, nearly related to the poet-priest. 
 Father Ryan. In 1882 he was married to Miss Sallie M. Hill, of Cal- 
 houn, Missouri. Like many other young writers Mr. O'Malley first 
 became known through The Current. He wrote, besides poetry, a 
 number of light scientific papers : " Summer in Kentucky," " By Marsh 
 and Pool," " Our Native Evergreens." He also wrote "The Botany, Or- 
 nithology, and Geology of Union County." A series of articles on the 
 " Poets and Poetry of Southwest Kentucky," written by him for the 
 Henderson Journal, attracted much attention. He knows Kentucky 
 like a book, having been over every county but one in the State. In 
 his writings he not only stimulates his fellow-workers, but cultivates 
 3. taste in them for things above the gross and commonplace, and 
 smoothes and refines the life about him. His poems are to be found in 
 The Century, Youths' Companion, and other leading periodicals. " The 
 Building of the Moon " is one of the most thoroughly original things 
 in the English language. ^^.g^^^ Pooj^ 
 
320 BLADES O' BLUEGRAiiS. 
 
 MRS. SALLIE MARGARET HILL O'MALLEY. 
 
 Born in Indiana, educated in Missouri. Was married to Charles J. 
 O'Malley, and became a resident of Kentucky in 1882. Her poetry is 
 much in sympathy with the every-day things of life. 
 
 DANIEL E. O'SULLIVAN 
 
 Was born in Bowling Green, Kentucky, September, 1858. Is at 
 present editor and owner of the Sunday Critic, Louisville, Kentucky. 
 Barely in his thirties, Mr. O'Sullivan has crowded much work into his 
 life. For two years he was managing editor of the Courier-Journal ; 
 then on the staff of the New York World, and later managing editor 
 of the Louisville Commercial. Was married in 1886 to Miss Bertha 
 Bijur, of Louisville. Mr. O'SuUivan's poetry was written before he 
 became such a busy journalist. In either capacity he is a success. 
 
 ■» » 
 
 EUGENIA PARHAM 
 
 Is a daughter of the late Dr. W. H. Parham, of McCracken County, 
 Kentucky. At the early age of sixteen she adopted the profession of 
 teacher, and has held successively positions in Blandville College, Pa- 
 ducah public schools. West Kentucky College, and for two years past 
 has held the chair of English Literature and Moral Philosophy in the 
 old Judson Institute at Marion, Alabama. She has more than a local 
 reputation as an essayist, but her literary work has all been done amid 
 the busy cares of a teacher. Her poems are published in the Courier- 
 Journal and other leading papers. 
 
 JO. A. PARKER 
 
 Is editor of The Index, published at LaGrange, Kentucky, and is 
 also secretary of the Southern Literary Association. Though he has 
 scarcely attained his majority he has made a reputation for intelli- 
 gence quite above the ordinary. ^ .35 ^ 
 
 JOHN JAMES PIATT 
 
 Has been for ten years United States Consul at Queenstown, Ire. 
 land ; but he is a poet that time and the ocean can not separate from 
 the hearts of his countrymen. Although not a Kentuckian by birth 
 he married Sallie Morgan Bryan, of Kentucky, and his daughter 
 Marian was bom in Kentucky, and by virtue of his long and intimate 
 association with George D. Prentice and several years' residence in 
 Louisville, Mr. Piatt is certainly entitled to recognition by Kentuck- 
 ians, and his poems are gladly accorded a place in this collection. 
 
 Among his earlier volumes was "Poems by Two Friends," a joint 
 production by W. D. Howells and himself His next volumes were 
 "Western Windows" and "Land Marks." A few years ago he edited 
 
CLINT RUBY, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 321 
 
 a very remarkable compilation under the title of " The Union of Lit- 
 erature and Art." "Idylls and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley " is another 
 of his popular volumes. 
 
 In 1889 was published in London "A Book of Gold — A Quarter Cen- 
 tury of Sonnets " — twenty-five most exquisite sonnets. The Spectator 
 says, "Mr. Piatt's best things are undoubtedly those which smell of 
 the Western soil." The Morning Post : " Mr. Piatt's poems have a dis- 
 tinct transatlantic ring which lends them an additional attraction." 
 
 » » 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT. 
 
 Sarah Morgan Bryan was born in Fayette County, Kentucky, in 
 1836, and is a granddaughter of one of the pioneers. She was gradu- 
 ated from the Henry Female College at Newcastle, Kentucky. In early 
 girlhood a strong poetic temperament was developed, and she soon 
 gained substantial recognition as a poet. She was married in 1861 to 
 John James Piatt, and soon after published her volume, " Nests at 
 Washington." In 1871 " A Woman's Poems "was published. During the 
 ten years spent abroad Mrs. Piatt has published several smaller vol- 
 umes of verse, and the English and Irish press notices are very compli- 
 mentary. The St. James Gazette says: "We find Mrs. Piatt's Muse is 
 the Muse of the American Girl, and we confess, for our own part, the 
 more completely she is the Muse of the American Girl the better we 
 like her." "A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles," "A Wall Between," "An 
 Irish Garland," and "In Primrose Time" are the titles of different 
 volumes. "The Witch in the Glass," etc. is her volume of 1890. 
 
 •i! * 
 
 MRS. EUGENIA DUNLAP POTTS 
 
 Was born near Lancaster, Kentucky. Was graduated at Franklin 
 Female Institute in Lancaster, and finished a course in music and 
 French at Philadelphia. In 1874 she published the "Song of Lancas- 
 ter," a metrical history after the versification of Longfellow's Hiawatha. 
 The great poet's letter of commendation is among the author's treas- 
 ures. Mrs. Potts is at present editor of The Illustrated Kentuckian, 
 published at Lexington. -» .s; 
 
 GEORGE DENNISON PRENTICE. 
 
 There is in front of the Courier-Journal building in Louisville, 
 above the entrance, a life-size statue of Mr. Prentice in Carrara marble 
 representing him sitting in his chair in a familiar pose. " This," says 
 John James Piatt, " is a fitting local monument of the honored editor, 
 statesman, and patriot, but I believe there is something in his volume 
 of poems, which, although it may not be a moving, an active force in 
 this busy world, will survive the marble effigy in the memory of men." 
 
 George D. Prentice was born in Connecticut in 1802, and came to 
 
 21 
 
322 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 Kentucky in 1830 for the purpose of writing a biography of Henry 
 Clay to be used in the campaign in New England, but fortune favored 
 Kentuckians when a tide in his affairs brought Mr. Prentice perma- 
 nently into our State and made him a citizen of it — made him our 
 very own. 
 
 All along from youth to old age Mr. Prentice exhibited his love of 
 poetry, and while his principal longer poems were written early in life 
 many of his later ones are of equal strength and beauty, and through 
 all of his serious poems the current of feeling is in sympathy with 
 nature's great works. " Mammoth Cave " is admired by many above 
 his " Closing Year," which is ranked with Bryant's " Thanatopsis," as 
 one of the finest pieces of blank verse in the English language. " The 
 River in Mammoth Cave " is peculiarly impressive, as mournful in 
 tone as the strange, weird river it celebrates, and having once visited 
 this river one reads the poem with profound awe. 
 
 In the South, where literature is slow of recognition, such a dispo- 
 sition as Mr. Prentice showed, amid the busy cares of a journalist's 
 life, to encourage poetic talent and hold out a helping hand, is some- 
 thing not to be forgotten in the history of our country and American 
 literature, and in the hearts of all Kentuckians he lives enshrined. 
 He died January 22, 1870. ,i ^ 
 
 DR. FRANK H. RHEA. 
 
 Born at Madisonville, Kentucky, in 1855, but now lives at Waverly, 
 Union County, where he practices his profession. His poetry is thor- 
 oughly original. One striking characteristic of it is the employment- 
 of words of Latin rather than of Anglo-Saxon extraction, and this is 
 but one of many ways in which his writings are entirely diflferent from 
 those of any other Kentucky poet. ^ „ 
 
 HARRISON ROBERTSON 
 
 Is managing editor of the Courier-Journal. He is a poet, but like 
 many others he allows the cares of a journalist's life to crowd out the 
 Muse, and says he will probably never write another poem. His poems 
 were published in Harper's and The Century. ^ 
 
 WRS>. ADELAIDE D. ROLLSTON 
 
 Was born near Paducah, Kentucky, and has lived since her early 
 womanhood and marriage in that city. At a very early age she began 
 to contribute both verse and prose to Eastern journals, and she has 
 since confined herself principally to the delineation of character, feel- 
 ing that it is her true field of labor, and she finds a ready acceptance 
 of her work. Her poetry is characterized by simplicity of structure 
 and faultless rhythm. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 323 
 
 CLINT RUBY 
 
 Was born in Henderson, Kentucky, twelve years ago, and is widely 
 - known as the Boy Blocutionist. At an early age he gave evidence of 
 poetic talent, and was possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, 
 repeating page after page of verse after once hearing it. He has 
 devoted his time to public readings, and meets with the greatest en- 
 couragement. His literary talent is inherited from his parents. His 
 mother, Mrs. Alice L. O. Ruby, being a contributor to various maga- 
 zines. He now lives at Madisonville, Hopkins County, Kentucky. 
 
 THOMAS H. SHREVE 
 
 Is remembered as a citizen of Louisville, Kentucky— a man whose 
 versatility of talent was remarkable. He had proven himself capable 
 as a merchant, but his ambition was for literary work, and he soon 
 established a reputation as one of the best young writers of the time, 
 preparing papers of rare excellence in various departments of litera- 
 ture. His artistic talent also developed, and he left many excellent 
 paintings to illustrate it. His poetry has been widely copied and 
 admired. W. D. Gallagher says of it: "He was as joyous in his verse 
 as the lark soaring in the early morn and singing at heaven's gate." 
 Mr. Shreve was employed on the editorial staff of the Louisville Jour- 
 nal at the time of his death, which occurred on the morning of Decem- 
 ber 23, 1853. ^ ^ 
 
 MRS. MATTIE PEARSON SMITH, 
 
 Though now an adopted daughter of the State of Minnesota, Ken- 
 tucky may fairly lay claim to at least an interest in the genius of this 
 gifted authoress, as many of her earlier years were passed at Coving- 
 ton in this State, where her education was chiefly obtained, and where 
 also for a number of years she taught school. Mrs. Smith has written 
 much beautiful verse, and has contributed liberally to the press and 
 periodicals, and all her published work would make several large vol- 
 umes. She lives at present at Le Sueur, Minnesota, at which place 
 her husband, Edson R. Smith, is a prominent banker and mill-owner. 
 
 » » 
 CAPTAIN THOMAS SPEED 
 
 Is a practicing lawyer in Louisville. He was born at Bardstown, 
 Kentucky. His ancestors came from Virginia in the pioneer days. 
 He was educated at Center College, and served in the Civil War as Ad- 
 jutant of the 12th Kentucky Veteran Volunteer Infantry. He has writ- 
 ten a number of prose pieces, but is not much accustomed to court 
 the Muses. He is the author of " The Wilderness Road." The skill 
 with which he appeals to national feeling shows that he has the heart 
 of a poet. 
 
324 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 HENRY COOLIDGE SEMPLE. 
 
 Born in Louisville, May ii, 1871. Was graduated from the High 
 School in that city, and is at present teaching in Funk Seminary at 
 LaGrange, Kentucky. At the early age of thirteen years he began to 
 scribble verse, and though he has written but few pieces of merit, 
 these are characterized by that genuine overflow of poetic spirit that 
 answers no man's bidding. 
 
 MAJOR THOMAS SPEED. 
 
 Born in Virginia in 1768. His father removed to Kentucky in 1782, 
 and he lived for a while at Danville, but from 1793 till his death at 
 Bardstown. He was major in the war of 1812, and member of Con- 
 gress in 1817. Died 1842. He was the grandfather of Captain Thomas 
 Speed, and wrote the poem "Autumn Leaves " in 1806. 
 
 FREDERIC M. SPOTSWOOD 
 
 Lives at Lexington, Kentucky, where he edits The National Guard, 
 a sheet devoted to the interests of the State Military. He has written 
 a number of songs that have sold well, and his vein is chiefly the Anac- 
 reontic. The " Queen of Night," his longest poem, was born of the 
 beauty revealed by a moonlight view of " The Meadows," one of the 
 handsomest homes in the Bluegrass country. ,^, ,j. 
 
 MRS. BELLE WILSON STAPP 
 
 Is a writer of ability. Before her marriage she wrote a great deal 
 and received large compensation for prose work, but ill health has for 
 many years interrupted her literary work. We see a poem from her 
 pen occasionally in the Courier-Journal. All of the Kentucky papers 
 give her a cordial welcome. She resides at Buckeye, Garrard County. 
 
 HENRY T. STANTON 
 
 Was born on the 30th of June, 1834. His father, Hon. Richard H. 
 Stanton, of Maysville, Kentucky, was for a number of years a member 
 of Congress from that District, and subsequently Judge of the Circuit 
 Court. His son, who was his first born, had the benefit of a thorough 
 education, and early evinced a taste for literary pursuits and a genius 
 for poetry. He was, at different times, editor of the Maysville Bulletin 
 and Frankfort Yeoman, in which papers most of his poetical contribu- 
 tions, since published in two volumes, originally appeared. He served 
 during the war in the Confederate army as Adjutant-General upon the 
 staffs of General Williams, General Morgan, and General Breckinridge. 
 In early life he married Miss Martha Lindsey, of Mt. Sterling, Ken- 
 tucky, and their union has been blessed with nine children, six daugh- 
 ters and three sons. Since 1870 he has resided in Frankfort, his pres- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 325 
 
 ent occupation being that of an insurance agent. From time to time 
 
 he continues to write verses of a high order, and gives readings from 
 
 his poems to popular audiences. Personally he is of pleasing address, 
 
 vivacious in conversation, happy in his family relations, and esteemed 
 
 by a circle of friends co-extensive with the State. tot 
 
 J. O.J. 
 
 MISS JEANNETTE SWING. 
 
 She is the niece of Rev. David Swing, of Chicago, so well known 
 in literary circles. Was born at Cincinnati, Ohio, but removed during 
 her childhood to Dayton, Kentucky, where she was graduated from the 
 High School in 1886. At an early age she gave evidence of literary 
 talent, and at the age of eighteen her first story appeared in a large 
 Cincinnati daily. Since then she has contributed both prose and 
 poetry to many of the papers, and has been unusually successful. 
 
 MICHAEL MOORES TEAGER 
 
 Was born in Bath County, Kentucky, May i, 1833. His father, Jacob 
 Teager, was of German extraction, but a native of Mason County, Ken- 
 tucky. His mother, Louisa (Moores) Teager, was born in Bath County, 
 Kentucky, and daughter of Michael Moores, who came to Kentucky 
 soon after the Revolutionary War, in which he participated. He was 
 admitted to the bai: in i860, and entered upon the practice of law at 
 Flemingsburg, Kentucky, where he now resides. In 1862 he enlisted 
 in the Confederate service with the 2d Battalion, Kentucky Mounted 
 Rifl.es, and served during the war, after which, on the nth May, 1871, 
 he was married to Miss Irene Emma Stealy, of Jeffersonville, Indiana. 
 
 SARAH CAMPBELL HARRIS-THORNTON. 
 
 Born in Mason County, Kentucky, 1825. Her poem, "Beyond the 
 Grave," was written at the age of fifteen, and appeared in the Lexing- 
 ton Intelligencer. Some time after marriage moved to Texas, where 
 she died in 1880. 
 
 CATHERINE A. WARPIELD. 
 
 Catherine Ann Ware was born in the State of Mississippi, but edu- 
 cated in Philadelphia. She was married to Elisha Warfield, of Lexing- 
 ton, Kentucky, in 1833, and after several years' travel abroad, and a 
 protracted residence in Texas, they finally settled in Lexington, where 
 Mrs. Warfield became one of the chief ornaments to the refined and 
 intellectual circle of that section of Kentucky society. In 1846 a vol- 
 ume of poems, entitled " Poems by two Sisters of the West," from the 
 pen of Mrs. Warfield, and her sister, Mrs. Eleanor Percy Lee, was pub- 
 lished and quite favorably received, but Mrs. Warfield's best poems 
 were contributed singly to the Louisville Journal. ^ ^ 
 
326 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 hlZZm WALKER, 
 
 Of Hartford, easily takes rank among the most beautiful and versa- 
 tile of the younger -writers whose songs are adding so much to the 
 literature of the South. Her 'mother was Elvira English, of Hardin 
 County, Kentucky, and her father is the eminent Judge E. Dudley 
 Walker. Miss Walker seems to have been born for the literary career. 
 Her talents shone forth brightly from early girlhood. She has culti- 
 vated several varieties of verse. The reflective element enters into 
 her writings more than might be expected in one so young and joyous. 
 This quality appears in the poem entitled "The Old Year." She uses 
 dialect freely in the expression of her sympathies and loves for the 
 external world. It is not often so exquisite a piece of nature-painting 
 is found as that given in Miss Walker's poem, " November." 
 
 John Ci,ark Ridpath. 
 
 THOMAS WAIvSH 
 
 Was born near Connersville, Indiana, December 14, 1859. In his 
 fifteenth year he began his academic course at St. Meinrad's College, 
 Spencer County, Indiana. He studied here for four years and then 
 entered St. Xavier's College, Cincinnati, Ohio, completing his classical 
 course of study a year later. Shortly afterward he located at Louis- 
 ville, Kentucky. He was engaged for a year or two in the publication 
 of The Celtic Review, a weekly journal devoted to the interests of the 
 Irish people. Abandoning this pursuit he entered the legal profession, 
 in which he has since continued, having by his ability and energy built 
 up a large and lucrative practice. He is an exceedingly eloquent and 
 popular speaker, is noted for the fervency, wit, and pathos of his efforts 
 at the bar and before the people. He has written occasional poems for 
 the Courier-Journal and the Times, of Louisville. 
 
 ASHER G. Caruth. 
 
 WILLIAM A. WASHINGTON 
 
 Was a direct descendant of George Washington, and a man of fine 
 character. Many years of his life were spent in Logan County, where 
 he wrote and published his poems. One volume, entitled " Rural Min- 
 strelsy," was published in i860. He died in Owensboro, having almost 
 rounded out his century. He was never married, but lived with his 
 two sisters, who were also unmarried, and who died a short time be- 
 fore him. ,5 ^ 
 
 LIZZIE WILSON. 
 
 Born in Louisville, Kentucky, December 30, 1835. Died there March 
 19, 1858. In i860 a volume entitled " Poems by Lizzie," was published, 
 dedicated to George D. Prentice. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 327 
 
 HENRY WATTERSON, 
 
 Son of Hon. Harvey Watterson, lately deceased. He was born in 
 Washington City, February 16, 1840. Became editor of the Louisville 
 Journal in 1868, and has been editor-in-chief of the Courier-Journal 
 since it first appeared. He served in Congress in 1876. Mr. Watterson 
 is one of the most powerful leaders of the Democratic party. His 
 poetry was written in early life. 
 
 AMELIA B. WELBY 
 
 Was born February 3, 1819, at St. Michaels, in Maryland. In 1834 her 
 parents removed with her to Louisville, Kentucky, where her poetic 
 genius first became known to the public, and where she died on the 3d 
 of May, 1852. Her first published work was a poem, in 1837, in the 
 Louisville Journal. In 1845 she issued the first collected edition of 
 her poems, which met with such ready and extensive sale that the 
 publishers of the country contended for the privilege of issuing a 
 second edition, which the Appletons did in 1846, and they have since 
 found it necessary to issue some twenty additional editions. She was 
 married to George Welby, Esq., an excellent gentleman, of Louisville, 
 Kentucky, in June, 1838. 
 
 FORCEYTHE WILSON 
 
 Was a native of New York, but for many years a resident of Ken- 
 tucky. A brother of the Hon. Augustus Wilson of Louisville. He 
 contributed many beautiful poems to the Courier-Journal while George 
 D. Prentice was editor, and afterward published a volume of poems, 
 entitled " The Old Sargeant, and other Poems." John James Piatt said 
 of him : " One of those rare poets whose poetry is first in their life, and 
 perhaps grows poorer in their last verses." .,. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS WILSON 
 
 Was born near Washington, Pennsylvania, but his childhood was 
 passed in West Virginia. He received his education partly at Wheel- 
 ing, and afterward at Pittsburgh. Having lost his mother at the early 
 age of ten years, and being of a sensitive nature, his grief for her has 
 had a sad effect upon his life. In his poem dedicated to her he says, 
 "All that's best in me and in my art is thine." In 1886 Mr. Wilson 
 went to Louisville, Kentucky, where he gained an enviable reputation 
 as an artist by a crayon portrait of Henry Watterson. Two years later 
 he adopted Frankfort as his home, and there continues his art-work. 
 His first poem, "A Wild Violet in November," made his reputation as 
 a poet, and when his first volume, " Life and Love," was issued, there 
 was a great demand for it. 
 
328 BLADES O' BLUEGRASS. 
 
 No idle rhymer of trifling verse, but a strong-voiced singer who 
 has walked with Nature and drawn his inspiration from her, his 
 observant eye mirrors the beauties of the world, and with pen and 
 brush he portrays them with the grace and truth of an artist. «. ^ 
 
 HENRY CLEVELAND WOOD 
 
 Is a native Kentuckian, descended on his mother's side from the 
 Cleveland and Whitney families of New England. His paternal ances- 
 tors settled permanently in Kentucky before Daniel Boone built his 
 first cabin here. 
 
 Mr. Wood's first literary venture was a sketch written at the age of 
 twelve years and contributed to Appleton's Journal, for which he re- 
 ceived compensation. This success, doubtless, gave him more exquis- 
 ite joy than any he has since achieved. In 1874 he began contributing 
 to the English magazines, and from that time has frequently appeared 
 in The Quiver, Good Words, and other periodicals. In this country he 
 has contributed to The Aldine, The Cosmopolitan, The Current, Bel- 
 ford's, Our Continent, Youth's Companion, Literary Life, Demorest, 
 Peterson, Once a Week, Harper's Weekly, and many other of the lead- 
 ing publications. 
 
 Mr. Wood has very great artistic and musical talent. He draws 
 freely, paints, and executes various designs in wood carving, his own 
 home being handsomely decorated by himself He is yet unmarried, 
 and devoted to his venerable grandmother and mother who live with 
 him at Harrodsburg. ,, ,. 
 
 MISS JEAN WRIGHT. 
 
 The father of Miss Jean Wright is General J. M. Wright, a graduate 
 of West Point, a brilliant young officer in the Civil War, member of the 
 Kentucky Legislature, Adjutant-General of Kentucky, and now Mar- 
 shal of the United States Supreme Court. Her mother is the daughter 
 of Dr. Ewing, and a niece of General William O. Butler, one of Ken- 
 tucky's early soldier-poets. A native of Louisville, Miss Wright has 
 inherited talent and literary taste. Her first offering is a delicious 
 little volume of poems published in 1892, and charmingly illustrated 
 by her young cousin, Emma Keats Speed. 
 
EUGENIA DUNLfiP POTTS. 
 
To MRS. FANNIE PORTER DICKEY. 
 
 THE nOODS or YOU. 
 
 TAe moods of you in colors blent 
 
 Would make a rainbow, vivid, fair, 
 Such as to clouds whose glory lent 
 
 Makes gorgeous roses in the air. 
 Which float off, darkening as they go ; 
 
 Yet you — vuith face of sun and mist — 
 Are with them in their ebb and flow. 
 
 With ruby gleam, and amethyst. 
 To mystic depths and trackless fields 
 
 Of shadow, thickening as each crowds 
 Where old Aquarius stands and wields 
 His rain-flail on the flashing clouds. 
 
 Though vast the region they traverse, 
 
 These blessed messengers of rain, 
 I watch them, whether they disperse 
 
 Or link themselves in endless chain — 
 The throbbing air about them, filled 
 
 With glint of sun and slanting ray. 
 Whereby a red-gold seems instilled 
 
 Into them, turning cold and gray — 
 Down from the zenith's glowing Jiaze 
 
 Sparse wandering or condeiised in storm. 
 These flying clouds in every phase 
 
 But hold you in some lovely form. 
 
33° BLADES O' BLUE GRASS. 
 
 And, though the thunder smites and pains, 
 
 Where they wax eerie, low and dim, 
 They breathe you through their watery veins 
 
 Into the very soul of them ; 
 And cast into your eyes the gray. 
 
 Transfer their sun-glints to your hair ; 
 Your cheeks they sprinkle with the spray 
 
 Of red- gold bronzi^ig your face fair ; 
 And thus they make your being whole. 
 
 And you with all their moods endow. 
 And leave their glory in your soul. 
 
 Their softer shadows on your brow. 
 
 Yet more than this in moods of you, 
 
 And lovelier, meets discerning eyes ; 
 For one perceives the luscious blue 
 
 Which fills the hollow morning skies, 
 And fragrance of the grassy lawn, 
 
 And freshness of the mountain brook. 
 Into your breezy nature drawn, 
 
 Reveal themselves to all who look ; 
 Indeed, one used to fairy dreams 
 
 Sees in your face the budding sheaf. 
 The lucent glint of sylvan gleams, 
 
 And purity of bloom and leaf. 
 
 The Genii and arts that please 
 
 In simple culture serve you good, 
 For your companions, which are trees. 
 
 Conspire by sym.bols understood — 
 Each trembling, swaying where it stands. 
 
 To airy twig of topm,ost limb, 
 And, reaching down with leafy hands. 
 
 So glad to touch your garment '5 hem ! — 
 
THE MOODS OF YOU. 331 
 
 And join with you in gnarly feud 
 
 To help you catch on canvas screen, 
 Within some beechen solitude, 
 
 The glint of gold amongst the green. 
 
 Ye poets, souls that dream and dream, 
 
 This Naiad, loving song and sky. 
 Newborn of native grove and stream. 
 
 In guise of woman heavenly high — 
 Let us decree for love and lore. 
 
 This friend who heaps our laurels up, 
 That she shall drink forevermore 
 
 The wine of joy from golden cup. 
 And down the ages ring clear-toned 
 
 The praise each sweet shell now prolongs, 
 And crown her where she sits enthroned 
 
 Upon the tops of our best songs. 
 
 RUFUSJ. CHILDRESS.