Book.. . . . u . CopightlN^ CfiE£RICHT DEPOSm THE POETS RY OF TE Biographical Sketches of the Poets of Texas, WITH SELECTIONS I ROM 'niElR WRITINGS, CONTAINING REVIEWS BOTH PERSONAL AND CRITICAL. MY ^ SAM H. dtxon; WITH AN INTRODUCTION HY WM. CAREY CUANR, U.D., LL.D. Late Presidcni of liayJnr Univeriiity. Some road to think, these are rare; some to write, those are common; and some read to talk, and those form the sreat majority. The llrst papo of an author not un- frequently suffices all the purposes of tliis latter class, of whom it has been said, they treat books as some do lords, they inform themselves of their titles, and then boast of an intimate acquaintance.— Colton. Sold by SubscHption oiili AUSTIN, TEXAS, Sam II. Dixon & Co., Puhlisubrb. 188.5. ^ OOPyRIOHTED 1885, ]JY SAM H. DIXON. Stcrcotitiied and J'fintud bi/ Eugene Von Bokckmann, AUSTIN, rax AS. HOUND BY It. Von Bokckmann, AUSTIN, TEXAS. TO MY DEAR WIFE. A (JIlA'rKFlIL HFA'OlA.ECriON OK IIKH MANY A(JTS <)V KINDNESS EXTIIN 1)101) To M 10 r)UllIN(J MY STUDENT DAYS AT JiA YL, OR UmVEiMSilVY^ WniLK I'UI'II'AIMNC; TO KN'i'Klt dl'ON TIIK ilVUOlil) VVALIvS OK I^IJ.'ll!, AND TI[E CHEBRINO ENCOURAGEMENT WHrnil SITE CAVE ME WHILE EN(JA(iKD IN THE I'llEPARATION OF THIS WORK INSPIRE THE WISFI TO (ilVK EXPRESSION OK MY KXAi/rVA) ESTIMATE OF HER PURITY AND NOBILITY OK (;ilAKA(TER, 1 thmetQjre XnscvihB io< hex tbise ¥Q>iiam&t SAM II. DlXOiV. CONTENTS. Adenheim 81 Afflick, Mrs Mary Hunt, ....-- ]5 After-a-Whilo "- - - 71 Alamo, Hymn of -------- 233 Al-Lannee ---------- 74. All Quiet Along Potomac ------ 65 Aradatos ---------- 199 Arlington, Allied W., ------- 22 Badger, Mrs. E. M. - - - - - - - - 30 Battle, The --------- 209 Battle Hymn --------- 192 Beauchamp, Jennie Bland, ------ 351 Beautiful Snow --------- 343 Bentley, Mrs. M. J., ------- 357 Beside the Dead - - - - ----- - 189 Bitter-Sweet - - - 185 Birds of Passage -------- 313 Book of Life - -------- 123 Bowen, W. A., -------- - 357 Burial of Gen. Tom Green ------ 93 Cake of Soap --------- 253 Christmas in Camp- ..----- 188 Cleopatra ---------- 323 City, The - - - 278 Cosmostoria -.- - - - - - - - - 220 Cummings, Stephen, ------- 358 Darden, Mrs. Fannie l>aker, - - Portrait - - 45 Daughter of Mendoza - - 178 Davis, Mollie Moore, - - - Portrait - - 34 Daylight on tlie Wreck .19 Death 268 Dirge 159 Drifting - - 85 107 Dreaming 57 Contents. Dreams . . . 28 Dream of Jno. D. Lee ------- 270 Dress to Make - - - - 100 Dying Soldier, The - 289 Efnor, Lottie C., - - 56 Elliott Jno. P., - . . 356 Evening Rumble -------- 147 Farewell to Texas -------- 805 Filial Piety --------- 240 First Fallen Soldier of 18(51 ------ 222 Flowers ...------- 32 Fontaine, Lamar, ----- Portrait - 59 Forshey, E. L., - - - - - - - - 357 Fountain, The -------- 105 Franklin, Miss Willie, - - .* - - - - 70 Furloughed Soldier ------- 139 Garnered Memory -------- 153 Garrison, Geo. P., ------- 77 Gates Ajar ---------- 1(> Gay, J. L., - . - 353 Gerald, Miss Florenc, ------- 80 Gilleland, W. M., ------- - 92 Gillespie, Helena, - - 98 Girl With Calico Dress ------- 168 Giradeau, Miss --------- 353 Going Out and Coming In ----- - 36 Golden Opportunity - - - 277 Gordon, Mrs. R. L.', - 353 Grand-Mother's Baby .---..- 51 Grieve Not for Me - - - - - - - - 180 Greeting to Hood's Brigade ------ 349 Grithn, Mrs. T. M., - 103 Give to the Poet His Praise ------ 179 Guillot, Miss May E., - - 355 Hamlett, Mrs, Lizzie, _ . . Portrait - - 110 Harby, Mrs. Lee C, - 120 Haunted - - - 104 He Sings Because He Can But Sing . - - - 88 Hobby, A. M., 125 Hogg, Thos. E., 134 Hope - - 202 Hollow by the Flare 186 Home Scene --.....__ ;-jGO Hood's Last Charge --.._.. 212 Houston's Address at San Jacinto . - . . . 321 Houston, Mrs. Gen. Sam, - - - Portrait - 142 Houston, Nettie Power, --..--. 149 Houston, Sam, - - - - - - - - 356 Hutchins, J. H., - - - - - - - - 158 Johnson, Ella A., - - - - - - - - 357 Jordan, Mrs. Clara B., ---._.. 353 Josselyn, Robert, -------- 164 Julian, I. H., - - - 354 Just So - - - - - . - ^ . . 205 Kerr, Hugh, - - - - - - * - - - 171 Lamar, Mirabeau, - - - - - Portrait - 174 Lamar, Death of -------- - 176 Land Far Away -._.-.-- 108 Last Tear I Shed - . » - . . . . . 169 Leachman, Mrs. WelthaB., ------ 184 Leaveli, Miss Lizzie Smith, ------ 351 Leaving Home - -- 310 Lee at the W'ilderness --.-.__ 39 La Madra de La Canyon --.,-. 257 Lloyd, Miss VVilla, ' - - - . - - - - - 188 Life and Death . - - 26 Life's Brevity ---..-..- 310 Life's Gayer Hour -------- 182 Lilies ----- . - - . - 18 Lines 317 Little Babies . - - 151 Little Relics 208 Louisa ----.----. 225 Love Knot --------- 250 Lubbock, Death of -------- 128 Lucre's Advice to His Son ------ 161 Luther, Dr. J. H., - - - - - - - - 191 Marble Lily --------- 335 Manning, Elegy on 345 Maternity 118 Maynard, Mrs. Sallie Ballard - - - - - - 196 McCaleb, Mary Hunt, - - - . Portrait - 204 McE;achern, R. B., - 214 Minding the Gap ---.-... 42 Mohl, Mrs. A. H., 357 Monson, A. C, -------- 354 Mother to Departed Child ------- 297 Murphy. John Albert . . - - Portrait - 218 ' Nature's Festival -------- 52 Now-'J'hen --------- 194 Old Texas Hunter 234 Painter, A. H. K., 356 Passing Under the Rod 295 Peacock, T. B., 354 Penuel, Mrs. L. G., - 354 Picture on the Wall 207 Pollock's Euthanasia 251 Potter, R. M., - - - - . - - - - 229 Prayer 255 Mary Queen of Scot 262 Problem of Life - - 26 Purdy, Mrs. Amelia v., 238 Rain 120 Rhodes, W. H., Portrait - 346 Rhodes, E. A., 254 Rhodes, R. H., 255 Richardson, Jno. M. 259 Robinson, Miss Blanche, . . - . - - 264 Rose, Victor M., - - - - - -267 Bose Leaf on the Wine - - - - - 89 Rowe, Horace, - - - ■ Portrait 273 • San Antonio River, ... - - 308 San Jacinto Day - ----- - 288 Saunders, Mrs. Mary, ------- 286 Satire on the Times 165 Scott, L. W., - - 353 Sentinel's Dream of Home . .... - 181 Shall We Divide the State 114 Shiloh - - - . - 302 Shindler, Mrs. Mary Dana, - - - Portrait - 292'' Silent Influences ... - - - - 31 Soldier's Song * . - 193 Solitude 77 Sometimes - 313 Song of Texas Rangers ....--- 326 Spragins, Anna Word, 300 ■r«»so Spanish Ode to Texas, " - 235 Star Worshiper 339 Stealing Roses Through the Gate 38 Swisher, Bella French, - . - - - - - 308 Texas— A Vision 287 Texas to Jefferson Davis 265 Tennyson's Picture 99 To a Mocking-Bird - - 319 To My Husband 145 Touching Incident 116 Truitt, Julia P., - - _ 312 Turner, Thomas Sloss, -.--,•-. 315 Turrentine, Mary E., 318 Unae Vitae 122 Under the Cactus ........ 355 Veterans' Re- Union ; 155 Vocation -...-....-- 244 Waiting -------- 216 Waiting - 352 Was It in Vain - 109 Weaver, VV. T. G., 320 Webb, E. J., ........ 358 West, Mrs. Florence Duval, ■ - - Portrait - ■ 328 Whisky Fiend ----- . - . 260 Whitten, Mrs. M. E., -' 342 Williams, Mrs. M. J., • - - - - • 359 Wine Death of Love - 283 Young Widow 269 Young, Fannie Spear, 356 Young Maud J., 347 Yokonah 48 PREFACE. ^ijfN presenting this volume to the public, I think it proper ^11 to state that it has been prepared amidst great difficulties. I began the work while a university student; and in 1878 I made arrangements for its publication, but the yellow fever of that year made sad havoc ol all my plans, and death brought ruin to my publishers. I ordered my manuscript returned to me and a large part of it was lost in transit. I have re-written it during the spare moments of a very busy life — moments snatch- ed from days and nights of labor for existence. When I first conceived the idea of writing this book, it was my object to collect the scattered gems of the Texas writers, and present them in a small volume. But when I began to investigate tlie subject of Texas authorship thoroughly, I found it impossible to encompass them in so small a space, and the book has grown to its present dimensions because I could not avoid it. There are many difficulties in authorship. Literature has become a game of chance. It has to be suited to the taste of the educated and the unlearned; the bookseller, and the critic, and the judgment of the author is entirely overlooked. I have kept these things continually before my mind while pre- paring this volume, and I am ready to receive the critics' sneers. It has been my aim in the preparation of this book to perpet- uate the memory of our dear Texas authors, and I expect every 10 Poets and Poetry of Texas. man and woman in the State, who has State pride, to aid me in this endeavor by an effort to increase and enlarge its sphere of usefulness by extending its circulation. The first productions of the American men of letters — those of the Pre-Revolutionary period especially — are very rare, and collectors are offering fabulous prices for them. So it will be of Texas. The productions of those authors who fired the hearts of the early Texas rangers are eagerly sought even this early in the history of the progress of the State. There is much to ad- mire in the poetry of Texas, and the student who fails to study the literature of the State, along with her political history, loses much of the sweets of history. The lives and productions of the Texas authors form one of the most important features of her history. They have added their quota toward the es- tablishment of her greatness, and deserve the recognition this book has given them. I wish it remembered that this is a pioneer work. The au- thor has had to blaze his pathway through a trackless forest, without sign or guide-board. It is left to the reader to say whether or not the work has been well done. INTRODUCTION, BV WM. CAREY CKANE, D. D., LL. D. ^^'^l|pANGUAGE is fossil poetry." Some legend of a long jj|^ past age has embalmed this* thought in words. Orig- inal ideas are conceived in i)oetry, although most often expressed in rough cast idiomatic expressions. Infantile thoughts are usually poetical. The more closely allied men and nations are to nature and the open air of heaven, the more elevated are their thoughts, and the more inspiring are their words. It is vain to suppose that the grandest poetery is the creation of art and culture. The most sublime productions of human genius are oftenest the creations of minds tutored in wilds, beneath crags, near mountain heights, amid hardships, strained by penury, and struggling for subsistence and existence. Poetry makes its own rules, hence the variety of schools which have sprung into being. Rhyme is an unvarying law ; melody is an incident. Rhyme may or may not be poetry, and is oftener doggerel. Poetry is popular, more or less, according to a prevailing taste. Ballads and Lyrics suit the general ear, and touch the popular heart when discoursed in music. A generation which relishes Byron may regard Milton and Wordsworth as odious. The coterie which revels in N. P. Willis and Geo. P. Morris, sympathizes slightly with Wm. Cullen Bryant and Henry W. Longfellow. Cultivated tastes delight in "Festus" and "Yester- day, To-day and Forever," while ruder natures are only satisfied with Barry Cromwall or Thomas Moore, Whatever approxi- mates to poetry, whatever exhibits the afflatus of inspired lan- guage, the first essaying of youthful minds, the first efforts of rising genius, should be preserved, collected and placed in en- during form, to be transmitted to future times, to form part of that grand general history of the literature, which, at an appro- priate period, will be the certain reflex of its creative minds of every grade of opportunity and culture. How much true poetry has been lost, how much has never been heard of, it may be safe to say is far greater than the poor or feeble poetry which may be found printed in various styles for transmission to posterity. It may be possible that much that passes for poetry may be words fantastically paraded in apparent trimeters or in ambitious S.pencerian stanzas. When the gold is in sand, much washing and sifting is needed to ob- tain the pure grain. Often, too, it may be imbedded in granite structures, or possibly surrounded by quartz formation, so often there may be little genuine poetry in affluent surroundings of climacteric phrases. Yet the small grains of gold in the masses of sand or ledges of rock may amply repay the washer for his toil, and the glimpses of poetic genius which may flash their light out of stately verbiage, may repay all the toil of the searcher for rhythm, and all the struggles of the seeker for genius. The poetic insight is not universal. Few possess it. The multitude require to be told what is poetry, and their only reason for believing that to be poetry which is claimed to be, is the dictatorial statement of the mental autocrats, on whose opinion M — ! i Mm '»n i i»i "j i mm mmefimimmma mmjMm.m Poets and Poetry of Texas. 13 unthinking people rely. The neighbors of Robert Burns did not know that the author of "Holy Willie's Prayer" was a poet until the celebrities of Edinburgh brought him to their intellectual centre, and gave him an ovation. The feeble poet Waller was the popular favorite of England in the times of John Milton, and it was left to the study of an after generation to prove that the Elizabethian Era of English Literature produced but two great creative minds: the author of "Paradise Ijost," and the author of "Pilgrim's Progress." It is difficult to induce some minds to read poetry. They think poetic conceptions all unreal, and, like fiction, without historic basis, unworthy of study or reflection. And yet some of the most powerful writers in prose have been among the most powerful writers in poetry. Milton's prose was the seed thought of law, liberty, and religion in his own time, and pre- sents tbe base of statutes and enactments of Parliament, Con- gresses and Conferences of an after age. Macaulay's prose and poetry are both household treasures of the English language. William Cullen Bryant as a poet, and William Cullen Bryant as a journalist has each ruled an empire of mind, and will transmit models to coming generations. It is a patriotic duty to foster rising genius ; to nurse youthful powers ; to rally the budding aspirations, and aid in their com- plete development. State pride is commendable, when catho- lic ; when it recognizes foreign merit, while it cherishes domestic talent. Let the young orator have the encouraging eye, and attentive ear ; let the rising scholar have the voice of approval; let the poet, yet in downy covering, half fledged, but struggling for flight, have cordial greetings and good wishes expressed for higher efforts and future success. Let all the efforts of strug- r 14 Poets and Poetry of Texas. gling virtue and upreaching genius be aided with generous words and earnest approval, in sympathetic tones. Texas is the land of poetry. The Milton, or Tennyson, or Bryant, or Longfellow, or Poe, may not yet have appeared, but poetry is embedded in the great heart of the people ; it is taught in paradisic landscapes, in the mountain heights, in purling streams of diamond purity, in dashing rivers springing from rocky beds, in the balmy flagrance of ten thousand flowers, in the wild revellings of myriad vines, in the sombre density of wild tanglewoods, in the forests of live oaks and water oaks, of pine and cypress, and in all the luxuriances and abundance of semi-tropical and super-oriental clime. John Bunyan said of "Pilgrim's Progess:" "Some say, 'John, print it,' Others say, 'No !' Some say, 'It may do good,' Others say, 'No!"-' So let this book take its chance. Let the wheat be winnowed from the chaff. Baylor University, July 19th, 1878. MARY HUNT AFFLICK ARY HUNT has charmed the State by her exquisite *-'^'^ ^ sketches of life as contained in her poems, Beside the ^Sea and Daylight on the Wreck. She is a native of Kentucky, and was born in Danville in 1847. Her father, Dr. J. A. Hunt, is a native of North Caro- lina ; a descendant of one of the most distinguished English families who immigrated to America during the early days of the American Revolution. Her mother was a daughter of Hon. John Bridges, of Kentucky, an eminent jurist and advocate. Mary received her intellectual training in Harrodsburgh Fe- male College. It was while a student that she began to court the Muses, and during her early school days, she wrote and published her poems. She claims to have inherited her poetic talent from her mother, who stood very high in the reading world as a lady of fine literary attainments. Immediately after she had completed her course of study in college she entered the field of letters, and early gained an en- viable reputation, both as a poet and as a prose writer. ■ In 1874 she came to Texas with her parents and settled in Burleson county. She soon became known throughout the State, and was invited to read a poem to Hood's Brigade, then holding its re-union at Bryan. In 1876, and while on a visit to relatives and friends in Washington county, she was married to Mr. Dunbar Afflick, an author of note, an extensive farmer, and a man of varied attainments. Mrs. AflWck possesses more than ordinary information, and is active in imparting it to those with whom she is brought in contact. She is the "particular star" in the neighborhood in which she resides. X- 16 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Of Mrs. Afflick, Baker says : "She deserves a place among our Texas authors. She is a native of Kentucky, though she has gained her chief celebrity since coming among us." Mrs. Afflick is not one of those writers who has leaped sud- denly into favor, but has grown steadily into the hearts and feelings of the reader. Her poetry, while strictly original, sug- gests to the reader a curious blending of Miss Moore's simplic- ity and Mrs. Purdy's subtlety of tliouglit and diction. She is found gifted with an accurate sensitiveness to the joys and sor- rows of men and the vicissitudes of the human heart. Though the meandering brooklets, the valley-loving streams, and foam- ing currents, are of thrilling interest to her, she has a gift to work upon the beautiful scenery with power of grandeur and sublimity. In short, her style, diction, movement of verse, have all sprung up within herself. They iare native to her mind as one familiar with forest and winds, with the course of clouds, the flow of great rivers, the changing of sunshine and shadows, over broad fields and solemn sound. But we shall watch and wait with much hope and interest to see what she can do in a higher sphere. Meanwhile, I give her the right hand of fellow- ship and gentle regard, for she has tilled a part of one depart- ment of the field of poetry, with as exquisite a sense, with as fine a touch, with as loving and faithful an eye, heart and pen, as any one to whom nature has ever whispered familiar words in solitary places. GATE 8 AJAR. HERE life's rosy morning tinges Brighten all the year afar. Swinging back on burnished hinges, Gates of memory stand ajar. Fragrant branches, blossom laden, Trail about these open gates, Poets and Poetry of Texas, 17 And close hy a red-lipped maiden, In the dewy evening waits. Softest curls of silken brightness — Golden veil for blushing face — Sweep her shoulders' dimpled whiteness, With their light unfettered grace. As she waits there in the gloaming, While the daylight fades away. For the one who will be coming, When the stars glow in the gray. * t' t, * -* Soft light, o'er chancel drifting, On a fair girl's lovely face; Summer breezes lightly lifting Dainty waves of bridal lace. As she kneels where sunlight lingers, On half open roses fair — Clasped within her snowy fingers, Braided through her waiving hair. Till the sunbeams drift away in Fainter lines through church aisles dim, "And the priest has ceased his praying," And the choir the bridal hymn. Long, long years are sweeping o'er me — Weary years of toil and sin ; And a gate swings back before me — Ah, I weep to enter in ! Where a rosy glow once hovered On the face so pure and fair, On the dimpled arms half covered By soft waves of radiant hair. Now a misty light is creeping Up the aisles so long and dim. And the shining hair is sweeping O'er a coffin's satin rim. Once again a sunbeam lingers On half open roses bright, But they lie in waxen fingers, Folded on a bosom white. And a gate with jcAveled hinges, Seems to swing adown the air, While above its jasper tinges Gleams a crown like angels wear ! LILIES. ^1 N sunny June where roses blow «| And summer breezes hover, f And woodland wavelets softly flow Through banks of blushing clover, There lilies white, like sheaves of light. In dark and shine bend over. From out the mossy forest old. Where every sunbeam lodges. And weaves a line of yellow gold Through all the leafy edges. O'er dewy ways, sweet fragrance strays. Where lilies light the hedges. We see them in their spotless snow. Beside our pathway springing. And backward through the "long ago" Their waxen bells are swinging ; Where oft we strayed, each breezy glade, Some happy chime is ringing. Oh swaying bells ! your music tells Of golden hours, whose fleetness Poets and Poetry of Texas. 19 Left bud and bloom, in fresh perfume, To fill the air with sweetness ! Oh sunny days! oh bloomful ways! Of childhood's rare completeness. How oft we come with weary feet, With white and weary faces, Across the highway's glaring heat, Through memory's open places. To pluck once more a lily sweet From out your scented spaces ! DAYLIGHT ON THE WRECK. NE morn I stood upon the shore, I And watched a floating wreck ; No sailor at the riven ropes. No man upon the deck. For in the night a storm had crept Across the ship so fair, And had many treasure kept, Down in his wild sea lair. But on the wreck a lovely girl. Had knelt with sinless grace ; Just where the morning sunbeams fell. Upon her marble face. With cross up-borne in dimpled hands. She seemed as if in prayer — And still and white to human sight The storm had left her there. And close beside, a bright haired boy Lay in the lightning's train. Above his head a swinging rope. His stiff hands grasped in vain. I thought some mother's heart will break When tidings reach his home. «. Or worse than that, will ache and ache, Through weary years to come. Anrl further on a bearded man, Held tight in his embrace, A little clinging baby form. In all its rounded grace. The sunbeams through the timbers black Touched locks of gold and grey, While far above in circling track • , The birds shrieked for their prey. I watched the dark mass drifting on, Wliere waves had ceased their strife. And thought a wreck of every day Must likewise pass our life ; For in the storm of Toil and Tears, That comes alike to all Who sail upon the Sea of Years, Some bark is sure to fall ! Perhaps an eager boyish face. Will quiver in the night That drops adown youth's sunny space, And grow all cold and white. And cold and white, the morning light. Will find it on life's deck, While riven ropes, of golden hopes, Swing out across the wreck. And nearer still a woman's form, May bend with weary grace. The chrism of a stainless life, Upon her sweet dead face. What if she bent in purest prayer. While storm raged overhead, Think you the rich will ever care, Her dying cry was bread ? Or man in all his bearded prime, May clasp a baby form, Away upon the wreck of Time, And battle Avith the storm ; 'Till all his human strength is dead, Beneath tem})tations wild, And everything that cleaves to him, Is that fair sinless child. What if before the great white throne — The Saint should intercede — That child lift u\) its holy eyes And for the father plead? Christ's tender arms will surely reach His sinless one to fold, And guide dark wrecks for its dear sake Into the gates of gold? ••°e>J 22 Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. ALFRED W. ARRINGTON, 'EW men have made a more lasting impression upon the people of Texas than Judge Arrington, A native of Iredell county, North Carolina, he spent a large part of his life in the Houth. liis father, also a North Carolinian, was a Methodist minister of fervent piety and much native elo- quence. His mother was a native of the same state, bat of Highland Scotch origin. The family name was Moore. They were Covenanters; and, doubtless left Scotland the victims of religious persecutions. Like most Highlanders, the family was originally Catholic, for an ancestor was beheaded, for his ancient faith, under one of Crotn- well's Military Governors. This mixture of the Saxon and the Celt in Judge Arrington's progenitors, will account, physiologi- cally for his various and marked mental traits ; as he seemed to possess the double genius of both races. His childhood was passed in his native state, amid the lovely and picturesque scenery of the Blue Ridge mountains. The impression made upon him was never effaced. He had always a pa.'slonate 3'earn- ing for mountain scenery, and often dwelt upon his delight, when a child, to run along down the side of the mountain, and listen to the wind amid the pines, and feel his hair lifted u.p and blown about by it. This unseen force of nature filled his mind with awe, and was his first conception of an invisible power. The Bible was his only reading up to his twelfth year ; and his imagination was thus kindled and cultivated at this per- ennial fount of piety and inspiration. About this period a fam- ily came into the neighborhood bringing a small library, which was placed at the eager boy's disposal. He committed Lindley Murray to memory in about ten days. He had a like aptness t Poets and Poetry of Texas. 23 for mathematics. The little library was soon read, for his joy- was so great over the possession of anew book, he could hardly sleep with it unread in the house. The old American novel "Alonzo and Melissa" was among the books, and, though a miserable affair, tou(!hed a new cord of thought and feeling within the boy. The result was he wrote a novel of his own, filled with the most tragic scenes. His father in the meantime moved to Arkansas, where the ambitious boy spent every spare dollar for books. At the early age of eighteen he began to preach, and, at that time, exhibited an oratorical power that resembled the inspira- tion of an Italian improvisatore. He d'rew large audiences and excited the greatest enthusiasm. He preached for several years and then lost confidence in his childhood's faith, and ultimately abandoned revealed religion. He afterwards sought in philos- ophy a solution of his intellectual difficulties. He moved to Missouri and was admitted to the bar in 18o5. He then moved to Texas and was elected judge of the 12th District — Rio Grande District — 18-19. He was at one time a member of the Arkansas Legislature, but took little interest in politics. About this time he published Desperadoes of the South and Southwest. It is an exquisite gem of word painting, and in it is found his famous Apostrophe to Water. While presiding over the bar he wrote a book of Logic, which had long occupied his thought, and also a novel The Rangers and Regulations of the Tanaha. The novel was published and had a quick sale. It gives a graphic account of the ''Ranger system" in those days, and is filled with beautiful passages descriptive of the scenes and incidents of that stirring period, and is classed with Lieutenant Mayne Reid's novels of adventure. Mr. Arrington spent the greater part of his life on the fron- tier, and had a great passion for travel. He disliked the res- traints of artificial society, and lived, so far as an active profes- sional career would permit, a solitary life. He was almost savage in his sincerity ; knew no double-dealing, but moved on L to results with the simplicity of a child. He lived, for the most part, in an ideal world, and knew very little of the per- sons and events which surrounded him. Before his death he became a believer in the Christian religion, and while laying upon his death bed, he said : ''Like a flash of light every cloud disappeared, and the vision of Jesws Christ was vouchsafed 7?ie." He died December 31st, 1867. leaving three children. Flora, his oldest, married a Mr. Strickland, whose family now resides in Georgetown, Texas. Though a master of prose composition, still poetry was his native element and his favorite mode of expression. It was only through his poems that he was able to express the burning thoughts that oppressed him for utterance. The poems accom- panying this sketch were written after he had passed his fiftieth year — when the poetic tide has died out of most men. Soon after Judge Arrington's death his poems were collected and published in a neat volume with a memoir by Leora A. Arrington. The following beautiful tribute to Mr. Arrington was written by Mr. Charles C. Bdnney, and accompanies L. A. Arrington's memoir from which I have drawn so extensively in preparing this sketch: — HIS CHARACTER AS A POET. Alfred W. Arrington was also a poet; — not a mere writer of verse, but a skillful and experienced master of the divine art of clothing the splendors of the imagination and the emotions of the heart in the celestial language of song. As his legal character was adorned and softened by the glow- ing passion and beauty of poesy, so his poetry was dignified, strengthened, and exalted by the clearness, logic, and good sense of his legal learning. Neither confusion of metaphor, nor vagueness of expression offend the taste, in his harmonious verse. Like a living stream from the top of a heaven-crowned mountain, his songs flow on to the sea, with increasing beauty, purity, and power. His verse is generally as noble in senti- Poets and Poetry of Texas. 25 ment as it is musical in expression, and is frequently shaded by the elevated and touching melancholy so common to superior minds. The strength of his genius, and the solidity of his at- tainments, are well indicated by the fact that he intended to undertake so daring a legal and literary task as the composition of a work on the Poetry of Law ; and those who are familiar with the aphoristic style of his arguments, will readily perceive how admirably he could have expressed, in verse, the doctrines of that unsurpassed system of jurisprudence, which is the crowning glory of American constitutional government. His poems, contained in this volume, were written, not as the business of life, but as a favorite recreation after severe legal toil. That they were written by an eminent lawyer, in the midst of the most active and laborious professional labors of his whole life, is a remarkable fact ; that they were composed by a learned jurist, more than fifty years old, is worthy to be recorded among the curiosities of literature. As, on the one hand, I have forborne to enter upon any particular considera- tion of the legal causes on which rests his reputation as a law- yer ; so, on the other, I defer, for the present at least, any detailed comment upon the various styles of metrical composi- tion which this volume contains. It has sometimes been suggested that the practice of law and the cultivation of literature are pursuits so inconsistent, that the one must be abandoned in order to secure success in the other. But the life and works of Judge Arrington are conclusive proof that one may be, at the same time, a great lawyer and an eminent poet; and it cannot be doubted that his example will do much to encourage and extend the practical cultivation of literature by the members of the legal profession. His poems, to the members of his own household, will ever remain an eloquent and enduring testimonial of the depth and tenderness of the domestic affection that possessed his heart, and will commend his memory to a tenderer regard than aught else would have secured ; for there is nothing more highly re- 3 26 Poets and Poetry of Texas. vered among men than the genius that glorifies, and links with its fame the beloved name of home. LIFE AND DEATH. brain that burns with its own heat, A heart that breaks at every beat, — 'A wildering march of weary feet, In search of what we may not meet, Till found beneath a winding-sheet ; In dreamless slumber, long and sweet, Which kindly comes to still all strife, Is nature's fiction, known as Life. To be a thing that cannot die, — A part of earth, and air, and sky, — In cosmic arms of love to lie ; With shaded face, and shrouded eye. And marble lips that may. not sigh O'er shapes of beauty shining by, Yet never yearn for bated breath, Is nature's fact, — misnamed Death. THE PROBLEM OF LIFE. AKING early with the twilight When the leaves of June are rife, i t Let me forth incline to ponder On the mysteries of life. Sunless secrets'which'have baffled All the wisdom of the wise, Since the twinkling dawn of ages, In the night of nameless skies. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 27 Lo ! the gleam of golden arrows, In the purple East afar, While a held of airy roses Blooms around the morning star. Can ye tell me, winged splendors, Brighter than a poet's dream, Are ye actual or ideal ? Is the great world what it seems ? Take away my nerves of feeling, And the mountain's fall-like mist, If there were no eye to see it. Would you, star of love, exist ? Vainer still the choral voices Of the rich revolving year, What were wind, or wave, or thunder. To a soul that could not hear ? Then, are all hut self-creations ? Rock-ribbed earth and rolling main ? All the lights that live above us, Beauties borrowed from the brain ! Darker glooms the dreary problem ! Blind solution for the blind ! If the mind of all is maker, Who is maker of the mind ? All the laws have Janus-faces — One is nothing, left alone ; Sun and shadow, both must mingle, Weaving nature's magic zone. God doth build galvanic circles. Brains and senses are the poles : When the two are joined together, Comes the lightning-flash of souls. Darker glooms the dreary problem ! Brain and senses — what are they ? 28 Poets and Poetry of Texas. What are time, and space, and matter, If ye take the mind away_? Will brute atoms blend in order? Or shall chance direct the course ? Can nerve-fibre find their places, Moved by automatic force ? Hush ! the great world-spirits whisper Sweetly in the new-born breeze, While a rain of molten jewels, Singing, patters through the trees, Hush ! and solve the painful problem, Not by study, but with scorn ; Not to brook such barren torture, Man the heir of time was born. What he needs, alone he knoweth, Or may know by patient thought ; All beyond are sunless secrets. Which, if known, would profit naught. THE BEAUTIFUL DREAMS, H ! the beautiful dreams which the angels of sleep 'Shed in mercy o'er senses that wake but to weep ; How they sparkle like stars, how they whisper like steams From the morn-tinted mountains — the beautiful dreams ! But a touch of their wing tipped with mystical light, Like the wand of a wizard, evokes from the night Such a world of enchantment, in azure and gold. As bewilders and dazzles the mind to behold. And the chime of their voices is sweet in the brain, As the silvery singing of mild summer rain, — Poets and Poetry of Texas. 29 For they murmer the echo of musical years, Ere the' cheeks of the child have been tarnished with tears. E'er the beggars that breathe but to murmer and moan, On their pinions of purple soars up to a throne, Clad in costume so gorgeous, the pride of its hems Is friled with the Iris, and flashes with gems. And the soul that was darkest, when lit with their sheen, Shines again like a star in the cloudless serene ; And the loved and the lost, from the desert of death, Reappear, with the odors of morn on their breath. Oh the beautiful dreams ! may they smile on me still When the heart of the sleeper forever is chill ; While enveloped in music, and light, and perfume, I shall dream of the heavens in spite of the tomb ! 30 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. E. M. BADGER. ISS ELIZABETH MAY WY ATT was born in Pilatka, Florida, September 27, 1841. Her father moved to San Antonio, Texas, when she was very young, and after the close of the war he moved to Gonzales, where our poet remained until her death. In 1859, I find her graduated from Gonzales College, under the presiden(;y of Dr. A. A. Brooks, At this time this institution was considered one of unequalled advantages in Texas. One year from her graduation, — May, 18G0 — she was married to Lafayette Hodges, who was afterwards killed in the battle of Vicksburg. In 1869 — October 14 — she was married a second time, and her husband, Mr. Brandt Badger, survives her. It was about this time that she began to write poems. Having been an early convert to religion, it- made an impression on her mind not to be erased in after years. Her writings, both prose and poetry, bear evidences of a christian character; and, es- pecially in all her poems, is traced a warmth of religious fervor and piety. They are the simple pearls that go forth from a head and heart filled with an exuberant love for suffcn-ing hu- manity. Her poems were contributed to the secular press around her with no thought of fame. She wrote not for this but as she was moved by the approving smile of a friend. I remember to have met her only once — 1879 — at Luling, this State. Having accepted an invitation to take tea with a friend who promised congenial company, I saw for the first time Mrs. E. M. Badger. The company was composed largely of minis- ters. We sat for some time conversing upon themes connected with our visit to Luling — to attend a religious convention — be- fore the subject of literature came up; and then it was inciden- tal. In this brief meeting I saw in Mrs. Badger the elements of *oiw> Poets and Poetry of Texas. 31 the poet, and for the first and only time, heard from her own lips the story of her literary life. I was attracted by her gentle manner and pure enunciation of the eternal fitness of things in poetic numbers. She had little of that rare article — genius — but her imagina- tion was passably good; and her poems possess character, and deserve a place in this volume, for independence of thought mark all she has written, Mrs. Badger died at her home in Gonzales^ August 17, 1881. I have before me some personal reminiscences of her, fur- nished by parties who knew her from childhood. Dr. J. II. Stribling, of Rockdale, writes: * * * * " But I forbear to extend these remembrances of one whose piety, intelligence, and brilliance of mind, and lovely qualities of heart and life, as a lady, as a wife, a mother, as a writer, an ornament to so- ciety and as a tower of strength in the church of the living God, will live by their influence to bless and lead others heavenward in life, and to make melody and praise on the harps of the re- deemed in the heavenly world, while the flowers may bloom and the ever-green grow over the sleeping dust." Rev. Geo. W. Smith, of Weatherford, Texas, says: "I could never tell on paper the appreciation of both myself and wife of Mrs. Bad- ger's character, either as a friend, wife, mother, writer or christian. In all these relations, she was, in my estimation, no ordinary woman. A phase of her piety was seen in her care for and attention to the sick. With her ' The house of mourning was better than the house of feasting.' " SILENT INFL UENGE8. INSCRIBED TO MRS. ALICE WALL, WALLONIA, KY. tHERE are gleams of golden sunlight. Softly falling through the air, k Cheering beams, that softly linger, — Could we see them — everywhere. 32 Poets and Poetry of Texas. There are shadows which surround us, With a rayless, starless gloom, Making life a dread Golgotha, p]arth, a breathing, living tomb. There are sighs from hearts away. Groans that earth may never hear, Clouds of incense bearing ever, To a loving Father's ear. There are hands of holy angels, Which encamp us round and round, To strengthen us when weary, Ijcst we fall upon the ground. Lest the chastening rod of sorrow. And the furnace heat of pain. Should C()n(|uer, and our weakened faith JNIight never rise again. May our sighs and shadows hastening To the (Treat White Throne above. Be the bright and holy angels, Sent us by our Father's love. To teach us meek submission. To His kind and blessed will. Chasing back the storms that fright us. Whispering softly, " peace be still." FLOWERS. f_|OW bright and beauteous are the flowers, ^ Those undertones of love, 'Which God has given to us below, From eden bowers above. They bloom upon the hillside, And in the lovely glen, They brighten children's faces, And cheer the hearts of men. Their fragrance fills the evening air, Floats on the evening breeze. And like an angel whisper, Speaks to the hearts of ease. The flowers of spring are beautiful, But summer blooms more rare. The autumn and the winter flowers. May teach us — ne'er despair. The springtime of our life would seem A landscape, covered o'er' With flowers in bright and rich array, Exhaustless in their store; While summer flowers of life are filled With dews distilled from care, We find no rose without a thorn, How e'er so bright and fair. The " sear and yellow leaf" of age Bears on its fragile stem. The flowers of hope and love and faith, A glorious diadem. These flowers we find forever. Beyond the " shining shore," Within the Amaranthine bowers. They bloom to pale no more. 34 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MOLLIE MOORE DAVIS. RS. MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS, the most thorough Texas poet, is a native of Alabama. Her parents im- migrated to Texas when she was quite young, and settled upon the banks of the San Marcos river in Hays county. Her parents were John Moore, of Oxford, Massachusetts, and Marion Crutchfield, of Fincastle, Virginia. She received her mental training principally from her mother who was a woman of great intelligence. The gorgeous scenes on the San Marcos, no doubt, contributed, in a great measure, to inspire the young poet. As she strolled along its beautiful valleys and beheld its crystal brightness, she caught that spirit of inspiration which afterwards spread its magic wings and sang so beautifully of that river. At the age of nine years she wrote her first poem. This so elated her mother that no pains were spared in educating her only daughter in whom she clearly dis- cerned the budding of poetic genius. When she was fourteen, her first published poem appeared in the Tyler Reporter. Mr. E. H. Gushing, at that time editor of the Houston Telegraph, was the first to recognize her genius. He was so much attracted by the genius of the young writer that for some months he had her to become a member of his family, where she had the benefit of his guidance in her studies. About the commencement of the war she began to write extensively, and soon became widely known in the South, particularly in Texas, as a writer of great promise. At the close of the war she made an extensive tour through the Northern and Eastern States in company with Mr. Gushing and family. After her return she moved to Galveston with her father's family. While residing there the death of her mother, in 1867, cast a gloom over her spirit, and, for a time, her Muse was silent, the domestic circle claiming her at- tention. Such a pen could not long be still; such a genius could not long be dormant. Her literary friends deeply regret- ted her long silence, and Amelia V. Purdy, a lady of no mean reputation, addressed to her the following beautiful lines : Thou hast been silent long ! Oh, singer, take thy lyre again and sing! And thy clear thrush notes shall be welcome as The mocking birds in Spring. Color and light are here But the rill of song that threaded the green ways Is no more heard. Oh, singerof sweet lays Once more appear ! Come, for we wait for thee ! Sing for the happy, beautiful, and glad ; Sing for the weary, grey, and grim, and sad ! Oh singer, sing for me ! Dress song in sober guise — Dun, brown, and lavender, for Care must be ; But set the gems in golden filagree, Rare as as the summer skies. For not all grey Is any life, although a fringe of Care Borders the mantle that we all must wear, Until we rest for aye. Come with thy golden lyre ; Rain silver trills upon the summer air, Sweet as mosque bells that call the good to prayer. Bright as famed hues of Tyre. In 1868 her first volume of poems, entitled Minding the Gap, appeared, published by E. H. Cushing, Houston, Texas. In 1870 another edition appeared, with a number of additional poems ; and again in 1872, a third edition appeared, considera- bly enlarged. Since publishing this book of poems she has 36 Poets and Poetry of Texas. written extensively for magazines and periodicals both North and South, and in 1878 she began work upon along poem which she designs to bring out in elegant style when the proper time arrives. In 1874 she was married to T. E. Davis, of Virginia, Mr. Davis was for quite a time one of the proprietors of the Hous- ton Telegram. Mrs. Davis is richly endowed with the poetic faculty, and is decidedly more thoroughly Texan in subject, in imagery, and spirit than any of the Texas poets. Scarcely any other than one born in the "Lone Star" State can appreciate all the mer- its of her poems, so strongly marked are they by the peculiar- ities of Texas scenery and patriotism. Her poems, /San Marcos River and Galveston, are productions of rare beauty. They are highly descriptive and show a rich and fertile imagination. Her little poem, Going Out and Coming In, has been copied more extensively, perhaps, than anything she has ever written. Prof. James Wood Davidson, in speaking of this poem, makes use of the following language : "She is essentially Southern and in a high degree Western in her style of thought. She has none of that fade sentimen- tality that too often marks the verses of young ladies. A some- thing of earnestness and directness of utterance in her best poems reminds us of these characteristic qualities in Miss Mulock's poems." This poem is peculiar and somewhat abrupt in its metrical flow, but beautifully suggestive. I give it in full : — OING out to fame and triumph, ) Going out to love and light ; Coming in to pain and sorrow, Coming in to gloom and night. Going out with joy and gladness, Coming in with woe and sin ; Ceaseless streams of restless pilgrims Going out and coming in I PoKTS AND Pol/rUY OF TkXAP. 37 Tlu'ou^li tlic portals of the homestead, From beneath the blooming vine ; To the trumpet tones of glory, Where the bays and laurels twine ; From the loving home-caresses To the chill voice of the worlds Going out with gallant canvass To the sunnner breeze unfurled. Through llie gateway, down the footpath, Througli the lilacs by the way ; Through the clover by the meadow, Where the gentle home-lights stray ; To the wide world of ambition, Up the toilsome hill of fame, Winning oft a mighty triumph. Winning oft a noble name. Coming back all worn and weary. Weary with the world's cold breath ; Coming to the dear old homestead, Coming in to age and death. Weary of its empty (latt(^ry, Weary of its ceasless din. Weary of its heartless sneering. Coming from the bleak, world in. Going out with hopes of glory, Coming in with sorrows dark ; Going out with sails all flying, Coming in with niastless barque. Restless stream of pilgrims, striving Wreaths of fame and love to win. From the doorways of the homestead Going out and coming in ! What a wonderful difference between the poem just quoted and Stealing Roses Throvgh the Gate\ 'Tis a strange contrast. If is one of the strangest caprices of her genius. But it would be difficult to find a more beautiful picture, or one more true to nature. The school girls tripping along by the stately mansion and half in earnest half in jest pluck the tempting roses that grow so near the heavy gate. But what an extraordinary change is presented! The whispering, the cooing and the innocent and mischievious glances and finally the stealing of the roses from the lips. I quote the poem : — ^jjjrONCT ago, do you remember, ')M When we sauntered home from school, "'f'^Ag the silent gloaming settled, With its breezes light and cool ? When we passed a stately mansion, And we stopped, remember, Kate, How we spent a trembling moment Stealing roses through the gate ! But they hung so very tempting, And our eager hands were small. And the bars were wide — oh, Kittie, We trembled, but we took them all ! And we turned with fearful footstep, For you know 'twas growing late. But the llowers, we hugged them closely. Hoses stolen through the gate ! Well, the years have hastened onward. And those happy days are flown : Golden prime of early childhood, Laughing moments spent and gone ! But ycstre'en I passed your cottage. And I saw, oh, careless Kate ! Handsome Percy bending downward. Stealing roses through the gate ! Stealing roses, where the willow- O'er the street its long bough dips : Stealing roses — yes, I'd swear it, Stealing roses from your lips ! And I heard a dainty nmrmur. Cooing round some blessed fate : Don't deny it ! Wasn't Percy Stealing roses_^through the gate ? Poets and Poetry op Texas. 39 The following poem — Lee at the Wilderness — touched the hearts of the Avhole South when it first appeared. It is a noble tribute to a noble man and will grow more popular as time glides along. It commemorates the deeds of the Texas Brigade under General Hood, at the Battle of the Wilderness, and a vivid picture of that "terrible moment." It no doubt inspired the artist, McArdle, to put on canvas that grand painting of his — "Lee at the Wilderness." I will mention here, however, that this work of art was destroyed with the burning of the old Capitol a few years iv^o. The poem is not too long to be read. I Kivc it entire : — f i *^^r WAS a terrible moment ! ^\ J The blood and the rout ! ^T' llis great bosom shook With an awful doubt. Confusion in front. And a pause in the cries ; And a darkness like night Passed over our skies : There were tears in the eyes Of General Lee. As the blue-clad linos Swept fearfully near. There was wavering yonder, And a Itreak in tiic cheer Of our columns unsteady ; But, "We are here ! We are ready With rifle and blade," Cried the Texas Brigade To General Lee. He smiled — it meant death, That wonderful smile ; It leaped like a flame Down each close-set file : And we stormed to the front With a long, loud cry — 40 Poets and Poetry of Texas. We liad long ago learned Plow to charge, and to die. There was faith in the eye Of General Lee. But a sudden pause came, As we dashed on the foe, And our seething columns Swayed to and fro : Cold grew our blood, Glowing like wine. And a cjuick, sharp whisper Shot over our line, As our rank ojtened wide ; And there by one side Rode General Lee. How grandly he rode ! With his e3'^es on fire, As his great bosom shook With an awful desire ! But, ''Back to the rear ! Till vou ride to the rear. We will not do battle With gun or with blade !" Cried the Texas Brigade To General Lee. And so he rode back ; And our terrible yell Stormed up to the front ; And the fierce, wild swell, And the roar and the rattle. Swept into the battle From General Lee. I felt my foot slip In the gathering fray — I looked, and my brother Lay dead in my way. I paused but one moment, To draw him aside : Ah, the gash in his bosom Was bloody and wide! But he smiled, for he died For General Lee, Christ! 'twas maddening work ; But the work was done, And a few came back When the hour was won. Let it glow in the peerless Records of the fearless — The charge that was made By the Texas Brigade For General -Lee. The i)oems presented here will sustain her reputation as the poet of nature — The Texas Mocking Bird. While she had favor- able opportunities for learning, yet her own transcendent gen- ius was her best teacher. In all her poems she has developed a poetic talent, a cultured intellect, an excellent taste, and a thorough mastery of her subjects. These combined excellen- cies, so necessary to the poet of nature, are rarely found in one of her temperament. Her descriptions are true to nature, with a telling moral and burning passion- natural, simple and true to poetic feeling. Prof. J. W. Weber says of her: "Prominent among the wn)men of the South who have made the world better by their pen is Mollie E. Moore, of Texas, Earnest, passionate and brilliant, she wields a powerful influence over her sex. She has successfully fought the fierce battle of adversity, and now tri- umphs over all opposition." Mrs. Davis is at present a resident of New Orleans, where her husband went a few years ago to accept a position upon the Times-Democrat of that city. 42 Poets and Poetey of Texas. MINDING THE GAP. 1863. 'HERE is a radiant beauty on the hills — ) The year before us Avalks with added bloom: T But, ah! 'tis but the hectic flush that lights The pale consumptive to an early tomb — The dying glory that plays round the day When that which made it bright hath passed away ! A mistiness broods in the air — the swell Of east winds, slowly Aveaving Autumn's pall, With dirge-like sadness, wanders uj) the dell; And red leaves from the maple branches fall With scarce a sound. What strange mysterious rest! Hath Nature bound the Lotus to her breast? But hark! a long and mellow cadence wakes The echoes from their rocks ! How clear and high Among the rounded hills its gladness breaks. And floats, like incense, toward the vaulted sky ! It is tiie harvest hymn ! A triumph tone, It rises like those swelling notes of old That welcomed Ceres to her golden throne. When through the crowded streets her chariot rolled. It is the laborers' chorus; for the reign Of plent}^ hath begun — of golden grain. How cheeks are flushed with triumph, as the fields Bow to our feet with riches ! How the eyes Grow full with gladness, as they yield Their ready treasures ! How hearts arise To join with gladness in the mellow chime — " The harvest-time ! The glorious harvest-time !" It is the harvest, and the gathered corn Is piled in yellow heaps about the field; Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 43 And homely wagons, from the break of morn Until the sun glows like a crimson shield In the far west, go staggering homeward bound. And with the dry husks strew the trampled ground. It is the harvest — and an hour ago I sat with half-closed eyes beside the " spring," And listened idly to its dreamy flow, And heard afar the gay and ceaseless ring Of song and labor from the harvesters — Heard faint and careless, as a sleeper hears. My little brother came with bounding step, And bent him low beside the shaded stream, And from tlio fountain drank wilh eager lip; While I, half roused from my dream, Asked wdiere he'd spent this still September day — " Chasing the birds, or on the hills at play ?" Backward he tossed his golden head, and threw A glance disdainful on my idle hands, And, with a proud lighfjn his eye of blue. Answered, as deep his bare feet in the sands He thrust, and waved his baby hand in scorn — "Ah, no; down at the cornfield since the morn I've been mindin' the gap !" " Minding the gap !" My former dream was gone ! Another in its place: I saw a scene As fair as e'er an autumn sun shone on — Down by a meadow, lar^e and smooth and green, Two little'barefoot boys, sturdy and strong And fair, here in the corn, the whole day long. Lay on the curling grass. Minding the gap ! Minding the gap ! And as the years swept by Like moments, I beheld those boys again; And patriot hearts within their breasts beat high, And on their^brows was set the seal of men; And guns w'ere'on their shoulders, and they trod Back and forth, with measured step, upon the sod, Near where our army slept, Minding the gaps ! 44 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Minding the gaps ! My brothers, while you guard The open places, where a foe might creep — A mortal foe — oh, mind those other gaps — The open plac' s of the heart! My brothers, keep Watch over them. The open places of the heart- the gaps Made by the restless hands of Doubt and Care — Could we but keep, like holy sentinels. Innocence and Faith forever guarding there, Ah, how much of woe and shame would tlee Affrighted back from their blest purity ! No gloom or sadness from the outer world, With feet unholy then would enter in. To grasp the golden treasures of the soul, And bear them forth to sorrow and to sin ! The heart's proud fields — its harvests full and fair ! Innocence and Love, could we but keep them there, Minding the gaps ! FANNIE A, D. DARDEN. Poets and Poetry of Texas. FANNIE BAKER DARDEN. HIS gifted and versatile writer is a daughter of General Mosley Baker, a sketch of whom I shall give as introduc- tory to what I write of Mrs. Darden. General Baker in very early life exhibited the great genius and force of char- acter which distinguished him in after life as a young man in the legislature of Alabama and as one of the most enthusiastic advocates of the Texas Revolution. He was among the first to raise a company in defense of Texas Independence and the first to successfully resist the approach of Santa Anna; having, with only thirty men — at the crossing at San Felipe — compelled his whole army to retreat down the Brazos to a crossing in the vi- cinity of Richmond. He distinguished himself especially at the battle of San Jacinto by his gallantry ; and afterwards in the congress of the Texas Republic by his manly eloquence, and by his statesmanship. But it was as an advocate that he attained his highest distinction; and as the cotemporary with Wharton and Jack, it was universally conceded that the three stood unrivelled in legal attainments and resistless eloquence. Mrs. Darden is a native of Alabama. She was born near Montgomery September, 1829. Her first recollection is of that beloved spot. At seven years of age her father started with his little family to the wilds of Texas to seek fortune and fame. This hopeful and enthusiastic little family set sail on the brig "Eldorado" for Texas in the spring of 1837, and landed at Gal- veston at the end of eleven days' ^travel, during which time they encountered two severe storms. I give the following pen picture from Mrs. Darden, written to a friend. It expresses in fitter terms than I can, her varied emotions on arriving at Gal- veston Island : — ''How beautiful Galveston looked lying low amid the blue waves as we approached it in our yawl which could not reach the shore on account of the shallowness of the Avater. There was only one house on the Island, which was situated on the east point of the Island. This was used as headquarters for the officers in command. Quite a number of tents, forming almost a small village, were occupied by the Mexican prisoners who had not yet been returned. The officers were very courteous to us all; and I, who had heard so much concerning the fairy land, almost imagined that I had reached that enchanted countr,y, as I ran to and fro along the beach gathering shells or chasing the retiring waves. During the day, we embarked in a sail boat for Houston. Although only seven years of age, I remember many incidents connected with our journey. The novelty of sailing in so little a boat; the dancing waves; the dim grey outline of the mainland, as we approached it, not forgetting the fresh, sweet milk and hard tack on which we made our supper that night, the taste of which was so delicious after our long sea voyage as to remain a perpetual and enduring memory. We spent the first night at Spellman's Island, and the second at Patterson's, further up. We stopped a short while at the bat- tle field, where so lately had been done such valorous deeds with such glorious results, and my mother led me to the seven graves of the Texans killed in that memorable conflict. The earth was still fresh above tbem. They 'seemed so peacefully l3dng there in the soft mist of the spring morning, with the grass gently waving around them, interspersed with innumerable flowers, while the gleaming waters swept in hushed silence at their feet. It seemed hard to realize that one year before, this silence had been broken by the turmoil of battle ; by the shouts of victory, and by the groans of agony and despair. And my mother ! how these scenes recall her to my mind. So gentle, so fair and so young — she too, sleeps her last sleep beneath a Texas sky, a Texas soil." Mr. Baker remained a few days with his family at Harris- burg, and then continued his journey to Houston, on the little steamboat " Laura," of historic memory. This boat was ex- ceedingly small, and it was with some difficulty that she could navigate her way in the narrow and tortuous bayou amid the overhanging boughs that swept her guard and sometimes threat- ened to carry away her cabin. They reached Houston at nighty and were comfortably housed in the only house in Houston — a log cabin, which Gen. Houston, with his accustomed gallantry and genuine kindness, had resigned to their use. Although at that time this Avas the only house in Houston, yet it could not be called a small place, for there was quite a population already gathered there in tents and shanties, and even beneath the spreading boughs of the strong oaks which grew in majesty throughout the place. Indeed, Houston has never been, from her earliest beginning, anything less than a city. The Com- mander-in-Chief of the Army, with his little command, was there ; large numbers of Mexican prisoners, waiting to be re- turned to their homes, were there. Business sprung up as if by magic. Forest fell beneath the ringing axe of our sturdy pio- neers. Broad fields waved with the bending wheat and rye and greamed with the yellow plumes of ripening corn. The seat of government was soon established there, and everything aided to make it a city indeed. She had her Capitol, her President, her Cabinet, her Congress, her Ministers from foreign countries, and everything to form a Capital complete in all its parts. Peo- ple who knew nothing of the Republic of Texas, thought our society the very synonym of ruffianism, while on the contrary, it was, at the Capital, at least, the embodiment of culture, re- finement and elegant manners. It is true that there was, for a while, a great incongruity in the surroundings; but no over- drawn picture has ever been given by those who have a knowl- edge of the early history of Texas. There was real majesty in Gen. Houston's physique, bearing and manners, and his men- tal capacity was in full accord with it all. In 1842, Mrs. Darden returned to Alabama to attend school. She remained there until the spring of 1846, when she returned Poets and Poetry of Texas. to her home in Texas, and the next year was married to Mr. Wm. J. Darden, of Norfolk, Virginia. They moved to Colum- bus in 1852, where they now reside. Mr. Darden is engaged in the practice of law. He was wounded at the battle of Sharps- burg, which disabled him for further duty during the war. At a very early age, Mrs. Darden commenced a novel, but, soon after her marriage, destroyed the manuscript. Since then she has written a goodly number of noveletts and a series of stories. Romances of the Texas Revolution deserve special men- tion. She has gained no little reputation as an artist, and her paintings in oil colors are unique and show great artistic genius. Ida Raymond, in her book. Living Female Writers of the South, places Mrs. Darden among the first of our Texas authors. It is utterly impossible to convey an adequate idea of her powers by extracts, owing to the many themes on which she has writ- ten. Ease and grace characterize her lesser effusions; force and vigor distinguish her greater. "As a Southern author, Mrs. Darden deserves special men- tion. Her productions are of the highest type of art, and com- pare, in beauty of conception and design, with the southern literati in general." — Dio Rivers in Vieios of Southern Literature. I present the following from her pen: Yokonah, Grandmoth- er's Baby and Nature's Festival. YOKONAH. I HEN the night is dark and dreary, And the winds are loud and high. And the fleeting clouds are drifting Swift athwart the leaden sky? Then I hear a sad and plaintive Moaning sound, And my startled ear, attentive. Lists to catch the sigh profound, For it comes from out the branches Of the sycamore that stands Near my window waving toward me, What appears like ghostly hands. For I look and see its outline Well defined against the sky, Waving high its arms in anguish As the stormy gust sweeps by, And it seems an Indian warrior. One of old. Such as those whose ancient glory, Still adown the ages roll, And I see the mantle lloattng 'Round the tall, majestic form, While his crested plume is waving With the wildly sobbing storm. But a weariness o'ercomes me. And I turn to rest and dreams, When against my window — barken ! Like a finger-tip it seems. And I look, and lo! the Indian Once again Looms before me, and I see him Tapping on my window pane. And he waves me to come near him, And he sighs a mournful tale. And his voice sounds weir'd and dreary, Mingled with the tempest's wail. I was once a mighty chieftain. And Yokonah was my name; I will tell thee of my valor. For it means the Burning Flame; And o'er all these widespread prairies, With a band Of my noble braves I wandered — I was Chieftain of the land. But the Indians' day of glory, Like the dying sun has set, Though it sheds a softened radiance O'er the sky of mem'ry yet. Dost thou think, thou foolish pale-face, Thou art wiser in thy pride Than my mighty hand of warriors When we trod' these prairies wide ? Then my eagle glance, undaunted, Scanned the plain, And our foemen knew our valor In their hosts of warriors slain ; Then our wampum helts were heavy With their scalps all reeking — wet — And their scattered tribes diminished Tell our tale of glory yet. But alas ! I could no longer Wield my weapons as of yore, And there stood one night a warrior Just before my wigwam door, In the dim light, tall and shadowy He stood there, And he waved me on to follow To the Spirit Land most fair : I was gathered to my fathers In the happy hunting ground, But to thee I'll not discover This deep mystery profound. And my form — they laid it gently On our mother Earth's soft breast, While they chanted loud — compelling Evil spirits from their quest. And they placed my bow and arrow In my hand, For they knew that I would need them In the happy hunting land ; But the centuries passed o'er me, And my dust resolved once more, By a fixed decree of Nature, Then became this sycamore. But 'tis only when the tempest O'er the night-winds wildly shriek, That my spirit comes, to quicken This fair tree, that it may speak. Now I swear thee, pale-face woman With a vow, That ye tell my talc of triumph, How with spear and bended bow I have put to flight my foemon On tlie warpath's deadly trail, While within their camps resounded Woman's agonizing wail. What is this ? 'J'he day is breaking And the storm has passeil away, And the East, with rosy blushes Heralds soft the coming day ; And I look to see the Chieftain Of the night. But l)ehold ! his form is vanished In the clear, revealing light. And I know that I would deem it A delusion of the brain If his fingers were not tapping Still upon my window pane. GRANDMOTHER'S BABY. 'HERE'S a joy in my heart which I fain would tell, There's a love that" all otiior loves excel, Which is wrought by the witching, beguiling spell Of baby! Grandmother's Baby. He's a small, wee thing to enchain mo so, But liis power of enchantment is strong, I trow, And the sweetest of creatures on earth, I know, Is baby, Grandmother's Baby. One day there came with a wailing cry. Like a snow-white dove, as if sent from on high, This darling; and none were so happy as I, For 'twas baby, Grandmother's Baby. 52 Poets and Poetry of Texas. And it came to my heart and nestled there, And my soul rose up with a thankful prayer For the gift which had come, so soft and fair As baby, Grandmother's Baby. And day by day he grew more dear, And now, as his prattling voice I hear, 'Tis like sweetest music upon my ear. For 'tis baby, Grandmother's Baby. And when he toddles adown the street, There is nothing to me that is half so sweet As the pattering sound of the little feet Of baby, Grandmother's Baby. And I love to think, when he looks so wise From the thoughtful depths of his earnest eyes, Of the future greatness that waiting lies For baby, Grandmother's Baby; And the hearts he will win will be not a few. But I know there will none be as tender and true As is mine, with the love which each hour will renew For baby, Grandmother's Baby. And I pray every day to that Mighty Power Who hath given me this tender flower To guard from all ill through life's every hour, This baby, Grandmother's Baby; That the soul he hath lent us all stainless may be When it wingeth its flight to eternity. And entereth Heaven with Christ as its plea ; And I pray that e'en there will be given back to me, My baby — Grandmother's Baby. NATURE'S FESTIVAL! WAS the first of May, and the glad young day Was robed in her jewels bright For the diamonds rare, on her green robe fair Gleamed forth with a radiant light Poets and Poetry of Texas. 53 And the soft echoes all, quick reply to the call Of the great iron steed which is heard above all As it whistles up breaks, And away to the lakes, On a picnic he flies from his stall. On a picnic so gay, on this first of May VVhat faces are gathered here, There are age and youth ; and I think, forsooth That some are surpassing fair But of ugliness none, for such good-humored fun Halh illumined all faces that even the sun Just peeped in for a while, With a fraternal smile Ere he mounted his fiery throne. But what startling sight, the glad morning light Displays to our wondering eyes For the trees are all, at a festival As onward our swift car flies. And they whirl and go 'round o'er the soft verdent ground In the polka, mazourka and waltz they are found In the wild gallopade In the grave promenade While some with the pigeon wing bound. You would laugh with glee, if you could but see How the live ouk clasps the ash And the sycamore, and the elm before Like a whirlwind gayly dash; While the hackberries race and the elders keep pace, And the little young scions their arms interlace. All with jollity gay On this bright first of May, And enrobed in their holiday dress. But some burlesque, in garment grotesque Ostensibly 'round parade. Some incognito, in moss domino. All wild for a masquerade. There's the grey hooded fryar, and the men, and the 'squire And the peasant and queen, in her royal attire, Some with vines all entwined In tlie mazy dance wind While for fun thoy united conspire. In each shady dell, where the wood nymphs dwell They are keeping holiday, And they laugh, I ween, at the grotesque scene Of the trees and shruhs so gay. But all nature turns out with a laugh and a shout And abandons herself to the joy giving rout On this festival day. Of the bright joyous May So the wood nyni})lis have no need to be llout. And the carpet spread for fair Flora's tread Is rich with her radiant flowers, And within the grove, in each still alcove (Uiy vines have en wreathed lier bowers. And the azure arcade, clear and bright overhead Sheds the light of romance on the beauties now spread I>y kind Nature's own hand, Which her magical wand Hath dispersed amid sunshine and shade. But the festive grove, as away we move, In the distance far grows gray, And the prairies green, with a smile serene, Stretch out till dissolved away In the horizon dim, while above us sublime. Arranged tier above tier that like white statues gleam, Are the clouds in array As if placed for display By Eolus in some freakish whim. 'Gainst a background blue, there are 'ranged to view In colossal groupings quaint A genii of old, and an iceberg cold. And there is a penitent snint. Here a grim IMinntnur, there the archer Centaur, 'Tis enough to sot wild the most skilled connoisseur, And a sphynx and a ghost. And a ship tempest tost. And a charioteer just on a tour. f Poets and Poetry of Texas. 55 'Gainst the ether Lluo, there arc linings true As done by a master hand, And the etchings bold, seem as done in gold All incomparably grand; And the sun beaming love from his skylight above, Like a kind gentle critic these beauties to prove, Sheds his softest rays in On this magical scene. Brightening prairie, sky, streamlet and grove. Sweet Nature, to thee what true loyalty We owe for thy blessings rare. There were none more bright, or more fraught with delight, Than your wondrous pictures fai^r. On the beautiful day of the glad first of May, When all beauty beamed forth in her brightest array. When in jollity we, Full of mirth and of glee. All went forth to that picnic so gay. 56 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. LOTTIE C. EFNOR. RS. EFNOR'S maiden name was Cameron. In 1837 her father moved to Texas, landing at Valasco. After drift- ing about in the State for several years, he finally set- tled in Austin county, where he raised a ftimily of five chil- dren, who were subject to all the privations of a pioneer life. Of her mother she says : " We inherited all the love for books, learning, and general literature that we possess. She was an insatiable reader, and remembered all she read with a vivid- ness that was astonishing." When quite young, Mrs. Efnor was married to a Mr. Walton, of Alabama, but was left a widow in about ten months. Soon afterward she moved to Nashville, Tennessee, where she re- mained a half year. She then proceeded to Liverpool, New York, for the purp(?se of attending school; but in a very short time she was married to Mr. H. S. Efnor, of Saratoga, who imme- diately moved to Texas, and now resides in Hempstead. During the days of the Confederacy, Mrs. Efnor toiled for the South as though her only success depended upon her indi- vidual efforts ; and many a sick soldier has gone rejoicing from the Hempstead Hospital, in which she was matron. In 1874, Mrs. Efnor was appointed chairman of the Ladies' Department of the " Texas Historical Association of Owen- ville," but ill health compelled her to abandon the work early, since which it has not been resumed. Her contributions to the Texas press number many hun- dred, and reach back as far as 1850. The poem I present here was written as late as 1876, and is one of her best. r Poets and Poetry of Texas. 67 DREAMING. HE meadows are fragrant and blooming, The day-god bows low in the west ; Sweet nature the air is perfuming, The low winds are wooing to rest. The gardens with odors are teeming, Like zephyrs are fanning my brow ; How can I but fall into dreaming Of changes all visible now\ My thoughts in delightful illusions, Are roaming all Fairyland o'er ; For never was greater profusion Spread out on her marvelous floor. The skies are distilling light showers, That fall in soft, tissue-like veils ; They silver the vine-covered bowers, And freshen the sweet-smelling gales. I sit here alone in the gloaming. While mocking birds joyously sing, And call my sad thoughts from their roaming, With songs full of beautiful spring. I list to their notes in the wild wood, Till longings my swelling heart fill ; I sigh for the home of my childhood, That lives in bright memory still. I'm thinking of the hours once cherished, Of loving and dearest ones agone ; Of hopes that in shadows have perished ; Of storm-clouds that ever frown on. Dim phantoms are borne thro' my vision, In chilling and gloomy array ; (i LAMAR FONTAINE. Poets and Poetry op Texas. 69 LAMAR FONTAINE. AJOll LAMAR FONTAINE is the author of several war Lyrics. The most famous of these is his celebrated Lyric — All Quiet Alonfj the Potomac. This poem is one of the most widely known Lyrics produced by the war, and since so many have laid claims to its authorship, it has become one of national fame. There are nearly a dozen contestants for this honor. Several of whom have written and i)ublished much to substantiate their claims. Among the most prominent of them are Lamar Fontaine, Dr. Thaddeus Oliver, and Mrs. Ethel Beers. The question has long been discussed ; and has been considered "settled" more than once, but even now the world has not rendered its verdict. Soon after the death of Mrs. Beers, in LS79, Porter & Coats, Philadelphia, brought out a volume of her poems, entitled, ^ii Quiet Along the Potomac and Other Poems. The appearance of this book will have a tendency to strengthen her claims to the authorship of the poem. Mr. Bryant, in his book — Poetry and Song — credits it to her without comment. But this only con- vinces me that he had never investigated the subject of its au- thorship, or cared little for the facts of history. James W. Davidson, in his book — Living Writers of the South — gave the statement of Major Fontaine, part of which I present here. I shall also give letters never before published. In a letter to Prof. James Wood Davidson Major Fontaine says : "I wrote the poem in question, on the 2nd day of August, 1861. I lirst read it to a few of my messmates. My captain's name was John D. Alexander, of Campbell county*, Virginia. John Moon, P. Graham, Early, W. W. Williams, and one GO Poets and Poetky ok Texas. or two privates IVom Cos. C and G , wlioso names 1 have forgotten, were also present. Durin<:? the month of August, I gave away many manuscript coi)ies to sohliers and some few to hidies in and about lieesburg, Loudon county, ^'irginia. * * :l< "These are the facts. I wish that I could remember names more a<:curately, so as to give you a wider sco})e from whence you could gain more information regarding the early histi)ry of the poem in question. Mr. Graluun, one of the gentlemen re- ferred to, was a rehitive of Captain Alexander, Messrs. Moon and Early were cousins. Mr. Williams was our Orderly Ser- geant. I believe they all reside near Campbell Court House. Virginia, and 1 refer you to any of these gentlemen. * * "I hope the controversy between myself and others in regard to All Quiet Along the Potomac will soon be forever settled. I "wrote it, and the world knows it ; and they may howl over it, and give it to as many others as they please. I wrote it, and I am a Southern man, and am proud of the title." Pursuant to Major Fontaine's statement, Mr. Davidson ad- dressed a letter to Captain J. D.' Alexander who replied as follows : " In regard to the authorship of All Quiet Along the Potomac, the first I heard of it was in the fall of 18G1, Avhile I was in command of the cavalry stationed at Lecsburg. ]\Ir. Fontaine was then a member of my company, and I understood he was the author of it. All his messmates say he certainly was the author of it of which J h'tve no doubt. Messrs. Pugh, Magan, ^^^)scdale, Moosman, and others with whom I have conversed, all agree that he is the author." To the above letter I shall add one to me, written in reply to one I addressed making inquiry concerning the poem. It is from Miss Mary L. Robinson, and bears date McRca, Georgia, September 20, 1879, as follows : "The poem of which I wrote you last June, and which I send inclosed, was found among my father's papers in 18G9, a few days after his death from consumption. My father was a Poets and Poetry of Ticxas. fil man of literiiry tasto, and highly appreciated poetry coming from his own section. "You will ohservo that it is dated 'In Camp, August 29, 18G1,' and has this note on the back: ' Written by a Confed- erate soldier.' " During the months of June, July, August, and September my father was in Virginia. I do not know his command. Early in October ho came home, but soon went to his command in Georgia, where he remained until 1863, when he returned home a cripple, and never entered the army again. I do not remember ever to have hoard him speak of its author — only that it was written by a Southern soldier." The poem sent mo by Miss Robinson was written on old- fashion scjuare account paper, such as was largely used in the South during tiie war. It was almost dim from age and bad usage, although an exact copy of the original furnishc^d by Major Fontaine. The statement from Major Fontaine, without any other, ap- pears suUiciently convincing. Captain Alexander corroborates what Major Fontaine says. The poem and letter from Miss RobiuBon make a very strong case. But I have not stopped here. June 12, 1885, I addressed a letter to Major Fontaine, and received from him the following reply, bearing date Hilton, Mississippi, June 24, 1885 : " Yours of the 12th instant received. In reply I send you the history of All Quiet Along the Potomac as it is given to the Tennessee Historical Society, written upon a postal card. This statement is plain — the trutii, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I am a native-l)orn Texan, and one of the oldest in Austin's Colony, My fjither founded the school system of Texas, and was M. B. Tjamar's private secretary while he was President of the Republic, My heart and hopes are with my native State, and to her belongs the poet who wrote All Quiet Along the Potoviac, and I hope your book will soon do him full justice." 02 Poets and Poetry of Texas. I give such of the statement referred to in Major Fontaine's letter as space will permit : " You will remember that at the battle of Manassas I was a private in Co, K — the Bart Rifles — in the 18th Mississippi Reg- iment, and in that fight I was severely wounded by a cannon shot, and almost unfitted for any kind of duty, and I got a trans- fer from the infantry to the cavalry, and joined the Campbell Rangers, Co., 2d Va. Cav., under Col. Racliff. As soon as I was fit for duty, I left the hospital tent, near Manassas, and re- ported for duty. I did not know anyone in the regiment, but they were from Campbell coynty, and most of them from near the Blue Ridge; one, a Mr. Moore, from just under the Peaks of Otter, one of the highest points in the Blue Ridge. A strong friendship sprung up between us, as we were of the same tem- perament, and exceedingly fond of poetry, and we spent many happy hours and pleasant days together, and always contrived to be on picket duty in company. The officers of my company were Capt. Jno. D. Alexander, Lieutenants Page, Deprist and Graham. The Orderly Sergeant, W. W. Williams, was a tal- ented man, and a iine critic. Moore and I were about the same age, and full of vigor and life, and constantly on the alert for adventures of all kinds. We would do many daring deeds, in hopes that our names would shine on the pages of history. And our ambition was unbounded ; but we were privates, and the world takes but little cognizance of them, as the histories of all wars have proved. Mr. Moore was a married man, and he would often read me portions of his letters from his noble wife; she was a patriot of the true stamp, and her letters revealed her feelings. Two beautiful little babies had blessed their union, and a father's proud love almost made angels of them. And his conversation was frequently of his home, his wife and prat- tling infants, and he longed for the day when he could again clasp them to his heart, and enjoy the sweets of bis own moun- tain home. But at the time I write of, the Confederate lines were very weak. Every man who could do so, under any kind «miKt:^Mn Poets and Poetry of Texas. 63 of pretense, had gone home on furlough, to tell about the great battle of Manassas, and the consequence was that our picket lines were thin, and had to be stretched over a vast extent of river front, and we had but few men to]do it with, and we who were on the front had to do double duty, and we did not enjoy it much, although never a murmur escaped our lipa. As I have said, Moore and I were together, whether on picket or guard duty. We clung to each other. We bought little hand- books of poems, Byron, Burns and others ; and together we would sit in the cool shade of trees or hanging rocks that lined the Potomac above the falls of Senaca and read aloud to each other passages from our favorite authors. And our souls would drink in the glories of the scenes around us. On the second day of August, 1861, we were on picket duty just above the head of the island, near the Senaca falls on the Potomac. We had received some late papers from our friends, and Moore had received a letter from his wife, inclosing a pho- tograph of his two little children. He read me portions of his wife's letter, and they breathed the strongest sentiments of love for him and patriotism for her country. She fully realized the sacrifice she was making, and her letter, to me, seemed to be filled with a feeling that she was soon to suffer some great sor- row. Alas, how soon was it to be a reality ! While reading the papers, I was hailed by a Federal picket from across the river, and asked if I had any late papers, and if I would exchange with him. I replied in the affirmative, and at the request to meet him half way, I stripped, and taking the late paper, swam to the head of the island, and we exchanged. After some conversation, I agreed to ac^mpanyhim to his post, and partake of the hospitalities of his camp. So swiming across to the Maryland shore, I put on one of the overcoats of the guard, and ate a hearty meal, and made arrangements with the entire post that we would not fire at one another while on guard. All parties agreed, and after some time elapsed, I pre- pared to swim back, and invited my late entertainer to accom- pany me, and I would give him some Old Virginia chewing to- bacco. He agreed, and side by side we divided the waters, and reached our shore. Here we entertained our guest for some time, and made him a liberal donation of tobacco, both chew- ing and smoking, and he enjoyed liis visit and bade us adieu, with many well wishes and hopes for our future prosperity and a speedy termination of hostilities. We echoed his sentiments and bade him adieu. We had to stand on post six hours at a time. That night I took my stand at six and Moore retired to rest. The nights were chilly, and we usually kept some fire burning. There was a small spring of water close by, and a large fallen pine tree that I used to sit on and rest at times in walking my beat, and I have frequently sto])ped at the spring and bathed my face, when the dreary monotony of the still night had a ten- dency to lull me to sleep. As soon as I found that midnight had arrived, I stepped to the fire and threw on some pine knots, and roused Moore to take my place. He rose slowly and gathered his gun and stepped to the fire, stretched himself, as a sleepy soldier will, and gaped and yawned ; and while his arms were extended, and his hand grasped the barrel of his gun, there was a flash across the river, and the whiz of a bullet, and he sank to the earth, with a hole just above his eye on the left side, from which flowed a dark-crimsoned tide. Not a word, not a groan escaped him. I removed his remains from near the fire where he had fallen. And as I did so, my eyes fell on the telegraphic columns of a newspaper, and it was headed "All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night," And oh, how truthful it was. It was certainly all "quiet" with me, and with him whom I loved as a brother. I could not help but shed a tear, and my thoughts reverted to his home, his wife and his children, and to the falsehood told by those whose guest I had been, and whose treachery had caused his death, and they grew bitter, and a demon— vengeance — arose in my heart, which was not stilled until the white dove of peace had spread her snowy pinions over the whole face of the land, and the bomb shells rolled across the sward the plaything of a child. When morning dawned, the words on that newspaper were burned in my brain — they rang in my ears, and were painted on every scene that met my view. I put my friend's effects to- gether — his letters, sword, hat, all — and expressed them to his wife, with a true and perfect description of his death. And while I stood beside his cold form and gazed at his marble face and glazed eyes, in the unbroken silence of my lonely watch, I felt what few mortals ever feel in this shadowy vale. I penned the outlines of the poem then and there, but not as they now appear, for the first were biting and sarcastic. I road the crude copy to Mr. W. W, Williams, and to Graham and Deprist. And Mr. Williams suggested that if I would only make it more pathetic, instead of sarcastic, it would take better. I did so, and on the 9th of August I had it complete, as the poem now stands, and I read it to my messmates, and received their high- est commendations, and I gave them copies of the original, and they recopicd and sent them home, and soon the whole regiment, brigade, division, and army, were in possession of it. My fjither, whom I met shortly after the completion of it, sug- gested that instead of "stray picket" I ought to say "lone picket." But the rhythm did not suit my ear, and I did not alter it. The ladies of Leesburg, in Loudon county, Virginia, put the words to music; and used to sing them for us, long be- fore they were printed. I gave one copy to a IMiss Eva Lee, and one to a Miss Hempstone. Also a copy to John M. Orr, who at the time was mayor of the town. I gave copies to many others, whosenames I cannot recall. The following is a copy from the original poem : — 4iw^ ^j^' quiet along the Potomac," they say, /!% " Except here and there a stray picket '-'^i Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket." 66 Poets and Poetry of Texas. 'Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle ; Not an officer lost — only one of the men — Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or in the light of their camp fires gleaming. A tremulous sigh as a gentle night wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping, While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack — and his face, dark and grim. Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the childen asleep — For their mother, may Heaven defend her ! The moon seems to shine as brightly as then. That night when the love 5^et unspoken Leaped up to his lips, and when low murmured vows Were pledged, to be ever unbroken ; Then drawing his sleeve roughly o'er his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling. And gathers his gun close up to its place. As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree. His footsteps are lagging and weary. Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light. Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark ! was it the night wind rustled the leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? It looked like a rifle—*' Ha !— Mary, good-by!" And the life-blood is ebbing and splashing. All quiet along the Potomac to night, No sound save the rush of the river ; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — That picket's oflT duty forever ! Were it not that this little poem had been claimed by so many, and by the Northern press generally conceded to a North- ern women — I believe living in Massachusetts — I would not again enter the arena of the public press to contend for the honors awarded me by the whole South in 1861 and 1862. Nor would I again awake from their slumbers the dark and bloody scenes that have been asleep for the past twenty years. But I feel that a duty I owe my native clime and my children, demand it. Does it seem possible to a reading public that a woman, unacquainted and unused to the scenes and incidents of war should be able to portray so good and so true a picture, and she a thousand miles from the spot? or how a Northern w^oman could write a poem so truly Southern, when the most intense and bitter animosity existed between the two sections, and a cruel, bloody war raging at the time ? It passes all comprehen- sion. And if she could do such a thing, she would be the most remarkable woman on the face of the earth. But I will not comment longer. The proposition is too absurd. I have not, as some of the newspapers accuse me of, endeavored to prove my authorship of the poem in question, in a bragadocio style, but as one who confidently asserts his rights, with truth and justice on his side, and so long as I have them both with me, I do not heed or fear all the calumnies that may be hurled at me, no matter from whence they come. I do not care for the glory and honor that decks the soldier's brow ; that time is past. I long for the quiet of my peaceful home, with my little children around me, and I love to hear their gleeful voices and ringing laughter, as it is borne on the wings of the wind, and I love to r ■■i ,ff -m.m 68 Poets and Poetry of Texas. sit in my easy chair, and feel the soft, cool hands of my wife twining among the locks of tangled hair that now begins to show the frost of half a century. And at times I tell her of the struggles fierce and wild in which I used to mingle when we fought for the cause we loved, and thought right. Prof. Davidson says of this poem : " One important point towards the poem's rapid success was its timeliness. Its scene is the edge of battle. It is tributive to the Unknown Dead, as worthy an altar as was the Unknown God of the Atlienians; and this feeling was then becoming well defined throughout our country, and is, at all times, essentially poetic. The incidents of the poem are romantic in the ex- treme, while its essential fact is in a high degree both tragic and heroic. Byron's Dying Gladiator (Childe Harold, Canto IV) is not superior in touching incidents to our Dying Picket. The rude hut by the Danube, the yoimg barbarians all at play, and the Dacian mother, have less of pathos in them than have our Picket's cot upon the mountain, the two on the low trundle-bed, and Mary, for whom a prayer had just gone up from a brave and suffering heart — less of pathos, at least to one who has trod the path of the picket, shared like dangers and exposures, and breathed like pra^^ers for some Mary whom human probability left him no hope of seeing again in life. " The poem was thus opportune ; and it went to the hearts of our people. There are several points of carelessness — crudities here and there — in the structure of the verse which detract from the poem as a work of art. The S3^stem is anapestic, and, in the main, regular. There are instances of the happy effect of irregularity, however, that are very striking; as in this verse : — ' His musket falls slack- -his face dark and grim, — ' where the omission of a syllable (after slack) gives place for a pause of one syllable's time that is ver}' effective. It is a fine touch of the happiest art. In the tenth stanza, the catastrophe in 'Ha! — Mary, good-by!' is very fine. Its abruptness and its volumc-in-a-word style are startling and suggestive. There is no cumber of words ; but the bloody deed is dashed in all its gastliness instantly at our feet. We hear the ebbing and splash- ing of his life-blood. We feel the warm current spurting upon our feet. This is genuine tragic power. This is genuine tragic effect. " The last stanza is the best in the poem; and the last verse is the best in the stanza. It is a complete poem in one single verse." This poem stands among the finest lyrics of the English lan- guage. It made the name of its author familiar to the world. Its popularity does not grow less as time passes. It was as pop- ular ten years ago as it was at the close of the war. It is as popular now as ten years ago. It will be aj)preciatcd as long as the memory of battle's fierce conflict is retained by man; as long, perhaps, as the cradle owns its infant and the lonely picket walks upon the face of the earth. To put it forcibly, I quote Davidson : — "As long as hostile hosts send sorrow over civilized country — as long as bloody death in distant lands break loving hearts at home." Major Fontaine was born in Washington county, this State. In 1840 his father moved to Austin, then the Capital of the Texas Republic. He was private secretary of President Lamar, for whom the poet is named. Many of the citizens of Austin remember him well as a truant schoolboy and young Nimrod. His father was for a number of years pastor of the Episcopal church in Austin. The portrait presented in this volume is made from a photo- graph by Oliphant, Austin, Texas, 1868, and is said by those who knew Mr. Fontaine well to be a good one. Mr. Fontaine is county surveyor of Yazoo county, Missis- sippi, and is about fifty years of age. 70 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MISS WILLIE FRANKLIN. Jimm IS.S WILLI E FRANKLIN occupies a pre-eminent posi- J)W[\< . tion amonii- that class of Texas writers whose produc- tions have been few, but in whom is discerned the poetic spirit. She has published only a few poems, but these evince a vigorous imagination and a cultured intellect. She is one of those petit spirits whose inspiring presence moves one to feel- ings of commingled joy and heartiness. Brilliant in conver- sation, with a ready wit, sparkling repartee, she occupies a most enviable place in the social world around her. Possess- ing, as she docs, nature's rarest gift — the ability to please — there is before her a sea without its commotion, and a whirl- pool without its dangers. Miss Willie was born in Tennessee. Pier parents moved to Texas just at the close of the war, and settled in Washington county, while she was an infant. She was educated at Baylor College and Waco Female College, and in her native State. Most of her poems have been published under the pen name of "Aimer Ney." She has written some very worthy ones. Al Lannee, accompanying this sketch, shows that she possesses a finished delicacy of art and rare obility to speak in those " muffle tones " which made famous The Raven, and The Bells. Mrs. F. H. Robertson, of Waco, a lady of rare attainments, and herself an author, says of Miss Franklin : " Her poems evince decided genius, and her pure and attractive style be- speak a highly cultured and chaste imagination. In her verses may be found frequent passages of pure poetic thought, not unworthy of Longfellow ; and it is the confident hope of her friends, in liierary circles, that this gifted young poet may en- roll her name among the few real poets of America." This is a compliment complimentary, coming, as it does, from one Poets and Poetry of Texas. 71 whose pen lias made the world better and the South happier by ner novel, Errors ; or The, It'KflitJul Master. I bope Miss Franklin's friends may not bo disappointed. We shall see. Miss Franklin is a resident of Waco, Texas. AFTER- A- WHILE. "OT lonfj; may we stray down the path's winding ways That lead to the land (if the lost Yesterdays, For tlie Presents's a spy, and his loud b(!ll be rings. When from his domain he detects our vvonderings To to the land of the Past. Jealous rivals are they. Rival kings whose kingdoms in warfare are gray ! Bitter warfare unceasing they'll wage to the last, Bitter foes will they be throughout time, for the Past Is a robber who fills his vast eofiers through stealth From the Present, a miser, who would keep all his wealth ! Down the river of time, as some poet has told, There's a city that's called, Long Ago. 'Tis the old Capital of the Past where he h's stored away His vast spoils — mighty empires and ages for aye. Midway of time's river, on tlie Present's white strand, Its capital lilts — a prey to the robber-king's hand ; But safe irom his touch, up the river of time^ There smiles in defiance a beautiful clime, Free from Present and Past, the one lovely thing That time may soil ne'er with the dust of his wing! 'Tis near — and now far — now it drifts close in sight — What is it ? What is it— the world's best Delight ? By what name do we know it, that fair land of bliss Where we look to find all that we seek here and miss ? No world-spoiled words fiy on white enough wings To bear thee the beauty'of its beautiful things. But in such that we have a voice it sings — Just in sight up the swift llowing river of time There's a wonderful, phantom-like Isle, So fleeting and far, and yet seeming so near, That we baptise it AJtcr-a-While. 72 Poets and Poetry of Texas. And so steeped in its splendor and mystical glow, And in beauty so perfect and bright, A spell of enchantment seems over it all. That far-away world of delight. All the turbulent sweep of the river of time It floods with its glamour and glow ; Outside of the angles' beautiful gates 'Tis the loveliest thing I know. The blue of its heaven no shadows pass o'er On the black wings of sorrow or sin, For 'tis watched by Hope's ne'er setting day-star about, And 'tis shut by eternal love in ! And there's all you may dream on that Avonderful shore — Our fairy air castles are there ; Faintly flushed the light splendors so airily left. And they gleam with a glory so fair ! How their towers they glow in that magical sky ! And they hint of no shadow or fear. For we build our air castles of everything bright. And we fill them with everything dear ! They're the homes of such tender and beautiful hopes; Life's untarnished and best loves are there ; Those we hold, they are soiled by the grime of our touch. Or climned by some sorrowful tear ! But the hallowed bloom of the dear ones afar No touch of the world yet defile, And in whiteness of beauty they make ever dear The fairy air castles of After-a-iohile. 0, the countless delights of that vanishing land ! As the summers they come and they go, What yearning hearts and what outstretched hands Are turned to its paradise glow 1 What treasure-filled ships do we see in its ports, What glimpses of beauty beguile ! What splendor and witchery make glad with delight — Ah, the glories of After-a-while ! There are glimpses of white-footed dancers afar In its outlines, just floating to view, "•>^" Poets and Poetry of Texas. 73 And, liark ! tliose light revellers, who are they that yiug And call o'er the waters to you? ' Tis — 'tis — th' beauteous Tomorrows ! and they sing of the joy They'll bring from that sorrowless Isle — 0, tlie faithless Tomorrows ! fair sirens are they Who live only in After-a-while ! In tliat port between heaven and earth — to which world It is nearer wo never may know, ' Tis the one neutral port where the angels of light JMay take toll from earth-tratlic below. Every world-offering sent, every white- winged desire. Floats otf to its shore with a prayer ■ Sweet dreams and fond hopes, better faiths, better deeds — Life's ideal-real is there. Yes ! there's all you may dream, there in hopes summer land, Whose beauty gives life its best part ! There are youth's sunny fancies and beautiful dreams, And the (^Id fairy songs of the heart ! There is less of the false tor the sin-burdened world, There is more of the earnest and true — There are happier things in that '' land o'the leal " For the world, and forme and for you ! Thus, afar off we see it through Hope's fairy light, And we watch, and we wait, and we pray ; 0, the wistful young eyes that grow dim in the watch, And the hearts that grow ashen and gray ! For wo never have reached it, that happier land, Never sail on its shore have we furled, And alas, for its treasures and fairy delights — They, the hopes of the hearts of the world ! But, 'tis After-a-wJiile when no sunbeam or song Flits athwart the dark clouds of To day — When life is a flower whose freshness and bloom, With the perfume has all passed away ! It is After-a-ivhile when the soul groweth faint, And the present wears never a smile — O, there's not in the wide world a comfort so sweet As Hope's wonderful After-Q-while I i 74 Poets and Poetry of Texas. And the eyes of the world, up the river of time, They are turned to that far-off Delight, That seems like some angel's lost dream as it drifts In its Paradise beauty to sight. With healing and life comes the gladdening glow Of its day star's magical smile, And it rounds with a rainbow the sky of all lives — The radiance of After-a-wliile! AL-LANNEE* t HERE'S a city fair and olden, Where a twilight wondrous golden, t, Seems to love always to fall, Where no sunbeams ever quiver, On the turgid moaning river Flowing by its castled wall — On the turgid river flowing Close beside its castled wall — Where no bird-song trills and trembles, And no quickened throng assembles In its ways, so broad and dim — Where no airy sculptured 8tee})le, Ever sends forth to a people Thoughts of prayer or vesper hymn. Never sound of song or gladness. Never sound of wail or sadness, Wakes that city from its sleep. That dim city, wide and olden, Wrapt in twilight weird, golden, And in silence, deathly deep — That strange city, fair and olden. Where the dim lights love to sleep. High it lifts in shadowy seeming, And so vast that mightiest dreaming Scarce could girt it round and round; * An iunugciy, suggested by the quondam supt-rstif ion that lost souls, after death, puss into a state of Nothiiiifnesg. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 75 For tliat wondrous castled Glory, Luminous, ghostly, wide and hoary In strange gloom and silence hound- That vague splendor wrapt in twilight And in weird silence found Is a soul-realm ! and into it. Opening from the walls hefore it, Leads an entrance dread to see, For o'er that great arch-way, gleaming, Is a world of mystic meaning — Word of dread doom, Al-lannee! While beneath the doom-writ portal, Standeth grim a Thing not mortal. Pointing with a mocking himd. Up the turgid moaning river. That with lost souls rise and quiver Bearing from the far Life-land — Pointing to the grim Death River Leading from the strange Life-land ! All its moaning waves on reaching That dread portal, stop, beseeching, Changeii into as many souls ! Lo ! each Wave a soul becometh ! Its course from the Life-land runneth, And the Thing of Fate that holds That dread Entrance, witli liend laughter Gives each to a lost Hereafter, And the Hell of Nothingness ! Ah! the doom! but from that ])ortal, Whose dread like 's ne'er seen by mortal, Falls a light more merciless. For o'er that grim arch-way, gleaming, Is the Word whose mystic meaning Sends a terror, madly deep. Through the wild sad souls that see it, With no power to turn and flee it. As into its light they sweep — Is that fire-writ Word that, gleaming From that death gloom, sends the meaning Of the doomed souls' last To-be ! Each dead letter binds and blights them, And the word of doom which smites them Js their last wail M-lannee — And the awful word which smites them, Is their last wail, Al-lannee! Then the Fate, with hideous laughter, (riving each to dread hcreal'ter. And the doom of nothingness^. Points beyond the gloom where, golden, Lies a city dim and olden, Wrapt in silence, brokenlcss. There the doomed Lost pass ; and ever Lifts that castled dim Forever — The fair Hell of Nothingness ! Lifts as fair as charm-wrought vision, Dimly fair as realm elysian, While without its ways, endless Silence deep, not holy, reigneth, There each wave of silence chaineth Some soul, lost in Nothingness ! Soon as passed the doom-writ portal Lifts, the soul of each lost mortal. To a Silence hopelessly — To a Nothingness ! yet ever Feels each that despair of Never Through a dread eternity ! 0, thou Mystic glorious, golden ! 0, thou Soul-land voiceless, olden, Fair cursed Al-lannee Thou fair Mystic wondrous, golden, Dim doomed Al-lannee! -I- Poets and Poetry of Texas. 77 GEORGE P. GARRISON PROFESSOR GARRISON is a Georgian by birth, and was born of wealthy parents at Carrolton, in 1858. He came to Texas in 1874 and settled in Rusk county ; and, in that county and Panola, he taught school for about five years, when he entered the University of Edinburgh. He set sail for Scot- land in the Summer of 1879. He remained there two years where he graduated with distinction. He acquired (juite a rep- utation as a poet ; and among other distinctions, ho obtained first prize for English poetic composition. After his return to America in 1881, Mr. Garrison taught in Coronal Institute, San Marcos; and in that year he was married to Miss Annie Perkins, of Rusk, Texas. His health failing him at San Marcos, he sought recreation among the mountains of Plays county, where he remained until called to take a position in the State University as Assistant Instructor of English and History, which position he still holds. He ranks very high as a literary instructor. Mr. Garrison has written a number of poems all of which show him to possess a fine poetic faculty. From his prize itoom- Solitude— I take the following ex- tract : — Far away to the South in the yet untraversed Pacific Stretches a land by the foot of adventurous man never trodden; Low lies its shore, uninviting and boachless, and into its marshes, Covered with salt-crusted sea-grass, the Ocean goes plashing forever. Vessels, with merchandise laden, and bent upon vovages of trarhc, Pass not in sight of its desolate coast, unbroken bv headlands. From its monotonous surface no mountain nor hillock arises, Catching the eye of the sailor as climbing aloft to the topmast Keenly he glances around him away to the Southern horizon. Vast are its confines unmeasured, and deep in the heart of thif region, Ruling a kingdom congenial, the Spirit of Solitude dwellcth. Like the concentrated curse of a legion of spirits in torment, Deeper than darkness Egyi)tian, Silence eternally settles — Silence oppressive and lonelj'- profound as never sat hrooding Over primeval chaos from time's remotest commencement, Deeper than tyrannous Death would allow in his moodiest moments — Silence in which, like music, the roar of the hungriest lion Sweetly would hreak on the fearful suspense of the listener wretched, Gladsome relief would he find in the demon howl of the were- wolf. Light of the sun is there not, nor the moonljeam's softer effulgence, Stars never peep through the leaves overhead with twinkle and glitter. Low on the tree tops a lead-colored vault unrifted is lying, Ever beneath it prevails a twilight pale and unearthly One unbroken duration and never by night interrupted Coming from God knows where, and so weirdly enveloping all things. Now and again does the forest divide for the l^ight of an arrow, Showing the face of a lakelet stagnant,- waveless and darksome; Black is its bosom, and on it in ghastl}' and terril:>le contrast Water lilies are floating in -whiteness palid and awful, Seeming the upturned faces of victims in agony murdered; Over them mournfully bending the willow trees stand on the margin, Sweeping the breast of the inky pool with their foliage drooping. On the gray leaves of the willows the dewdrops thickly are gathered. Thickly the answering drops on the death-hued flowers are resting ; So do the tears that have fallen on pale, dead features of loved ones Answer to tears on the cheek of mourners bending above them. Such is the mystical and where the Spirit of Solitude governs. 4- Poets And Poetiiv of Texas. 7d Man in the flesh may not enter his kingdom and gaze on its terrors. Only the wandering spirits of dreamful, wild-visioncd poets Visit a hind so unlovely, so fruitless and fearful, and bring us Strangely bewitching tales of its grandeur, its gloom, and its horrors. _.o^8 go-' FLORENCE M, GERALD. ISS GERALD is another most gentle and friendly figure 3ffffl whicli links itself to the group of Texas writers now be- " ' ing coni?idered. 8he is a scholar born, a wide and un- wearied reader, a student whose librar}' is her workshop, her field of action, the center of her life. As a writer of verse she evinces a cultured intellect, a wide range of study, and pos- sesses many attributes of a born poet. Indeed few have ex- hibited a more marked progress. She has a singular individu- ality, and writes with a higher aim than merely to please. There is an air about her writings that pleases alike the book- worm and light reader, which has a tendency to give immortal- ity to what she has written. Some of her short poems betray her real self, and carry with them the sim])licity of a child-like nature. The Lays of the Rej)iiblic, one of her longest poems, was first read to an Austin audience for the benefit of the yellow fever sufferers in 187t that day Within the yulf stream's main ! HE SINGS BECAUSE BE CAN BUT SING. \l_ K sings because he can but sing, — This is the poet's line ; 'This beaker holds lor his pure lips The sweetest of the wine. He sings because he can but sing, And beauty linds in everything. lie sings because he can but sing; No priest of art is he, To sing but for the love of gold, Or ininiovtality ! And if his voice doth make sad moans, It echoes but his spirit tones. He sings because he can but sing; The words will upward swell, And if he force them roughly back, He sounds their funeral knell ! So still he gives them room to spring, And sings because he can but sing ! The nightingale within the wood. Hath sweetest music note ; He sings because he cannot keep The music in his throat ; — ' Tis not for glory he doth wake The echoes of the hill and lake ! He cannot choose but utter, in Those music-compelling lays. The songs that gather in his heart Thro' all the summer days. Were he to sing for glistening gold, His song, to me, would soon grow cold. Whene'er his lieart is sorrowlul, His music growoth sad ; And yet the song to nie is (h-ar As when his t^nes were glad ; Beeanse it eonicth from (he heart, — Is of his very life a part ! Then, when the wings of sorrow touch The sweet-tongned singer's soul, Must he, uiHiatural, quell the voiee With reason's stern control ? All ! no ; tho' sorrowful they ring, He sings because he can but sing ! He sings because he can but sing; No reason's power is his, To crush to earth his rosy dreams Or grey-cowled memories. He sings, nor knows the reason why, — Giyes smile for smile, and sigh for sigli ! THE ROSE-LEAF ON THE WINE. SAGE, from Eastern lands remote, To classic Athens came. Seeking the wisdom he had heard Dwelt in the land of fame. Deep in the city's busy heart, A shaded garden stood, ^Vhere learned men, — their only love, — The ways of wisdom wooed. In vain he plead his eager cause And souglit admittance there, Their answer ever was the same To his repeated prayer, 90 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Until at last they weaned grew; So when he came again, To seek an answer from their lips, They sent no word's refrain, But ushered him in silence, in A frescoed chamber dim, And brought him there a goblet filled With red wine to the brim. "This is our answer!" so the}' said. Straight thro' the sage's mind Tliere flashed its meaning, as he gazed No room for more we find ; "Our circle, like the goblet there, With members is filled up ; Another drop would prove too much, And overflow the cup." One moment, with the glass in hand He paused, until liis eye Fell on a rose that blossomed lone Witliin a vase near by. He plucked a petal from the flower, A rose-lenf pink and fair, And o'er the goblet's sparkling brim He laid it, blushing there. No drop was spilled ; it floated o'er The wine's deep mantling tide, A dainty, fairy, rosy craft. Where Puck himself might ride ! A simple thing ! But still it held A meaning sweet and rare. The wise men bade him enter in, And make his dwelling there. A lesson from the rose-leaf take, Ye hearts that guard so well The entrance to the love you hide Deep in a prison's cell. Because you love a favored fcAv, Think not your hearts can hold No other guests ; read o'er the tale By ancient sages told. Think on that goblet, well filled u]), With rose-leaf o'er the wine. Pause ! Can'st thou in the legend see A case that's like to thine ? 09 POKTS AND POETHY OF TeXAS. WILLIAM M. GILLELAND, 'HIS rjitluT oxc'ontric ami unt'ortunate jxn't wasr^ Ixtm df Irish and American parents. His father was hoiii in Dub- * lin, in which city he was educatetl, having j^raihiattd IVom the University of Dublin. He immigrated to America in 1825, and remained for a short j)erio(l in Philadelphia. He was mar- ried there to a Miss Parbour, a lady of distinguislu'd family of Pennsylvania. Soon after this marriage he came to 'l\xas and settled in Cialveston. Here he remained for a few years, when he moved to the southwest part of the State, and settled on the San Antonio river. March 2, 1842, his house was surrounded by a large band of Comanche Indians, who massacred him and his wife, and took their only childT— a. boy of seven years — pris- oner. A few days after his capture he was rescued by Col. C. L. Owen's connnand, with a broken lance through his body. This is the llrst lecord we have of our poet. The early death of his parents left him without means, and he was reared with- out the advantages of education, except such as he obtained by his own exertions. He began to write verses when seventeen years old. He went to Austin, Texas, when a young man, and remained there over a quarter of a century. Most of this time he was employed in the State departments, and was for a number of years a clerk in the General Land Oihce. He was Enrolling Clerk of the Senate for two terms, and was also Librarian of the Supreme Court. During this period, I iind that he published many poems througliout the South. In 1804 he wrote his greatest poem — The Burial March of General Tom Green, — and the high esteem in which the South held this noble man, and the tender- ness and sublime pathos of the poem, at oiice touched the heart Poets and PoKxitY of Texas. 03 of the people, and giiined for the author an undying fame. This poem is marked throughout by the strength and vivacity of original genius. Every lino in it is distinct and prominent, and stainps upon the mind the impression of reality ; and when it first appeared it struck all by the delicacy of his thoughts and the richness and eloquence of his fancy. His stylo throughout is rhythmical, showing his natural ear for music. " Harsh numbers arc turned to perfect accord ; hatred of oppression has made way for broad humanity." Ho has refined and polished this poem exquisitely, and each verse possesses wonderful mel- ody. Mr. Gilleland has produced a groat niany poems which pos- sess merit over the ordinary, l)ut such has been his life and such his misfortunes that he has never been able to collect thorn to- gether. None of the Texas writers, (Jol. A. M. Hobby, perhaps, excepted, have written so beautifully of the Southern heroes, whose chivalry has completely fascinated him, and proven the chief theme of his verse. Most of his heroes arc the brave patriots whose lives have been given in the defense of their country. His poems in memory of Gen. Ben. McCullough, Col. John Luhhock and Hon. Frank Bowden each enlarged his number of readers and admirers. Mr. (jiilleland's late years have been burdened with painful wounds received in 1860, which have gradually enervated him and almost reduced him to the position of a crip])lc. He is a citizen of San Antonio, and has a large family. BURIAL MARCH OF MAJOR TOM GREEN. GENERAL ^fffl AUK, the mufiled drum is beating ! and the dirge's solemn ^l|jj| strain, si' Fills the soul with mournful memories for a glorious hero slain. 94 Poets and Poetry of Texas. And the funeral bells are tolling and the thousands 'round his bier ! Tell the mightiest Chief of Texas, in his glory sleepeth here ! In the Hall of State he resteth, * 'mid the people loved so well, And from far they haste to meet him, and to weep their last farewell. Lo! the pall, befitting heroes, o'er the coffined Chief is laid ! And a nation's grateful homage to his silent dust is paid. But, Oh ! never more my comrades ! shall we see that flash- ing eye Kindling with the light of Victory, when ihe hour of fight is nigh ; Never shall we hear the voice, that clearer than the trumpet's breath, Bade us triumph for our country, in the iron face of death ! And, it was with that ambition, that from moital sources spring, He gave on his countr^^'s altar, his own life as offering; Mark it in the paths of glory — that his feet so oft have trod. From the field of San .Jacinto, to dread Mansfield's bloody sod. On the plains of far Val Verde, where the bones of heroes mould, Shone that sympathy for suffering, that his mighty heart controlled On ! how oft we've marked in sadness, and the pain his visage wore Gazing on the cherished faces he should meet on earth no more; Or beside the wounded soldier, watching with a parent's care, And reviving hope and courage in the bosom of despair ! Then we vowed the vow of soldiers, when we saw his banners wave. There to triumph for our country, or beside him find a grave! And our pledge has not been broken, tho' full many a spur is cold, 'Til the last of heroes perish, victory shall our flags f unfold. From the Mexico's dark billows, shall his glorious anthem swell. To the ears of countless millions that within the future dwell ! For it was upon its waters that he met the Federal fleet *Tlie remains of Gen. Green arrived in Austin on the 26th of April, 18t)4, and laid in state in the Capitol until the 3nd day of May, 1864. + The Confederate flag. And its banners bore triumphant, to his grateful country's fleet. Onward, from Galveston's victory, hastes the conquering Chief again, To release sad Louisiana from the tyrant's sword and chain ! Conflict after conflict followed with the armies of the foe, From the bloody fight of Bissland, to the battle of Barbeaux, Berwick, Boeuff, and dread Fort Butler, and Lafouche's day sublime With Fordoche, shall tell bis glory to the latest night of time. And why swell the lists of battles, and the splendor of his name? They shall live in song and story— history shall embalm their fame. But his days on earth are numbered, 'see the cannon's fitful flame As the wild, grim dice of iron ope's the battle's bloody game. There the foeman's countless legions, here the Southron squadron pour, To oppose their shattered columns to the mighty foe once more. Hark ! the fatal word is spoken ! onward thro' the smoky pall. Press the cavaliers to battle, as of old to festive hall ! Chiefs are flying to their stations, banners float along the plain! And the strains of martial music thrill the blood in every vein. Studs their bits are madly champing ! and the cannon's rumbling sound. With the shock of hostile armies, shakes the distant hills around ! Banks upon the left is raging, like a lion, for his prey; While the fiery bands of Walker hold him in the desperate bay! Moulton to the rescue hastens ! Majors thunders on the foe ! Taylor's foot are fighting fiercely, Bee is waging blow for blow. Louder swells the storm of battle, faster falls the iron rain, And the gory field is covered with the bodies of the slain. Many a faithful steed is gasping on his dying rider's breast; Many a boy and fiery veteran, side by side, together rest ! Many a knightly plume and banner, that have floated o'er the brave, With the Federal and the Southron, mingle in one bloody grave! Walker, wounded in the battle, still is dashing o'er the plain ; Moulton, like a hero, perished in the thickest of the slain ! Still the Southron bands are fighting thrice their numbers of the foe, Shielded by their iron navies on the river's breast below Right and' might today opposes, Freedom 'gainst a tyrant's claim, — In success lies lame and honor, in defeat is written Shame! But the glorious prize of victory trembles in the battle's scales ; Who will turn its toil to triumph, whom deliverer shall we hail? Lo! he comes the prince of heroes ! Hark ! the trumpet's thrilling blast, Tells the die for death or freedom by his proud brigade is cast! Onward at their head he dashes ! Chief and charger, on they go! And his veleriui band behind him, like the Ocean's billow flow! And a shout of exultation greets him o'er the tierce melee, As of old the Scottish slogan told the onset of Dundee ! Lion like he's sweeping forward, where the deejiest thunder peals, 'Mid the lightning flash of cannon, and the deadly rush of steel ! Hand to hand the conflict rages ! Swords have met in deadly clash! Steeds are bearing down each other. Onward ! on ! the victors dash. As the strong majestic forest sways before the tempest's blast. Then a shapeless mass of ruin, to the trembling earth is cast. So before that i'wry squadron lo ! the tyrant's armies yield. Leaving Death and Desolation, spectres of the blood-stained field ! Slained and wounded lie around him ! havoc everywhere is seen! Still, amid Plutonian shadows, tlit the rallying plumes of (iHEKN ! See ! his gallant band beside him, dashing through the iron rain, To avenge their causeand country, and their cherished comrades slain. Many a wife, alas! shall listen, when that dreadful charge is o'er. For the coming of the loved ones, she shall meet on earth no more, — Many a bride sit, sad and lonely, many a mother mourn her son, Thro' the long, sad, dreary hours, when that stubborn fight is won ! But his love was warm and faithful, and thy name his latest tone. And thine image on his bosom felt his heart's last throb alone ! On they come ! with banners Hying, pressing on the panting foe. Who are seeking, from their scourging, refuge in their ships below. All in vain ! the figlit is over, Victory ! Victory ! is our own. Let it roll in sounds of thunder to the blood-stained tyrant's throne ! Let him know, the God of battles still will aid the brave and free, And at last will crown their efforts with sweet peace and liberty! Lo! the sun has set, and silence gathers o'er the wings of night, Calm in death the brave are sleeping, and the victors rest from hght. But, amid the solemn silence, throbs the soldier's heart with grief. As they gather in the starlight, round the body of their chief. In the thickest of the battle— bearing. still his banners high— Green went down— in battle harness— Avith the names not born to die. See ! he slumbers like a Roman, with his back upon the field, Waiting till the morning trumpet l)ids him grasp the sword and shield ; And a smile is on his visage, for within his dying ear. Fell the glorious cry of victory, and his grateful country's cheer. Thus, amid the rush of armies, clashing steel and burning shell. In the noonday of his manhood. Green, the Star of Victory, fell. Lo ! the scene is changed, and thousands with a sad funereal tread, Bear the hero to his mansion, in the kingdom of the dead. Pageantry, and pomp befitting, to the burial march and bicr. Mingle in the pale procession, with the heartfelt sigh and tear. For he was his people's chosen, and display, nor time can dim That pure image of the hero they have ever worn for him. Let him sleep with kindred ashes,, where he asked he might re- pose,;!; When upon his country's altar he at last should close. Let him rest, his name is cherished by the noble and the brave, And his fame shall l)e eternal as the stars that light his grave. And until the angel's trumpet sounds to earth its closing scene. Freedom shall not claim a braver, 'purer patriot than oar (tREEN. 1; The body of Gen. Green, at liir own rPat histories aloud to him ; and Ikt childish enthusiasm entered fully into the i)lan. She received a common ^school education, and was held in high esteem by all who knew her. In 18(U she was married to Thomas Winn, a yoiuig Lieutenant in the Southern army. Ex- posure of the eam[) developed early a hereditary tendency to C()nsum]>tion, and he died in May, IS();>. Leaving her a widow with little of earthly goods, she began school teaching. She taught successfully in Greensville and Dallas, and many of her pu|>ils at these places remember her with pride. In 1867 she was married to Dr. C. C. Gillespie, a man whose position and opportunities gave him a chance to encourage her in her liter- ary work, and in a short time she liad quite a reputation as a writer of i)oems and ski'tches. She died in 1882, leaving her husband to sadly grieve, and to remember her noble traits of character. PoKTS AND Poetry of ITexas. OO As a writer of poetry she has accomplislied some good. Her poem to Mr. Tennyson received some very kind mentions from the press. It was published, as an original communication, in the yl//)ffra7U/(., a, monthly pu])li(;ation at that time going forth from l")allus. Sin; has never published a hook, hut has written ample of prose and poetry to till several volumes, and it is liojjed that some kind hand will collect them and put them in more en- during shapt!. The i»o(!ms presented — Tennyson^ s Picture and A Drcsi^ to Make — give a fair specimen of her productions. The closing stanza of Ten nyson\'i Picture is very creditable. It has been said that Mr. Tennyson wrote Mrs. Gillespie an autograph letter thanking her for it. TENNYSON'S PICTURE. t '^^IS " In Memoriain" in his face, *\I| / How easily the lines we trace. ^; Now, mark the brow where lofty thought Such mighty, wondrous line hath wrought. The war with silence and the tond), Has written lines of care and gloom. The long debate, with friendship's death, Has hd't the impress of its breath. The brow is knit with anxious care, And silver thrc^ads run tbrougli the hair ; The eyes are dim witli unshe(l tcsars. And l)eanis a glance that tcdls of fears. Tin; doubts that tr('nd)l('d in tby heart, Will never from thy face dei)art, The "child is crying in the dark," And see, the tears have left their mark. A long, full sentence written there, Which tells us of the wrestling prayer. Still friendships read in every word. My friend, the friend of all the world. l*\)i- " \V(,' :iro kin to all ilial is,'' Our pallis in dust, in honor his. I sct'Mi to ;j;ras|) the thouj^hts at last. Which 1 in other liint>s hav»> passed ; Not sccin;;- with tiiis vision (hdl What thou has writ so \V()n(h>rl'uI. And wiicn my faith shall fall aslcoj), And 1 in darkness ^r,)p(> and weep ; Then K^t those words, whieh thou hast spelt, Speak to ni.y Iieart, "That 1 have felt," I hail thee, friend, though far beneath, 1 meekly how me at thy feet. I'll praisi' my (iod till time shall end, That man was ^iven such a pen, To think sueh thouj^hts, to writ.e sneh lines Were i)roof that i)a,rt of man's divine. Yet, what am 1, that 1 should sinj^-. The praises of the |)oi>t-Uing! A mote, i\\\ atom 'neath tiu> stnl, 1 of the dust, \\c like to (!oil. A DNh'SS TO MAKE. ^ DlvKSS to maki" a tli-css to mak(\ ^ My heart doth fail, my ktu'es do (|uak(> '*^i As I this task doth ecuitiMuplale. No sho|) I own, nor know no trade, And few the dresses 1 have made; My wardrobe seant, of rullles bare. Yet still 1 nnist provide the wear Of nio and mint". If tme or two the n\ind)er till They must be dressed, and 1 must still Hack my poor brain, and study o'er A fasiiion hook of wondrous lore. The marks and dots and other spots 0{ .\rabi(- and Hebrew blots. Were far move easily disccviKMl 'riiaii all tlicir sliriiiips and nillli's tiinicd. So, tli0. She was a close student. Hard study imparted to her the sweetest, and, almost, the only pleasure during her school term. It was her aim to reach to the full capacity of her mind, and to this end she still labors. The following beautiful lines aptly express her enthusiasms now and then : — I would not my short life should be An empty, idle dream. But rich in great and worthy deeds, — Worthy in thought and theme. jS; ;i; ;;; ^ ;(; * * 'Tis this shall claim my highest thought, My noblest powers engage; This shall insi)ire my earliest years. And crown my ripest age. MRS. LIZZIE HAMLETT. _-,_^ ■»<'• J- Poets and Poetry of Texas. Ill Up to this period she knew no trouble. But the glories were not always to remain with the blithesome and gay. In 1861 her oldest brother died. Her heart was overwhelmed, and the cord of deepest sorrow had been stretched. The mutual affection of herself and this brother was rare indeed, and her sweet poem — My Brother — shows the deep seated love she held for him. The following exquisite lines were penned amid tears and sobs : — Oh, Brother ! Earth is not so fair, And life is not so dear. And Heav'n is not so distant, now, For thou hast brought it_uear ! I never thought that thou couldst die ! I never dreamed that thou Must lay thy glorious head to rest Where thou art sleeping noio. Thou wert so young, so full of life, Of manhood's strength and pride ; Of health, and hope, and happiness — How can I say " /le died!'' The memory of this sad event made her heart yearn for a change of scenes, and 'twas while weeping her soul away she conceived the idea of teaching. So she began to teach, and taught for fifteen months without intermission. In 1865 she was married to Capt. W. J. Hamlett, This union was the consummation of an attachment of years, and which has been productive of the purest domestic happiness. They lived for several years at Waco. Here they lost a bright idol of a boy. This was her second great grief. Her muse again wept, and amidst melancholy strains she wrote the poem Invocation, in which appears the following lines : — I loved a babe, a matchless boy, one whom The angels loved as well, and lured him home, Alas, alas for me ! He would press kisses on my lips as sweet, As pure as love and innocence. ' Twere meet That such should seraph be. 112 Poets and Poetry of Texas. None but a mother, whose tenderest chords of love and pity had been touched, could have penned these lines. They impress one with the greatest feeling of sympathy, and recall to our mind that beautiful and truthful passage from Washington Irving : "The love of a mother is never exhausted, it never changes, it never tires." Speaking of her at this time, a writer who knows her well says : "Soon after this sad occur- rence, she moved to her present residence near Palestine, where she and her devoted liusband live in modest seclusion, sur- rounded by growing crops, fat cattle, lilooming violets, and waving grass. Here they receive daily, letters, papers, maga- zines, and books through which they keep enrajrport with the great world outside. Her home is one of those delightful coun- try homes one loves to see; and to enjoy a winter evening around her hearth-side, is a boon to be coveted by princes and crown- heads." Mrs, Hamlett's first poem was written when only fourteen years of age. It was the Death of Rush, when his memory stirred the hearts of all Texans. In 1876 her poems were published in a neat (8 mo, 345 pages) volume, handsomely bound. The book at one bound, placed its author a bright star among the constellation of Southern writers. She is a blonde of medium size, with pearly white teeth and auburn hair; modest and rehiring in her nature, possessing traits of woman-hood rarely seen in one of her attainments. It has been said that literary women are j^oorly prepared by nature for good wives ; but if true, there is an exception in this in- stance. She can prepare a cup of coflee afid preside over the supper table with as much grace as she can render a difficult passage from Poe. The Fleai:ir(.res of Home, Mrs. Hamlett's longest and best i)oem, has been very kindly reviewed by the press. It reminds one of Campbell's PI nsures of Hope and Roger's Pleasures of Mem- ory. To say that the Pleasures of Home is scarcel}'' excelled b}'' either is not i)utting it too gtrong. It will be remembered that Wordsworth was critically severe on Campbel's poem and said that "it was strongly overrated.'" There seems to be a brother- hood of song — one as described by Keats : — " Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belorig, And doubl}^ sweet a brotherhood of song." And no doubt Mrs. Hamlett had read these great masters be- fore expressing her delicate sentiment in the Pleasures of Home. Major F. L. Yoakum, in a letter to the author, and speaking of Mrs. Hamlett, used the following language : " Iler volume of poems is a rich treasure in every household, and deserves a place on every center table. Her pure teachings and hallowed sentiments make far richer the heart that imbibes them. The measure and glowing imagery read in beautiful cadences fall sweetly on the ear and heart alike. The music of her sacred teachings reach the soul and carry the heavenly thoughts of the poet to young spirits and entwines them there." Mrs. Hamlett has also written some beautiful prose sketches; and has a novel now completed, which will likely appear dur- ing this year, 1885. A Touching Incident, accompanying other poems of Mrs. Hamlett, is beautifully tender, and shows the warmest feeling of sympathy. I give the notes, that it may be fully understood^ and ask for it a careful reading. The selections here presented represent Mrs. Hamlett's varied style and sentiments of the emotion, and may be classed among her best poems, although she has written so much and so well, that it makes the task of selection a difhcult one. Iler poem Shall We Divide the State? is perhaps her most popular one. It is a gem, and richly de- serves what notoriety it has gained. The question of division may yet rise like a spectre. Then will this poem receive again those plaudits once before so bountifully bestowed upon it. As 114 Poets and Poetry of Texas. time rolls on in its ceaseless train, this poem will grow in pop- ular favor. Then there will be " No North, no South, no East, no West." Mrs. Hamlett has recently moved to Ennis, Texas, where she is engaged in teaching. SHALL WE DIVIDE THE STATE f IVIDE the State ! Who dare suggest Such act of sacrilege? '^'^Who from us thus would basely wrest Our holiest heritage ? Bought with a price, it is our own ! And shall we rend it twain What was cemented into one By blood of heroes slain ? Divide the State! How then appease The blest names of those Who watch with ceaseless jealousies Their ashes long repose? Say for which portion Crocket fought ? For which did Travis die? For which hath Houston's pleading bought A Nation's sympathy ? Say which shall claim Jacinto's plains ? Which own the Alamo ? To which belong the gory stains That wrapped our flag in woe ? The Rio Grande is our own ! Exultant, broad and free, It sweeps in grandeur and alone Right onward to the sea. The San Antonio waters wide Its green and fertile hills ; Poets and Pop:try of Texas. 115 San Gabrielle its silvery tide From crystal streamlets fills ; The beautiful San Marcos glides ' Neath azure skies serene ; And sweet Cibolo laughing hides Its willow banks between. The giant Colorado sleeps Begirt with flowery meals : Salado smiles, Aquilla weeps, Lampasas proudly pleads, The Guadalupe bends its haughty course Beside the loved Leon; And Brazos blends his breathings hoarse With Ocean's constant moan. The Trinity her valley crowns With fields of waving green, And Angelina darkly frowns Beside the lone Sabine. Say, shall their names be sundered ? Their names to Texas dear ! They were bequeathed us by the dead ! Shall we that gift forswear ? Divide the State for which they bled ! A goddess grand and good. And rear upon its base instead A puny sisterhood ? No ! 'Tis her broad square miles that make Her destiny so great ; And glory will her soil forsake Should we divide the State. No North, no South, no East, no West, Let this our motto be : Our State is one. So let it rest ; United, great and free. Let one grand center call her sons To legislative halls ; Let one grand voice, in thunder tones, Guard well her ''outer walls." 11 6 Poets and Poetry of Texas. A TOUCHING INCIDENT. A short time since, in this city, a brilliant and much admired lady, who had been suffering some time with a trouble of the eye, was led to l"c;ar a speedy change for the worse, and imme- diately consultiid her physician. An examination discovered a sudden and fatal failing in the o])tic nerve, and the information was inparted, MS gently as possible, that the patient could not retain her sight more tb;ui a few days at most, and was liable to be totally deprived of it nt any moment. The aflected mother returned to her home, quietly made suidi arrangements as would occur to one about to commence so tlark a journey of life, and Mien had her two littU^ children, attired in their brightest and sweetest costumes, brought to her; and so, witii their little faces lifted to her's, and tears gathering for some great mis- fortune that tliey hardly realized, the light iaded out of their mother's eyes, leaving an ineilaceabh^ picture of those dearest to her on earth — a memory of bright faces that will console her in many a dark day. — Covington (Ky.) Journal. A Texas lady, seeing the above, has interwoven it into song. The l\)llowing beautiful lines were wi-itten in 1878, though never before published. They will be fountl truly touching. With the ingenuity and feeling of the true [xxilcss, slu; has stated all t)ie facts in her song in the most sw(!et, plaintive manner. None but a mother can truly appreciate them. — IJcIton {Te.r.) Journal. 'AN it be that on the buulscape : Comes this shadow with the spring? 7 Have I looked my last on naturc'— lT])on every living thing? Nature, I have loved thee eviu"— Azure sky and verdant woods ! Can she from my sight be fading, In her brightest, bravest moods ! Hut this iiioni, my cradled darlings, C'luuub-liko in their repose, Snioto mo with a terror nameless 'riiat (Jod only, only knows ! Filled me with a sudden sadness, Cleft my heart with piereing pains; Can it be, this growing darkness 1 must battle with in vain V 1 could give uj) nature's Ix^auties, iSunsct splendors, sparkling wave, God's magnificence of color That to bless the sight he^gave If I still might scan th(^ fac(!S lie has given me to love — H(;aven lies in this sweet ])leasure ! Will He all my joy remove? I'inds the artist his ideal When he views a form divine? Mother-worship is as real For the babe her arms entwine. Bring them to my yearning bosom, Those dear bab(!S I yet may see, For no more a sight so i)reeiou8 In this life may come to mc. Robe them in their brightest garments ; Witii a mother's love and pride Wrought I them, so little thinking Sueli dark future should betide. Let my soul forget its sorrow, For one moment hush its fears. While I gaze u[)on my treasures, 'J'hough my sight is dimmed with tears. In ihe long, dark way before me. Shut out fi'oni their haij|)y smiles From their eager, kindling glances,' From their playful, winning wiles,— That svveet picture in its freshness, Will in loving memory, J. 118 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Brightest in the gh)omy distance Evermore abide with me. Let me thus with joy enfold them For one blissful moment more ; Even while I thus behold them, Could the short, sharp pang be o'er, Could the sun drop out of heaven. Leave the world a blank at noon Is it so? They fade, they vanish — Conies the night-time, then, so soon? MATEBNITY. 'HERE came to me "neath holy autumn skies, >tf ; A bud, a tender, glorious germ ^^From out the very walls of Paradise ! With all its tiny petals folded close. And fed by sunshine bright and warm ; Pore as the lily, painted like the rose, A beaut}' rarer did my bud disclose. % -if. -)f ')(. % * Needless to say I loved it ! Needless tell — Oh, mj'stery of motherhood ! How sacredly I prized my babe; how well, How patiently I bore my pain, that he Might blended in him have all good, — That he, my precious boy, might live and be All that my destiny denied to me. And when spring came, and other buds blew out, And filled the air with fragrance ; when The wandering bee buzzed busily about, Lured to the orchard by its faint perfume And flowering regalia, then His eye 'gan brighter, and his cheek to bloom, My truant blossom from his Eden home ! L The violets in the woods are not more blue And gladsome than my baby's eyes ; Nor softer spring's first dove-notes than the coo Of his sweet voice. I breathe upon the chords And my ^olian harp' replies ! As inarticulate as warbling birds, As musical, as matchless, are his words. And springtime blossoms ever in my heart. And love's own gladness therein lies ; A nearer heaven, of which he seems a part, Above me l)ending, smiling and serene, I see, deep in my baby's eyes. Sure heaven is not so far from earth, I ween. While I can hold this treasured link between. °-0§ 120 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MPxS. LEE C. HARBY 1^ RS. HAllBY is a Jewess, and a native of Charleston, South Carolina. For the past few years her fugitive poems have been floating about, and occasionally ap- pearing in the literary periodicals North and South. In 1881, and while editing the Amaranth, 1 wrote to Mrs. Harby for a contribution. In response to ni}'^ letter she sent me the little poem, Rain. It appeared for the first time in the Amaranth, December, 1881, and was well received. I remem- ber to have seen it copied in several secular papers of the State. In most instances it was miserably printed, and did great in- justice to its author. This little lyric is fairly illustrative of her style, and exhibits an ability far above mediocrity. It is in the Poesque vein, and full of happy hits of fancy : — ilTH a cadence soft and low Falls the rain ! All the heavy grasses seem Bowed with pain. And the tender ilowers droop To the sod, Bent like penitents that kneel To their God. While the trees loom indistinct Thro' the mist ; And the roses red and sweet. That were kissed By the sun to fragrant life, Blanch with fear. From each starry jasmine's cup Drops a tear Pure as those the angels shed O'er man's fall j And the dark green moss that clings To the wall, Drinks tlie rain up thirstily. On thoir stalks Lilies bend their stately heads. Thro' the walks Tiny strcamhits running clear, Make it seem Like some fairy island viewed In a dream. Oh ! m}^ garden brings a joy To my heart, As I stand and watch the rain- Far apart From the throng around me there, Who know naught Of the healing that may come, All unsought, From the hand of Nature's Ood To the soul — When it i>ants with weary breath For the goal. When of all our l)iightest hopes None remain, Life is dark, and eveiy thought Brings Imt pain — Then in soft gray clouds that veil lirilliant skies, And in sheeted rain that falls, Comfort lies. When all nature seems to join In our grief, From the symi)athy she yields 8]) rings relief; WhiU) the Mowers teach to us Ijcssons sweet, Of the solace to be found At God's feet ! Tbus the clouds that dim our live -5 All depart, Washed away by blessed tears From the heart ! 122 PoKTs AND Poetry of Texas. ]\Irs. llarby inluM'itcd Iicr literary talent IVoin Ium' niotlior's side of the house. Her jirandlather, Isaae llarhy, was one of the literary lifj;hts of C'harleston, and famous alike I'or his dra- matic taste and criticisms, and was for a niuuher of years con- nected with the press of that city. Her father, Max K. Cohen, received liis education at Glascow, wiiniing several medals for scholarshij). His father piave him a largo and well-stocked plantation near (Miarleston. Ho was l)rave, rich, and ,u;enerous, and connected with every enterprise calculated to build up the city t)f Charleston, and when ho died tho city erected a memo- rial stone to his memory, and ])laced it in the Charh^ston Or- phan Asylum, of which institution he was one of the founders and directors. The war coming on when it did, interfered greatly with Mrs. ITarby's education ; consequently it is limited. It is such as she has gaincnl from close reading, self-teaching, and travel. At nine years of age 1 lind her writing verses and living an unrestrained life on her father's plantation. She was married to a cousin — J. D. Harby — in ISOO. The young couple at once came to Texas. In 1ST2, she began to write })oems, which were eagerl}'^ sought by tho State papers. In 1880, she read before the Texas Press Association her poenj, To The J^rci^s. In 1881, she was elected editor of the Ladies' Department of the Jewish South. Hhe has written but few stories. INIcMillan i^^ Co. paid her for one a year or two ago. She has written but one long poem. She is preparing her poems for publicatiiui, and \\ ill give them to the world soon. Mrs. Harby has written sufficient to fill several volumes. The poems I present here were written since her residence in this State, and are representatives ones. Unae Vitae is tenderly beautiful, and is suggestive of Heine : — SIC II — a dream of Heaven 1 A kiss — and Earth's sweet leaven. A wife — her honor keeping ; A babe — and bitter weeping. Poets and Poktuy oi<' Tkxas. 123 A ^M'uvo --sl<'('|) well, youii,!^' luollier — A man will \n\v. juiollicr ! Wooed and W(m1 and her baity Itoni ; I'ain and death in lile'H lirst morn. Softly slcM'p in thy j^ravo, younj;' wife, Freed lorevtM' from (earthly strilo. Kost thee widl ; tlion hast playiid thy pait — Jiifo luiH halm I'oi' thy lnishan(l's heart I J I(M- hest poem and one (hat will live lonL!, i [-M L Poets and Poetry of Texas. 125 A. M. HOBBY. r4; LFRED M. HOBBY was boni in Macon, Georgia. Soon Jl after his birth his parents moved to Florida, where his ^ childhood was passed. He came to Texas early in life. He took an active interest in politics before the war, and in the Legislature and on the hustings he achieved an enviable reputa- tion as an orator. During the war he commanded a Confeder- ate regiment with much distinction, and at its close settled^ in Galveston, and devoted himself to commercial pursuits. Col. Hobby was a man of culture, with an understanding singularly comprehensive, and with the analytical, was combined the poetic faculty in a high degree. He was a laborious worker, and his writings embrace a wide range of literary and scientific subjects-critical, biographical, historic, agricultural, and poetic. During the summer of 1875, he made a horseback tour along the Texas border, and wrote a series of interesting letters, entitled The Frontier From the Saddle, which sustained his reputation as a brilliant writer, and a man of fine poetic imagination. He devoted much of his time to study. His talents were recog- nized throughout the State, and displayed in every mental and material field of labor. As a citizen, a literary and business man he was one of the most i)opular residents in the State. He was polite, independent in tliought and act, and possessed fine colloquial powers, remarkably social and temperate, having never tasted tobacco or intoxicating liquors of any kind. Col. Hob])y has written comparatively little poetry, but that which he has given to the world is ample to satisfy me that had he courted the Muses exclusively, he would have gamed considerable distinction, and attained a very high degree ot celebrity. The following brief extract breathes a melancholy tenderness that poetic feelings alone could inspire :— 12R Poets and Poetry of Texas. "Drnpe in p;looni our Houtlicrn ensign — (lonlly foltl its crimson bars Wliilc cyi)ress wreaths around we twine, And dim with tears its burning stars. H(>arts are throbbing, eyes are weeping Tears on nobU^ Lubbock's grave ; Cahn in (k'ath his form is sleei)ing — Ijamcnled Lubbock — true and brave." To the ])recc(bng 1 shall adil an extract from (\il. Hobby's reply to the Ldinnil for (he SloJcn I'd, by Mollie K. Moore Davis: — "Tlu> poems then oft would my master rehearse, Ami my feet wouhl keep time to thy magical verse; And there would he tell, as he journyed along How great was his genius, and splendid the song ; How mortality pure, in thy verse was enshrined, And the grace of fancy around it entwined ; How truth, in her grandeur, pervades the whole, l^jularging {\\v mint! and improving the soul ; How sublime in its uses thy mystical art ; While it awakens new life, sweetly mellows tlu> heart ; How it lightens the weight of his chastising rod. And ])oints us in piMiitcncc upward to (iod ; How it cheiMs the desponding and lonely heart up, And sweetens the draught of life's bitterest cup. The author of the Litnuiit fur a Stolen Pet occnipics so conspi- cuous a place in our Texas i>oetry, that it has been necessary to give a notici' of Ium- giMiius somewhere elsi>. Hut the poem and the reply to it richly deserve the great populaiily which they have for several years liountifully enjoyed. The genius of Col. Hobby was such as to demand a place among the best writers in our State. He had an inexhaustable power of circumstantial description, betraying him unto minute- ness, and leatling him to speak of man rather than group to- gether Nature in all its inlinitude. I can not feel in his writings the transports of delight by which T am moved while reading Poets and Poetiiy of Texas. 127 those strange and gorgeous descriptions ol' Mrs. Amelia V. Pur- dy's — produced by a more romantic imagination. (Jol. Hobby carries his readers to the tomb of " our dead," and tliere culls a flowery bou(pict of heartfelt sympathies, and recalls to our minds the wondrous scenes of enchantment and beauty em- balmed, and our feelings are aroused by the recollection of their many noble and daring deeds. He is the poet of Our Dead. With a kind word for every mourner, he tiansforms their groans into a flood of ideal and poetic l)eauty. He lived in the enjoy- ment of many blessings which rarely fall to the poetic race — competence, case, rural scenes, and an ample command of the means of study. Mrs. Gathing has finely alluded to his poetic and imagimitivc genius in the following lines from the poet Col- lins : — Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung. For several months Col. Hobb}'' was involvc^d in criminal pro- ceedings, but was honorably acquitted by a jury of his country- men. After the termination of these, he went to Mexico where he died February Hth, 1881. He was held in high esteem by his contemporaries in Texas, and when the information reached the State that he was dead there was great sorrow, and that gifted lady, Mary Hunt McCaleb, penned to his memory the following ex(j[uisite lines : — The warm Southern winds wander over the sea The sunshine is lying on lowland and lea, The sky seeming never so bright ; Put slowly and silently over my soul. The murmuring waves of memory roll, That shut out the glory of light. For one whom I knew in a happier day Lies shrouded and cold in a grave far away. With the grass growing over his breast : While the heart that (;lung to him so fondly in life, With the love of a tender and heroic wife, Mourns over the solace of his rest. I knew them and loved them before trouble came To darken their lives and to shadow a name That was once such a glory and pride, — Before the last sorrowful die had been cast, And hop(! lay enshrouded, and cold in the past Their ships drifting wrecked on th(> tide. Too trusting of others his heart may have been, If loving and trusting indeed be a sin — How few are exempt from the crime ! How few but have (;herished theii- idols of cjiiy To see them in nothingness cruadjle away And fade from the records of time. His great heart has moaned itself (juii^t at last, Bent, broken and erushed by the i)itilrss blast Lies silent and cold in his breast ; But his star that grew pale and went down in a cloud, Rising out of the grave and disdaining the shroud, Brightly beams in the land of the blest. I think it eminently proper to elose my sketch of Col. A. M. IIobl)3' by (pioting these lines. I am sure that they are the heart-oll'erings of one who knew him long and well. This act of the gifted Mrs. IMeCaleb is so mueh like the imj)ulse that moved Col. Hobl)y whenever death (;ut low one of his warm and honored friends. TO THE MEMORY OF COL. THOS S. LUBBOCK. DEDK'.VrUI) TO OOV. J{. V. (^UHHOCIv. RAI'E in gloom our Southern ensign — (Jently fold its crimson bars, * While cypress wreaths around viv twine, And dim with tears its burning stars. Hearts are throbbing, eyes are weeping Tears, on noble Lubbock's grave ; Calm in death his form is sleeping — Lamented Lubbock — true and brave. 1 But yesterday, the minute gun Came booming on our shore, And on our day a shadow hung — Brave Terry was no more. He died on the soil that gave him birth, Defending his country's trust; Our vandal foes he crushed to earth, Like servile worms of dust. Thou, Lubbock, unto thee we turned, To lead our Texan band ; We knew what fires within tliee burned, What courage nerved thy hand. We felt that thou wouldsi win from fame A laurel wreath of glory, And deeds of valor give thy name High place in Southern story. When, years ago, a single star niumined our Western sky, Its radiant beams were hailed afar. And caught his youthful eye. Forsaking home, to aid the brave, Foes and danger scorning, To his adopted mother gave. The vigor of life's morning. Where'er her ensign was unfurled, Beneath were souls to dare ; And valor's arm foes backward hurled, In victory's meteor glare. He saw it wave, that Lone Star flag. Above the Rrocky Mountains, Where frozen tears from the icy crag, Weep into silver fountains. He saw that Hag rellected gleam, Down dv.v.]) in Pecos river; Its azure folds, its silvery sheen, On flowing waters (piiver. He saw it meet the rising day, On Santa Fee's l)road plain. Which cold and cheerless stretched away, Where gloom and silence reign. He saw that star the Heavens climb, Through battle's lurid light. Still upward in its strength sublime, Unutterably bright. In Aztec's dungeons dark and deep, Its beams resplendent shedding, He heard success, along fame's steep, Our mystic future treading. Unchanging still through rest or toil, His heart for Texas burning, It loved her sons and blood bought soil. It knew no shade of turning. And when our honor was assailed, Indignant shouts were raised ; The Lone Star fluttered in the gale, And reddened, flashed and blazed. It swept on high the fleecy cloud, It sought a loftier station. And joined ' midst cheers of freemen loud. The Southern constellation. And there it shines, God bless that star ! God bless her sister stars ! — 'Tis Venus in the days of peace, In war, the blood-red Mars. Upon Manassas' gory field. Where fell the shafts of death. Its new-born splendor stood revealed, ' Midst battle's sulphurous breath ; Where thickest rained war's iron hail. And gushed the crimson tide. Undaunted there our Lubbock stood. Brave Terry by his side. Far in advance on Fairfax heights. Raised by a tyrant's minion, They struck the flag that dared insult Our honored Old Dominion. Enough ! they were strong friends in youth, In Spring-time's pleasant weather — Two souls close bound in bonds of truth, In death they sleep together. Poets and Poetry of Texas, 131 Time's brightest page their name adorn, Their deeds are history's trusts, And fame's green laurels, fresh as morn, Will crown their honored busts. The fevered frame and aching head Of Lubbock is at rest ; He sleepeth well, 'neath Southern skies, Still looking to the West. Proud Carolina ne'er has borne A truer son or braver, And like herself, he trampled on Power's threat or favor, But pulseless lies that heart of worth Beneath the swelling sod. His body with its mother earth, His spirit with its God. On hearts bereaved — a pall is cast, And withered seem life's flowers; Oh ! let your tears flow free and fast ; With tiiem shall mingle ours. Eternal honor to the brave. May Spring her garlands wreathe Immortal blooms to deck his grave. And Christ his soul receive. THE SENTINEL'S DREAM OF HOME. 'IS dead of night, nor voice nor sound Breaks on the stillness of the air, The waning moon goes coldly down On frozen tields and forests bare. The solemn stars are glittering high, While here my lonely watch I keep. To guard the brave with anxious eye, Who sweetly dream and soundly sleep. Perchance of home these sleepers dream, Of sainted ones no longer here. : Ism* 132 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Whose mystic forms low bend unseen, And breathe soft whispers in his ear. Sleep on, sleep on, my comrades brave. Quaff deep tonight of pleasure's cup, Ere morning's crimson banners wave, And " reveille " shall rouse them up. The sportive winds and waves tonight Seem tired of their boist'rous play. And armed ships, with signal lights And bristling guns, before me lay. But not of ships nor battle fields, With clash of arms and roll of drums — To softer scenes my spirit yields — Tonight a sweeter vision comes. It is thine own beloved one Whose kiss I feel, whose smile I see ; Oh ! God protect that wife at home. Begirt with growing infancy. Tonight, tonight, I'me with you there, Around my knees fond children gather, And climb, the envied kiss to share. Amidst the sounds of ''Husband," "Father." Such thoughts my eyes with moisture fill, My bosom heaves, my pulses start; Close down I'll press my gun, to still The wild emotions of my heart. Hush pleading one, I cannot stay, The spoiler comes with fiendish wrath, Black ruins mark his bloody way, And blazing homes have lit his path. "Go, husband, go ! God nerve thy blows. Their footsteps foul blot from our shore. Strike 'till our land is free from foes Whose hands are stained with Southern gore. Strike, husband, strike ! I'd rather weep The widow of a patriot brave. Than lay my heart (I'd scorn to sleep). Beside a subjugated slave. Thy woman's soul is true and grand, The battle-field my home shall be, Until our country'U proudly stand, Acknowledged as a nation free ; 'Till then, yes ! welcome fields of strife — The victor's shout, the vanquish'd's cry, Where ebbs the crimson stream of life — Where c{uick and dead together lie ; 'Mid bursting shell and squadron's dash, Where broken ranks disordered fly — Where angry cannon's flash on flash Paints hell upon the lurid sky ; Where many a brave shall sink to rest. And fondiy cherished hopes will set, And blood that warms the manly breast, Will dim the glist'ning bayonet. When these are past, and victory's sun In undim'd splendor lights the skies, And peace by dauntless valor won, And proudly free our banner flies : Then to my western prairie home With eager haste each nerve shall strain, Nor from its hallow'd precincts roam, Unless my country calls again. There unalloyed shall be our bliss ; We'll watch the sun give morning birth, And sinking, leave his parting kiss UponHhe dewy lip of earth. The moon has waxed and waned away; The Morning Star rides pale and high, Fond dreams of home no longer stay, j But fade like stars on morning sky. 134 Pl)]aVS AND POETUY OK TkXAS. THOMAS E. HOGG. T C%^ II l^i lUKU'rlyinj;- pliilosophy oI'Mo^raphical hislory is simple. ^vU^ ) Jt is not (lissiiuilar in tlii" iiulividuai (uiscs from that which ag}j;r(>^at('s (he lolal. C!ha,ra('l(M'an(l the incidents ofan indi- vidnal life, and (iicir rchition to an inlhu'ncr iqion us, are the sali- ent reaiurcs which dill'ercntiate one life from another. As will bo seen, the subject of Ibis sketcli fills no mean place in the liter- ary ffalaxy t)f the State. (Jen. .loseph L. llo,ii;i;', the father of Tbos. K., was a man of public lif(> in (iin(> of ])ea('e and a soldier in time of war. lie became a citizen ol' Naeogdocihes county, as early as 1841. Ilav- imj; (illed many places of public trust and honor up to the time of tlie war between the States, lie directed his services now to oigani/ing and drilling companies for the lield of battle. He fell in the san}>;uinary struj^gle at Corinth, bi-arin^? the honors of a briuadier «j;eneral, which ho had gallantly won. Thos. b^. llogt"- was born at Nacogdoches, on the 1'.) of June, ISTJ, and four years later, when peace with Mexico hail been concluded, he became identilicd with the scenery and society of Cherokee, his father having become a citizen of that county. It was here, cradled in the la}) of allection, wandering at will and alone — his brothers being too small for companions, for ho was the oldest i>f them living — among the romantic hills about liis " Mountain lh)nu^'' that he caught the inspiration of poesy, as he sang in after years : — Unresting from the morning dawn 'Till day's bright torch had waned and gone, With my own thoughts ci»mnuming; 'Twas nothing strange that I should find A friend with gentle touch and kind My youthful heart a-tuning. I At sevcMitccn, liUo most Ixtys of that at^'c, he niaiiifcsted a rosth>ssn('ss under lioinc discnpline — which was nioic than ordi- n.'uily strict — and cxpiossod ii, desire for freetloni. The wise and |)iii(h lit f;i1h(M-, ever watchful and (hisirous of keeping the inouhUuii,- of the mind in his own phistie hand, yiehh'd to the wish of his cliihl, and pei'mitled him to a(;eompany a trusted friend— Judge A. J. Hood— (o ids iiome, in Weatherford, osten- sibly to study hiw, hut in reality to give his fiery spirit more latitude. Here, in ISCO, Uv joined a company of volunteers, who went out against the Indian depredators of tiiat region, under Col. John H. l>aylor. Of this campaign he gives an amusing account under the pen namc! " Peter (iift." In 1861, he wrot(! his father from Weatherford : "Capt. Jor- don is raising a company in this and adjoining counties. I have enlisted, hut fear he will not he received by tins State. If he is not, and I do not get to go under State authority, I will go whether mustered in or not." When his father requc^sted him to come home and go with a company forming there, he wrote! "If I thought I could reach ('heiokee before the departure of her trooi)s, nothing would adbrd hk; more pleasure, as I would i)refer going with friends, though I can only serve viy country in eitluu- case, for I know that fun is the last on a soldier's list," lUit the troops were to organize at Dallas, where; he met and Joined tlm chiv- alry of old Cherokee —friemls who welcomed him with glad voices as he cast his lot with theirs, for ihey kiu'w him to be brave and true; and though reared so tenderly, tln^y felt that they could trust him for all that a proud young j)atriot and brave soldier could do. J lis comrades and commander say of him that he was void of fear, never flinching, and ever ready to answer " I " to calls for picked men for hard service. Although always with the foremost in battle, he was never wounded. His clothes, however, were pierced by the enemy's balls, and at Brashier City, of which engagement he gives a grajjhic account ■»■■■■ 136 PoKTS AND Poetry of Texas. in his Reminiscences of the War, his horse was killed under him, he narrowly escapint!,- deatli himself. War's fearful thundering tones greeted liim Ihst at Elkhorn, and throughout that whole eiunpaign, he was ever at his jiost. When the army erossed the Mississippi river, he went with his father's hriga(h' as adjutant. After the death of his nohle father at Corinth, he proeured a transfer to the Trans-Mississippi Department, Baylor's Texas Calvary Regiment. Soon after joining that army he was promoted to a eaptainey for gallant conduct and comnumded his company throughout all the lleree lighting in Louisiana. When it was determined that Brashier City nuist he taken at all hazzard, a detachment of picked men were ordered across the lake in canoes and sugar coolers to make an assault upon the fort from the rear, whilst General Tom Cin-en held the en- emy's attention across the hay from the front, (ieneral (ireen's guns hoomed the signal for assault just as the devoted band of braves debarked. Of this engagement, Hogg writes': ''There is a charm in the uproar of biittle more ))otent over the chivalric soul than home with all its comforts ; love with all its charms, or l)eauty with all her wiles. Major Hunter, with the hound of a lion, leaped upon the strand ; all followed his example ; and suddenly turn- ing, he ordered the boats to be shoved adrift, teimnautless, and addressing his solders, said : ' 'Tis victory now or soldiers' graves ; my boys — fm'ward !' On they rushed, without a pi hit, through the briery swamps, guided only by the thunders of the beleagueriMl garrison. .Just as Green w\is feeling like a Moses in view of the [u-omised land, his soul sinking in despair, when all seemed lost, the furious yell of that daring band broke upon his ear, he looked — he saw^ the banner of his country borne aloft in the dread melee. Like one entranced he saw its crim- son folds siidv to the earth. It rose again ! Again it fell, again it was raised and on it went, lie recognized tlie familiar shout of his chosen band ; he could distinguish the opposing cplumns of musketry as the death rattle vacillated to and fro. Ho saw tliemin deadly strife commingle ! He saw his own brave bay- onets clear the bristling ramparts ! He saw the cherished flag wave defiantly to the breeze, borne by friendly hands ! He saw the foeman's banner droop and in its stead float his own proud stars and bars ! Ho turned his nobh; brow to God, and with a heart too full for utterance, from his silent soul, he thanked his Maker for the victory." "Soon ai'ter the termination of the war, and while on his re- turn from a visit to relatives in Alabama, he came by Corinth for the purpose of linding ami marking. his honored father's grave; and there, over the " hallowed si)ot where he had left his noble sire to rest," he caught the inspiration for hie great- est poem. His heart was filled with bitterness to see "the mark of delving implements " which he learned was made by the conquering foe in search of treasure, and upon such wanton sacrilege he poured forth his wounded spirit's terrible wrath in verse. His friends have regretted that this poem was left out of his published collection." — W, E. Davis. While visiting friends in Mississippi, he met Miss A. E. Mc- Math, to whom he was married July 12, 18G6. Shortly after this event, I find him fairly starting out in life at the Old Mountain Home, of which he sings : — The hush of death is in thy halls ; Ah, yes ! the death that now enthralls The heart that made thee bright ; And I alone, of all the band That 'round thy hearth joined heart and hand, Am left with thee tonight. Possessing uncommon literary attainments, having devoted, with assiduity, his early youth to the great authors whom ho still loved as he did his land of Dreams — of which he says : — Dreams are the souls ambrosial cheer, Sweet crumbs of bliss by angels given, That, 'mid the pain and sorrow here. Poor man may have a taste of Heaven — . 10 H^^aiH 138 Poets and Poetry of Texas. It cost him a struggle to accept the hard realities of life, and to stem the tide of poverty that rushed in like an angry flood upon our desolated land at the close of the war. He writes : — lUit friendship, with ollicious care, Oft whispers in uiy heedless ear "O, Muse, that I eschew thee ! That sorrow's frown the way attends, And thriftless want the journey ends Of him who dares to woo thee ! They'd have me frown upon thy smile, Arm \nc. with cunning craft and guile And toil to grasp and gather ; lUit while within my humble home One ray of fortune deigns to come. Will cherish one another. We'll let who will his hopes condense To that mean focus, pounds and pence, And worth compute by dollars." >lt :1c * ^H • * -V- * * Ilis heart was ever filled with the principle which dictated his beautiful poem, Deceive Not. In 18 — , he was elected Judge of Cherokee county; but he was turned out of office by Gov. E. J. Davis. The order being revoked, he resumed his official position. In 1872, he moved to Denton, and soon surrounded himself with friends, and in 1876 was elected County Judge of Denton county. His poetical fires having been stifled for a time, did not crip- ple his ambition; for while he strove to be useful as a citizen, he was earnestly striving to accumidate a sufficiency for his interesting little family, that he might turn again to his silent harp and tune it perhaps for bolder and grander flights of min- strelsy. But death ended his song on the 27th of Septem- ber, 1880. As a Christian, he was very devout, and he gave the tenth of J all lie made to charity, and had a charity fund— and this fund, at his death, held several notes against him, so careful was he to keep a correct account of this tithe. As a devoted husband, fatlicr, and brother; friend, citizen, and poet, the too early death of Mr. Hogg is long to be regretted. Yet though— The pen that gcuiius wielded long The talisman of wit and song Hath writ its ending page, — he is not dead ; for he has woven for himself A garland bright Whose freshness will outlive the night Of deatli, and bloom amid the blight Of sepulchers. Many of his best poems were omitted in his published work, some of whieli possess a high order of merit, and should not be lost to the literary world. In 1873, his poems were collected and published under the title of TJiG Fate of Marvin, and Other Poems, bearing the im- print of E. II. Cushing, Houston, Texas, This volume con- tains many poetic gems, and had a large number of readers. It has been impossible for me to make extracts from all his worthy poems. I have used every means to indicate his true place both as a citizen and as a literarian. I end my sketch of Mr, Hogg by quoting one of his favorite poems— TAc Ftirloucjhed Soldier : — '^ffjMS furlough came — the soldies hied H_|l|i| Back to his native land — '^J'^God speed you well !" his comrades cried, "May weal and joy with you abide," As each one shook his hand. "Farewell, my friends — proud land, farewell ! Troud land, despite thy foes — 140 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Though battle's fiery billows swell U])on thee, and the hosts of hell Assail thee, still thy glory's spell Will rise above thy woes." With stc]) well trained in Stonewall's corps lie measures oil" the miles ; AVhile seene on scene from days of yore, Long treasured deep in memory's store, His solitude beguiles. Now Hope her gilded crayon takes, And paints ui)on his soul A holy dream of bliss that makes -His i)ace increase, while Fancy slakes Her thirst at Cupid's bowl. Ah I none shall of my coming hear INIy home I'll reach tonight; And when sleep chains my Helen's ear. And in her breast drowns ev'ry care, I'll steal on tiptoe light; And take my station at her side, And read the fairy dreams that glide Among her features bright. " Methinks I hear my brother's call To halt me as I tread tiie hall. With cat-step througli the gloom ; Too young for Avar, yet true and well I ween he stands a sentinel Around my hearth and home." * ;}; ^ ;K ;H sic The gate is reached — back to its hinge It moves — the walk is past ; Nor heeded scarce its verdant fringe, Va-o. near the threshold, with a cringe He stands — his heart beats fast. Another step ! — with dizzy head He stands within the door — Poets and Poetry of Texas. 141 " Who's there !" calls out as from the dead A voice—'' who's there !" the echo said ; The answer was a stealthy tread Advancing on the floor. " Who's there, I say !" pealed forth again The voice, in wilder mood ; " Speak, or you die !" the threat'ning strain Came now with all the speaker's main, But mute the soldier stood. A click ! — a flash ! — a gun ! — a groan ! — '* Quick, sister, light the lamp !" "Ah, mercy!" said a voice-^'twas known — " My hrother !" "Oh, my husband own !" They seized the clay, but life had flown— His brow was chill and damp ! They fell upon the warrior's form. The brother and the wife ! But he who'd faced the battle's storm Was cold, nor could their sighing warm His pulseless heart to life ! teoo. 142 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. GEN. SAM HOUSTON 4 tllE n;uno of Mrs. nouslon liad acquired an attvactivo sound to my ear before I read a line from her pen. She did not sliow her genius in her first productions. Genius never blazes forth at onee in its noon-day splendor. Bryant may have written remarkable verse at sixteen, and Pope may have lisped in numbers at five, but I am sure that neither Shakspeare nor Milton, Goethe nor Schiller achieved their great- ness without lonj;- and continued training. Tlie evolution of genius demands a continued and never-ceasing struggle. None can be developed without it, and the more powerful the greater the throe of parturition. Mrs. Houston's poetry is serious and aims at riveting our aflections at once. She conceives poetry to be the language of imagination and passion, and hinges on that which gives immediate pleasure or pain. She sees poetry in everything in nature in all its grandeur and simplicity. Hazlet says : "We shape things according to our own wishes and fancies without poetry ; but poetry is the most emphatic language that can be found for those creations of the mind which ecstacy is very cunning in." Poetry, according to Lord Bacon, has something divine in it, because it raises the mind and hurries it into sublimity, by conforming the shows of things ■ to the desires of the soul, instead of subjecting the soul to ex- ternal things as reason and history do. Mrs. Houston has not been called a poet of the loftiest en- thusiasm, of the strongest imagination, but she has a passion- ate sense of the beauties of nature and a deep insight into the workings of the heart ; with a quick tact for propriety of thought and manners as established by the forms and customs of society ; a sympathy with the sentiments and habitude of /' MRS. GEN. SAM HOUSTON. human life, as she felt them within the circle of illustrious friends. Margaret Lea was born near Marion, Alabama, April 11, 1819. Her young mind was trained under her father's eyes until her thirteenth year, when she was placed at school at Pleasant Val- ley Seminary, the most popular school of that State. While a pupil of that school, her genius rapidly developed, and she showed a remarkable talent for general literature. She devel- oped such aptness for literary knowledge that her teacher said to her parents : " Maggie will take her place in the galaxy of the great and learned writers of the day." She was already the brightest star in the circle of the rich' and poor. She first met Gen. Houston in 1839. While he and his staff were stopping a few days in Mobile, Col. M. A. Lea, her brother, invited the General and staff to take tea with him. They accepted the courteous invitation, and thus he was brought into contact with the lady who was to be his wife. This was in the sweet month of May, the season for fruits and flowers, and when all nature is alive with teeming and bustling life, and our natures are filled with love. Eyes met eyes, mind met mind, and heart met heart — there was a marriage of their souls. One year from that time (May, 1840) Gen. Houston returned to claim the fulfillment of the plighted vows. We here add a sketch of Mrs. Houston's life from the able pen of Wm. Carey Crane, D. D., LL. D., late President of Bay- lor University : " In her twenty-first year (1840) she was married to Gen. Sam Houston, then President of the Republic of Texas, and shared with him in all the fatigues of public life in Texas, through the checkered scenes of that wonderful man's life. Her influence upon her husband, both before and after his conver- sion ; her devotion to the Bible; her faithfulness and success in instructing her children in religious truths; her abiding in- terest in all the great enterprises of Christian zeal; her faithful support of the ministry; her constant attendance upon Divine w wmjmm smmumamsm 144 Poets and Poetry of Texas. service; her abstinence from all the fashionable follies incident to public life — licr trials, her sorrows, her sufferings, her joys and successes — deservedly rank her with the noble women who shared the toils and hardships and religious enthusiasm of Jud- son and Boardman. The wife of a great statesman and gen- eral — a giant among men — slie still felt that the highest honor on earth was to be a Christian. She was a Bible Christian. Few persons were more conversant with its precious contents. She was a woman of genius, and there are many specimens of Iver poetic power, reaching back to her childhood days, which claim for her a sure place among the i)Octic minds of the South. Four sons and four daughters survive her." Mrs. Houston died at her home in Independence, Texas, in 1S67. She was a lady of great fortitude, and of remarkable moral courage. During a dark period of the Texas Rc}>ub]ic, Texas was threatened with an invasion from Mexico. The in- telligence spread the deepest alarm throughout the country. All along the western borders families were seen flying from j their habitations toward the interior. The public mind was | stirred by the wildest apprehensions. Evcr^'body knew the \ provocation that had been given to the enemy. The follies and | the disasters of the Santa Fe expedition seemed but a prelude to another Goliad or Alamo. The coast was without protection, and no army concentrated to march on the invaders. Houston called an extra session of Congress to consider the state of the country and to devise moans for national defense. They de- bated and legislated without much formalit}' or delay, for the impression was general that if anything was to be done it had better be done quickly. Their deliberations ended in passing a bill which invested Houston with dictatorial powers, and ap- l)ropriated ten millions of acres of the public domain to carry on a campaign. Apprehension had been felt, Avhile the bill was under debate, that Houston would veto it. The excitement was intense ; the capital was tilled with angry and desperate men. Their noisy clamor spread over the country. PoETB AND Poetry of Texas. 145 All sorts of accusations were brought agiiinst Houston. He was told that his lifo would pay the forfeit if he vetoed the bill. But in the inidst of all this storm, Houston was ealin and cheer- ful. He stationed no guard around his house ; lie had no spies on the alert ; he did not inquire what was done on the streets. His wife reposed with perfect conlidenct; upon his character, and she calmly and eonlidingly sustained him by Iht placid and intelle(!tua.l conversation. Long after the lights had been extinguished through the town, and snllen, desperate armed men were gathered in secret meetings to plot and counterplot, the gay voice of his wife, mingled with the tones of the harp and the piano, was heard coming fortli from the open windows of Houston's dwelling. When this dark elond fell over the path of Houston, he buried his sorrows in tln^ (lowing bowl, and gave himself up to the enchantress. Hni the smiles of :m ad'ectionate and devoted wife snatched him from her folds and brought the wanderer back to the pure charities of home, and saved to the State its noblest citizen. The pages of history arc illustrated by accounts of her noble acts. I get the above illustrations of h(>r moral heroism parl-ly from the Life of Sam Houston, by C. ]*>lward [tester ; I am also in- debted to her sister, Mrs. lioberts, for valuable assistance in preparing this meagre outline of her life and history. Mrs. Houston ranks among the great and gooil, and did much to mold the Texan mind and life during her lifetime; and few names will b9 honored with a larger credit than that of Margaret Lea Houston. TO MY HUSBAND—DECEMBER, LH-L QJIIKAREST, the cloud hast left thy brow, ^ [1 Th(! shade of thoughtfulness, of care 'f And deep anxiety ; and now The sunshine of content is there. 146 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Its sweet return with joy I hail : And never may tliy country's woes Again that hallow'd light dispel, And may thy bosom's calm repose. God hath crown'd thy years of toil With fruition; and I pray That on the harvest still His smile May shed its ever gladdening ray. Thy task is done ! another eye Than thine must guard thy country's weal And oh, may wisdom from on Jiigli To him the one true path reveal ! Where'erst was spread the mighty waste, Of waters fathoms deep, and far O'er earth thick dardncss reigned, unchased By ray of sun or moon or star, — God bade the gloomy deep recede. And so young earth rose on His view ! Swift at liis word, the waters lied, And darkness spread its wings and flew. The same strong arm hath put to flight Our country's foes, the ruthless band That swept in splendid pomp and might Across our fair and fertile land. The same Almighty hand hath raised On these wild plains a structure fair : And well may wondering nations gaze At aught so marvelous and rare, ..Thy task is done. The holy shade Of calm retirement waits thee now ; The lamp of hope relit liath shed Its sweet refulgence o'er thy brow. Far from the busy haunts of men Oh may thy soul each fleeting hour Upon the breath of prayer descend To him who rules with love and power ! Poets and Poetry of Texas. 147 AN EVENING RAMBLE. 'WAS evening, and the mild autumnal sun, With varied hues had tinged the western sky; Lovely eve ! contemplation's sweetest hour, When memory dwells on days long, long gone by. At such an hour, midst nature's wild wood scenes, I'd wandered from the cold and heartless throng. Who seek the haunts of mirth, while down the stream Of life they swift and thoughtless _glidc along. A deep and solemn stillness reigned unbroken, Save by the rustling of the falling leaf Whose faded hues too plainly spoke decay All else was sunk in silence, — but 'twas brief; — For soon upon the gentle whispering breeze. Was borne a soft and melancholy strain, E'en now imagination's magic power. Recalls these ne'er forgotton words again. Farewell, thou bright delusive dream. Which o'er my path thy lustre shed. Vision of bliss that brightly gleamed, Alas ! thou'rt gone, forever fled. Alone I roam upon the earth Without one friend or kindred tie. Far from the spot that gave me birth. In a foreign land I sigh. Ah ! what is childhood's home to me. With all its loved hills and groves, Among those haunts of infancy The indifferent stranger roves. Yet, once a tender mother's smile Kindly cheered me on my way ; A father's love my cares beguiled, But now, alas ! " where are they?" Stranger, behold yon silent mound, Where waves the rank grass tall, There, beneath that hallowed ground, Is deposited my all. I There, when the pensive twilight throws, O'er the earth her deepning gloom, The lonely wanderer breathes his woes. And bewails his early doom. Ah ! one by one my childish joys, Soon have fled like " summer friends," Who quickly heeding fortune's voice, Seek the fleeting bliss she lends. Yet, murmur not, poor wearied one. For thee, e'en thee, there's rest ; Be still, my heart, the grave shall soon Shield me from chilling blast. And though around my peaceful tomb, No lamenting friends appear, There the wild rose shall sweetly bloom, Unnourished by friendship's tear, I listened — but the voice had passed away, Those sweet and mournful strains were heard no more Like fleeting dreams of childhood's joyous day They passed — and all was silent as before. Poets and Poetry op Texas. 149 NETTIE POWER HOUSTON. %iS the youngest daughter of Gen. Sam Houston, and holds title I j|| to an honorable place among the Texas writers. She was born I ^ in the State her father made great, and her youthful life I was passed among scenes^haracteristically Texan, and the ups I and downs of this life ^*6 made up of perpetual variations be- ' tween luxury and i^enury, and that- shifty life of expedients ^ ■which quickens the wits, and out of which perhaps its victims, whose disappointment Ave lament so much, get a degree of ex- citement, pleasurable as well as painful, which makes them much less miserable than we imagine. In very early life Miss Nettie began to write and publish her poems, and was soon surrounded by a lively group of admiring \ friends, of whom it has been said: " They sought their in- \ spiration from her pen." Her earliest productions were sur- I prises and revelations to the public. In 1871, Turnbull Brothers, Baltimore, announced a volume of her poems, but from some cause, not known to the public, the book has never appeared. In 1878, she was married to Prof. W. L, Bringhurst, at that time professor in the Texas Military Institute at Austin, and at present (May, 1885) of the Agricultural and Mechanical College, at Bryan, Texas. Mrs. Bringhurst has long been a great favorite of the people of Texas. They have always delighted to honor her, and ev- erything that she has written has been received with pride, and stored away as a treasure of rare beauty. When she published her earlist poems, many were ready to give praise and encouragement; butwhenshe published A Gar- nered Memory, Little Babies, Hanging up the Stocking, and Love Z)rea?/is in quick succession, all were ready to pay homage to her genius. a 150 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Her charming little poem — Little Babies — has been copied more extensively, perhaps, than anything she has published, and ranks among her best poems. In the production of this poem the spirit of poetry seems not onl}'^ to have seized upon her feelings, but to have absorbed all the powers of her intellect; and hence, in the breathing forth of her numbers, there is little of the "earth earthly," and she sees little babies everywhere. Indeed, from the poetic tinge, which colors all of her writings, particularly her earliest productions, there can be no doubt that her genius was such as would have lead to the highest degree of excellence in any department of poetry to which she might have devoted her ex- alted intellect. The intrinsic merit of her poems, in this volume, will com- mend them to every reader capable of appreciating a pure and exalted poetic vein. Her poem. The Veterans^ Re-Union, is one of pure delight. She held these heroes in such veneration, and regarded their great and heroic deeds with such admiration, that she was never hap- pier than when composing verses to their memory. Mrs. Bringhurst inherited her poetic genius from her mother, who wrote some exquisite gems of poetry and, whose life and poems appear in this volume. The poems of the mother and daughter are as different as it is possible for them to be, and there appears little "brotherhood of song." With one or two exceptions, they are totally unlike in sentiment or imagery, and do not impress one as being from minds akin. Those of the mother were penned amidst hours of luxuriant ease, and in the decline of life. Those of the daughter were composed when her heart was buoyant "And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek While the future look'd blooming and gay." She has had her disappointments, as most do; and her strug- gles without means to accomplish her literary desires were 1 L. J. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 151 bitter, but she has lived through them, and although she writes little now that the public ever sees, the fire still burns within her, and when the public demands of her her rhyme, she will wield her pen to gratify the demand. I have selected for tliis volume Mrs. Bringhurst's best known poems — A Garnered Memory, Little Babies and The Veterans^ Re- ■ Union. There was such a number of good poems to select \ from, that the task of selection was rendered very difficult. They are very popular, and will have many admirers. LITTLE BABIES. j^pHERE are babies all about us — ^1 j Babies fresh, and sweet, and fair, ^T Made for seeing, loving, kissing, Little babies everywhere. Who on earth can fail to love them ? God's fair sunbeams stolen in. Bless the little sinless babies I Innocent, though born in sin. We can see them all around us, In the house and on the street ; Watch their rosy, dimpling faces. Hear their busy hands and feet. Little babies, whose rich garments Bear wealth's impress o'er and o'er, Little babies — poor men's treasures — Rollicking upon the floor. Little black-eyed bonny babies. Brimming full of fun and glee ; Little blue-eyed sunny babies. There's no prettier sight to see. If my arms were only stronger, So the wee ones wouldn't fall, I could kiss them by the dozen. Little babies, one and all. 152 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Yes, the world is full of babies, Some that just can coo and smile. Some tliat dance, and laugh and chatter, Briglit and liapi)y all the while. Some have learned to think and reason, And can speak in baby-talk ; Some, Avhose little limbs are stronger, Have essayed alone to walk. / Little ba1)ies have their trials, So tlicy sometimes sob and wail ; Telling, if we could divine it, Mivny a sad, heart-rending tale. 'Tis a part of human nature, To ask sympathy in woe. And with little baby-sorrows, Grown folks shouldn't grumble so. Heaven's choice blessings are the babies, Blessings not denied the poor ; For the little wandering. angels Steal in at the humblest door. Earth is never wholly fallen, While these rays from God's own smile Say, in silence, something better Is behind us all the while. There are many little babies Who have crossed the river o'er. Some whose life-barques were too frail, Perished on an earthly shore. Little snowy, waxen babies. With their tiny hands at rest. Little buds, too frail to blossom, Save in mansions of the blest. Ah, 'tis much we owe to babies, For they fill our lives with light, Their bright faces and sweet laughter Scatter all of sorrow's night. n Poets and Poetry of Thixas. 153 Little hearts, all unsuspecting, or the paths our feet have trod. In their simple might possessing Power to lead us all to God. A OAHNEREB MEMORY, 'HERP] is a l)lessed memory, Eml)alnied with my love and tears, That, buxied dcej)ly, tewderly, Has hallowed my heart for years. 'Tis a bright, but a sad, sad vision That hovers before my gaze, Bringing me all of the treasures I lost with my (childhood days. 'Twas a winter evening hazy, The cares of the day w(!re done. And the troop of merry school girls, Came home in the setting sun ; My weary feet on the threshold, I stored all my books away, Tossed oil' my gloves and my bonnet, To rest with the d^nng day. My mother sat in the twilight. Musing and dreaming alone ; Her face, in the lire-light shadows, With a calm, sweet glory shone. I knew of what she was dreaming, I had studied her features so, That I told by their softened meaning When she thought of the long ago. I threw back my dark hair's tresses. And sitting child-like at her feet, Asked my mother to tell me the story To her memory treasured and sweet. llcr Messed lilue eyes \v wistful, She llioiis'lilol' my futlier now, y\iul !i look of deep loving;' and lon}j;in}; Crepl over lier lips and her hrow. The I'linipses of li,i';hf throuj;h the window Strayed lovinj^ly over iier Iniir, Tiu^ davli^ht. seeineil yearnin};' to hless her, And lin!;(M'ed eareKsintdy there ; There iie\'er was hair like my mother's, 'Twas jet in a seltinj:; of Li,«»ld, Like mi(ini!!,hl asleep, in rich masses, With day lijj;ht awake on each fold. "No wi>nder \\\\ lather so loved you," I museil, Idokinu,' up in her face, 1'\m' motherhood, frci;j,hted with tiial. Had not stolen lu>r beauty and graci'; Her dr{>HM was th(> de(>post. of mourninjj;, And hiM' hands wtMi- so waxtui and whilo I lhou}^ht of thi> pure snowy hlosst)m, 'IMial. open tluMr p(>tals at ni-'Jil. Then slu' told me, in tones like low music. The story that measured her lift>, Her girlhood, its h«>auty, its triumphs, Wvr thi> lov(>-erown iuvd nuule Ium- a wift^ — And sh(> painted a. {>ieturo so viviii, I fancied it dawntMl on my view, Of llu> t>V(t her, W'htMi the old life was lost in the m>w. Slie told how her dross, white and sptitloss, And the curls of her dark llowinu; hair, How htu" hluc (\vos, lu>r fresh sinn)li' beauty, (Miaincil her hi>art in u lifetime of snare. She told mo the scene of betrothal. In a beauteous garden of lU)wers, Of the lovely, ciu-hanttMl Hay Oity, \\'her(> glid{>d In-r girlhood's bright hours. Then she pictur»Ml the evo of her bridal, \\'lu>n, le.'iving behind every li(\ I'oKTM AND ToKTIfV uK Tl'.XAB. She folliiwcil licr 1ic;ii(/m clioMi'll rulci', 'I'o dwell 'iicmUi u I'ar »lis(:inr .sky. 'I'liiii my iiiothcr'M MWccI, Ciicc kiiKllcd pioudly, And she said, in u Inw, caiiHsl v(»ic(!, " W'licn I iiian'ic(l your I'ldlicr, my da,iij.^licr, ()!' Ilic wimlc wiultl, I wcddctl iny clioicc." Tlic fliadows (if nijdd. were aniund lis, 'IMic story had closed witli Uie da,y, r.iit llic wtu'ds of my molluif still lin}';ert've :ind Hie |(rid(^ in lier voiec, Anil I :;iid lo myself, " hlarfli were; lieav(!ii, If each woman li;id miinied her (thoico." 77/ A' VliJTliJ HANS' UK UNION. iM;iti— MAKi.'ii :i--ii'.;r). r.ANl) of [)aLri<)ts tried and true, Whoso l()(dcH uri! tiirnin;^; trray, '*^;^ Aiuonji; thcso old historie sccnoH, (jiiitlmr tluiniselves today. My fancy stea.ls inio their midsl, With step so IiusIkmI and low; J K(M!ni to hear their Hpeakinj^ h( art-t, l*.esid(! the A lamo. The tid(! of y(!ii,rH Hvvcops hy iinlblt, With all life's cnrc! ami pain ; Texas Ixdon^^s to Mcxicio And they ar(; hoys again. Tin; proud d(!Hirc, tin; drciauiH of youth. Stir all their veins once; rnoic, As memory i)roudly points her hand 'j'o valiant (hicds ol yore. Again tliey H(>o a iui.i;lily host,, li'roin out ilu! distance loom ; 'Tis Santa Anna and liis men, And noarcM- still tliey conio. Tli(\v watch the sun still lower sink, Tlie field all dy^'d in blood; They phr.it their proud, victorious feet Where late their foes had stood. Texas is now a JMolher State, Her sons ar(^ statcsnicn, too ; No fields are half so fair as hers, No skies are half so blue." Yet still 1 see a softened shade lI|)on their features spread, They lower their voices, for they fell ''I'is hallowed ground they tread. They pause above the sleeping dead, Our heroes lying low ; The men who fouglit and bled und died, To save the Alamo. 1 (\o not call one deathless name, Of all that gallant band ; Each one a hero proudly died. Fearless in heart and hand. I feel thi'ir jiroud fire in my veins, My heart throbs fierce and high ! JMy ])idses thrill like those of men. Who do not fear to die. I learn to yearn as they have yearned. For dreams that could not last; I almost feel as thoy have felt. The glory of the Past. That was a day worth living for, boys ! 'Twas April — let me seo — fcmJi^-M Poets and Poktuy of Texa5?. 157 Yos, 'twas iho fj;lorious tu'cnty-Cirst That made our country IVec ! V/o fou^lit hall'-letl, wo louglit lialf-clad ; But oh ! wo fought like uion ! And, oomrach'S, it was gi'and To be a soldier then ! The t^an Jacinto river told The Htory to the sea, And Europe, listeuing from afar, Proclaimed young Texas free. And over sea and over landj Iler beauty (■!lu")n(! nfai', And lords and prineos came (o view The yoiiug Uepublie's star. And now, it is so long ago ! And after all our stars, The star we })laced upon her brow, Is one of many stars. Our boys themsdvos are bearded men, The dream all fades away, And yet })ut yestei'day it seems We were as young as they. Texas, my own, my native tState, Would I could see thee now In all thy pristine l)f'auty bright — The Lone Ktar on thy l)row 1 A l)and of heroes, on whose brows Time's touch has turned to snow — God bless them all ! — arc met to-day Beside the Aljuno, JAMES H. HUTCHINS. MONG the number of those whose Muse has been silent except when touched by grief or joy, or moved by some special occasion, is Mr. Hutchins. "Though gifted for musical utterance by nature and culture, the allurements of domestic life too fully met the wants of his nature, happy be- yond the need of poetic utterance." Mr. Hutchins was born in Newbern, North Carolina, in Sep- tember of 1813. He was educated in the University of that State, graduating in 1835. He has been a citizen of Texas since 1849, and most of that time his home has been in Austin. From 1860 to 1865, he held the position of Calculator in the General Land Office, and from 1874 to tbe present time (1885) he has held the same official connection with that department. During all this time he never forsook the wooing of the Muses, and has given to the world, now and then, through the medium of news- papers, some of the fruits of his wooing. Mr. Hutchins' longest poems, My Natioe Toivn, occupies nearly a thousand lines. It is his most ambitions attempt and is musical throughout. He introduces it to the reader by these lines : — No time suffices to efface, The hallowed memories of the place, That gave us birth — where e'er we roam, How far so e'r from childhoods' home, And be our fortune what it will. All liright with joy or dark with ill, And though the years be counted o'er, — Long years of absence by the score, While memory lives, it haunts the sod, By our own feet it childhood trod, — While throbs the heart in yearning tends, To childhood's scenes and childhood's friends — ^ Poets and Poetry of Texas. 159 One of Mr. Hutchins' best poems, and one among his most highly prized, he calls A Dirge. This poem was composed February 1, 18G2. On that day the remains of Hon. John Hemphill, Confederate States Senator, and those of Gen. Hugh McLeod, of the Confederate army, having been brought from Richmond, Va., Avere interred at Austin, Texas. It was a cold, wet day, and a light sleet was falling at the time of the inter- ment. A short time previous, the remains of Col. Benj. F. Terry and those of Lieut. Col. T. S. Lubbock (both late of the Terry Rangers) had been transferred from Kentucky and in- terred at Houston. I quote the poem complete: — 'OLL! toll! toll! Let solemn chimes and slow, Tell out a Nation's woe ; A heroe's head In death lies low; Ring out the trembling throes, A land's full heart o'erflov/s As winds the ]5all, To that dread hall Where all earth's dead repose. — A patriot soul has fled — The noble Terry's dead, That gallant chief To glory wed — For him the trump in vain, Shall wake its martial strain, And warlike steed No more he'll need, Nor warrior blade, or train — When sank the hero low, He nobly wooed the blow, And proudly fell, Charging the foe. Now shall he sweetly rest, 160 PoET3 AND Poetry of Texas. By every patriot blest, And age to age Shall storied page His valor higli attest. Toll! toll! toll! Again, ye luounil'iil bolls, 'J'oll out your solemn knells, And eelioos wake In far otr dells: Sad notes ye well niny i)o\n-. Another warrior o'er — Jirave liUhbook sleeps — His (.-ouiitry weeps. That he sh:\ll wake no move. No more iiis Hashing <\ve, Shall I'oeman ))rouhero, Yet each alike, To country dear. Both patriots, tried and true, Peers of the noble few. Whose fame is bright Witb golden light The circling ag(;s tbrough. Mr. Ilutchins has reared a large and prosperous family, lie has lived to see his sons occuj)y j)rominent positions in life's station. Jlis married life lias extended over forty years, and peace and plenty have always blessed tbat union. One of his happiest poems was addressed to bis wife on completing the fortieth year of their married life. Lucre^s Dying Advice to His Son is a fair specimen of Mr. Hutcliin's best poems. I give it preference : — ;!^"^HE death-dew, son, is on my brow, *^ij ) And fast life's tide is ebbing now, J Yet e're I go, come, bend you near That my last whispers you may hear. Some pious souls will prate of sin, If you attempt great wealth to win ; mmi mmti Don't mind them, boy, but money make, In spite of heads that at yon shake. For don't tlie wise man bid you turn, And from tlie ant a lesson learn? And from the bee, too, may'nt you draw, That hoarding is great Nature's law ? But these, my son, the bee and ant. They store their wealth 'gaiiist winter's want, Whibt need of thine is as thy time : 'Twill serve thee well through all thy prime. Through middle age and life's decline : 'Twill buy thee corn and oil and wine. 'Twill be to thee, far more than brother, Than father, sister, wife or mother. Have this for friend, thou'lt need no other ; Then money get, my son, my son. For all else good's by money won. Be honest, too, my son, you will But jutlge yourself what's honest, still. Let your own conscience be your light. Nor heed what squeamish folks call right. What's right and wrong you ought to know. Then why to others need you go? They can but say, 'tis right to trade. When twice or thrice is back repaid. And wrong to vend at price so low, That handsome profit you forego. Then buy you low, sell high, nor spend One cent that serves no useful end. Sound maxims these of honest thrift — All others to a poor-house drift. Give urgent beggars such robulF, One call on you, they'll deem enough; For, taxes you must pay, be sure. To taxes then should look the poor. And things got up for " public good," Don't waste your money on that brood, But, now and then, 'twill do to spare, A txifle to a ball or fair ; For, crowds, you know, do these attend. And fools in town their money spend, So, when there's chance to be repaid, The giving card may well be played. You'll go to church on Sunday, too, When you have nothing else to do, 'Tis quite becoming— looks so well, It makes a man respectable ; And of the many churches choose, (But never one that rents its pews) And put your name upon its roll ; You'll find it cheapest on the whole. For, beggars all, they'll crowd your door. To build them houses— feed their poor ; To print them Bibles, tracts, and send The gospel to the wide world's end. But if of all, you've chosen one. The rest are at your mercy, son. For you can quote them, when they come, That " charity begins at home," — Can tell them how your flock's your care, And needs far more than you can spare, And till its wants are all supplied, All other calls must be denied. Thus of all churches not your own. The beggar claims, you can disown. But when your own goes on a raid, Though you bemoan dull times and trade, As 'twould seem mean just then to bluff. Throw in a dollar— 'tis enough — And watch you then to turn a Jack, That quick again shall win it back. This plan's a good one, son, I know, Forty years I've. found it so ; Though all that time, with name enrolled, A church has had me in its fold. And thanks to— well, to my good sense, I'm this near heaven at small expense. Now try the plan, my son, I've tried, And save your money and " — he died ! 164 Poets and Poetry of Texas. ROBERT JOSSELYN. R. JOSSELYN was born in Massachusetts, 1810, edu- cated in Vermont, and admitted to the bar at Winchester, Virginia, 1831. He then immigrated to Mississippi, where he practiced law, served in the LegisLature, Avas District Attorney, and for a while engaged in journalism. lie entered the Mexican War as private in First Mississippi Rifles, with Col. JcfTcrson Davis, but was appointed Captain and Commis- sary by President Polk. At the cx})iraiion of term of service ho resigned; was State Commissioner of Mississippi 1850 to 1858 ; and in Treasury Department, Washington, ISGO, but re- signed Avhen Mississipi)i seceded. President Davis a])pointed him his private secretary at Montgomery, but he resigned after one year's service, on account of ill health, and was made Secretary of Arizona Territory, as organized under the Confed- eracy. Since the war he has resided in Texas, at Austin. His published works are The Faded Flower and Other Poems, Boston, 1848 ; A Satire on the Times, St. Louis, 1875; and T'he Coijucttc, a drama in five acts, Austin, 1878. lie is anther of many fugi- tive poems, two of which — The Girl with a Calico Dress and The Youn(j Widow — hii\o kept their places in the newspapers for more than twenty-five years, though rarely credited to the author. For some years Mr. Josselyn was connected with the Democratic Statesman, Austin. In 1878 he started a daily i)aper at Austin, but it fell through after a short life. His writings are generally upon questions of the day, and they are characterized by prac- tical good sense ; a compliment rarely to be paid to a man of so varied attainments. January, 1883, when Hon. John Ireland was installed Gov- ernor of Texas, Mr. .lossolyn :i(',cc[)tc(l u (;lorkslii|) in i\\r, ex- ecutive ollice, wlierelu! remained until l)is (Icatli, which occurred of i)heunionia in 18S4. He lived a bachelor— having never been married. Mr. Josselyn had many iubnirers who delighted to call him the "(loldsmith of Tc^xas." The La>servcs a phici; here, and a general recognition from the ])ubrK;. 1 l:ik(! it from VVra.s Scrap Hook. The Salirc on Ihc !/'i7ncs was originally published in the Soutliern Jieviciv edited by Dr. A. T. liledsoe. 1 regret its lenglh will prin'cnt my in- cluding it in this volume as a (•omi)leled whole. Tlu; reader will be coini)elled to accci)t detached parts. It is lioped, how- ever, tliat these extracts will load tlx^ reader to seiik the i)ocm and study well its many unsavory truths. SATIRE ON TlIK TIMI'JH. Aff ONI*] are the men of nol)le heart and brain 'i[i|])'l'he Great llepublic'H founders. And in vain Wc scan the spreading Empire to behold A single statesman of the days of old — A single patriot, whose only aim His country's wcllaie and an hon(;st fanx;. Corrui)lion reigns. Assuraiu^e stalks abroad, Defiant of tlu; laws of man and (Jod. From high to low— if high and low there; be. Where scoundrels differ otdy in degree — The deadly taint ])r(;vails; the putrid mass But struggles, each the other to surpass In crime and wantonness, till nature writhes With pain, and wond(M-s if aught good survives If Virtue lives, she shuns the public gaze, In fear and sorrow spends the weary days, With few to sympathize, and none to praise. God help tlx' land, so reprobate, so curst; When will His thunders on this Sodom burst? There was a time — how grand the scene appears To muse historic, smiling through her tears ! — When heroes sti;ug"gled for a place and name Among the nations; and when glory came, World-circling and undying; wdien arose 'i'lic young Republic, 'midst the i)angs and throes Of revolution, and the dormant right Of Government by numbers, not by might, Of largest liberty conjoined with law, Asserted, struck earth's tyranny with awe. Tiie rlglit maintained b}' blootly sacriiice, And freedom won, the pearl above all i>rice, V\'\\h reasonings, calm and strong, and high debates, Was formed the love-bound union of the States^ — Of sovereign States, co-equal and intact. While Heaven's choicest blessings crowned the act. Then commerce spread her snowy wings ai'ar, And kings and subjects honored stripe and star. The husbandman received a- full return For toil and care ; what industry could earn, B}^ sturdy sinews and by sweat of brow. Went not to pamper lazy thieves, as now. No endless taxes ground the worthy ])Oor Till ghastly famine haunted at the door ; Within was plenty, and around the board Daily the happy family adored Their Maker, thankful for the blessings given, And luid a f(^retaste of their future heaven, lieligion llourished, jture and undefiled. As taught by Virgin Mary's God-full Child. Devoted pastors guarded well their Hocks, Nor smeared with dirty politics their frocks ; The mvstery of godliness their pride. And preaching Christ, the Savior, crucified. Then marriage was esteemed a sacred tie, And vows of love were not a honeyed lie ; The seal of fond atiection was for life, And death alone divorced the man and wife, J_ Poets and Poetry of Texas. 167 Obedient children, stout and fair to view, In goodly numbers round their parents grew— Sure indication oC a thriving fState, As lessening oli'spring show the coming fate. Helf-government was real— otiice sought The man, not man the oliice, as it ought. Sickened, we turn from rulers to the ruled— J.ike mass and masters, save the crushed and fooled. As base and wicked, else why not assert Their manhood, and rise upward from the dirt And filth of their condition? Why not be Freemen in fact as well as theory? Grovelling, debauched, d(;praved, they only think Of money-making and the dollar's clink ; Wealth, by all means of fraudulent deceit In trade and fabrics, glorying in the cheat ; Poison in liquors, shoddy everywhere, Swindling in all we drink and eat and wear ; Huge combinations to enhance the price Of stocks and bonds, by every low device To cunning knov/n, or to depress the same For purchase by the shufflers in the game. To break jj sacred trust, to bankrui)t friends, To use a public fund for private ends, Defraud the revenue, or rob a bank, Gives to the perpetrator fame and rank. THE LAST TEAR I SHED. C^lIE last tear I shed was the warm one that fell %| lAs I kissed thee, dear mother, and bade thee farewell ; ^x When I saw the deep anguish impressed on thy face, And felt for the last time a mother's embrace. And heard thy choked accent, most frantic and wild, "God bless ihee forever ! God bless thee, my child !" 168 Pop:ts and Poetry of Texas. I thought of my boyhood, thy kindness to me, When, youngest and dearest, I sut on thy knee; Thy kive to me ever so fondly expressed, As I grew uj) to manhood, unconscious how blest ; Thy praises when right, and thy chidings when wrong, While wayward with passion, unheeding and strong, I thought of thy counsels, unheeded or spurned, As mirth had enlivened, or anger had burned, And now, when by sickness I lay. Thou didst nurse me and sootlie me, by night and by day, How much I had been both thy sorrow and joy, And my feelings o'erllowed, and I wept like a boy. Years, years of endurance have vanished, and now — There is pain in my heart, there is care on my brow, The visions of fancy and hope are all gone, And cheerless I travel life's pathway alone. Alone? Aye, alone ! though some kind ones there be, There is none here to love me — to love me like thee. My mother, dear mother, cold-hearted they deem Thy oflfspring, but, oh, I am not what I seem; Though calmly and tearless all changes I bear. Could you look in my bosom, the feeling is there, And now, sad and lonely, as memory recatls Thy blessing at parting, again the tear falls. MY GIRL WITH A CALICO DRESS. FIG for your U[)per-ten girls. With their velvets, and satin, and laces, 'Their diamonds, and rabies, and pearls, And millinery figures and faces ; They may shine at a party or ball, Emblazoned with half they possess. But give me, instead of them all. My girl with the calico dress. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 169 She's as plump as a partridge, and fair As a rose in its earliest bloom ; Her teeth will with ivor}' compare, And her breath with the clover perfume ; Her step is as free and as light As the fawn's, when the hunter hard press ; And her eye is as soft and as bright — My girl with the calico dress. Your dandies and foplings may jeer At her modest and simple attire ; But the charms she permits to appear Would set a whole iceburg on fire : She can dance, but she never allows The hugging, the squeeze and caress, She is saving all these for her spouse — My girl with the calico dress. She is cheerful, warm-hearted, and true, And kind to her father and mother : She studies how much she can do For her sweet little sister and brother. If you want a companion for life, To comfort, enliven, anrl bless, She is just the right sort for a wife — My girl with a calico dress. THE YOUNG WIDOW. HE is modest but not bashful, Free and easy but not bold, Like an apple, ripe and mellow, Not too young and not too old. Half inviting, half repulsing, Now advancing, and now shy; — There is mischief in her dimple — There is danger in her e^e. 13 170 Poets and Poetry of Texas. She has studied human nature, She is schooled in all her arts, She has taken her diploma As the INIistress of all Hearts. She can tell the very moment When to sigh, and when to smile — Oh, a maid is often charming, But a widow all the while ! Are you sad ? How very serious Will her smiling face become. Are you angry ? She is wretched. Drooping, sighing, tearful, dumb. Are you mirthful ? How her laughter, Silver-sounding, will ring out : — She can love, and catch, and play you, As the angler does the trout. Ye old bachelors of forty ! Who have grown so bald and wise, Young Americans of twenty ! With the love-look in your eyes : — You may practice all the lessons Taught by Cupid since the fall, But I know a little widow Who can win and fool you all. °^=0§^ Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 171 HUGH KERR. >:^^HE earliest literary production of the State is a little vol- *||y lime called Kerr's Poem on Texas. It is occupied mainly * with a description of the battles, rivers, lakes, streams and animals of the country. Mr. Kerr came to Texas in 1832, and was one of the great lights of the early colonial settlements in Texas. He wrote and published the first book of poems ever produced in the State. It bears date of 1838, and is among the very earliest works on Texas. In this work, the author displays want of literary skill; yet as a rhyming chronicler, he has accomplished his work with marked success. Mr. Kerr was a native of Ireland, but came to America about the year 1795. He died in Washington county, Texas, in 1843. He was a friend to Texas in her earliest struggles for freedom, and aided the Revolution in various ways— with the pen and financial means, and by composing patriotic songs and setting them to music. His book embraces twenty-four shapters. I give the title com- plete of this unique little volume : "A Poetical Description of Texas, and Narrative of Many Interesting Events in that Coun- try, Embracing a Period of Several Years, Interspersed with Moral and Political Impressions ; Also an Appeal to those who Oppose the Union of Texas with the United States, and the Anticipation of that Event. To which is Added The Texas Heroes, Nos. 1 and 2; by Hugh Kerr. New York: Published for the Author, 1838." As a work of curious worth, this little book is prized by the old Texans who knew Kerr and the troublous scenes which he describes. It is one of the curiosities of literature of which Disnu;!! Iuih inudo no mention, but oni; iliut will be souf^lil and road by all wbo enjoy tlic Htranjfi.' and jXH'uliar in pocdic fields. Illnstialivt; of tlie descriptivi; contents ol" tbc book, J (juote one atanza, IVoni book nineteeiitb: — "(lonzalcis and Victloria Arc! towns upon tbo (Juadalupe ; Tbe (ii'st is distant IVoni tbo hay, Tbe latt(;r, some thirty miles up." Section nine is (h'voted to l*'annin at (loliad, and Travis and Crocket at the Alamo. (Jf the latter see his rbyme : — 4^ |i|.r'R()M Tinncsseo, brave Crocket came ; ^j / 'J'lie causes of Texas In; espoused ; ^^ i At Alamo enrolled his name, , ICaeh latent spark of vij!;or rous'd >-^ lleretotbre, ho was known hy fame, A nottul liunter — a statesman too; The friend of Texas, wo i)roelaim, A valiant, active hero true. lUit ah I wo note bia fat(! with pain. For Texas has his valoiir priz'd — Surrounded by a lieap of slain, Jlis body there is ieet)gniz'd. His brave eompanions shar'd his fatc^ ; They blend in death and share his fame : Their valour some will emulate. Though we cannot cacb j)erson name." These lines are as crude as Whitakcr's Good News from Vir- ginia, 1G13. I cannot conceive of anytliing more crude. This is.bctter : — * To arms 1 to arms ! the Texans cry, We nuist repel the savag(! Ibc ; We march to comiuor, or to die, JBencath the walls of Alamo, j I close my sketch of Mr. Kerr by a quotation from Part Eighteenth : Ah ALVESTON Island long and low, i^Jifjl But rising in prosperity ; r Small vessels there may safely go, Find harbor and security. The bay from there to Anuauc, A wide extensive lake would seem ; With creeks and bayous tending back, Where hnny tribes disporting teem. Near Anuauc, in winter tim'c, Aquatic birds of various sorts, From northern to this sunny clime, In myriads do there resort. The brant and goose do most abound, In plumage white the brants appear ; For miles in length and all around, Flock after flock come squalling there. — So vast their number on the shore, That many persons come to kill ; Preserving feathers — ample store, With which at home their beds to fill. 174 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MIRABEAU B. LAMAR 2f N writing of Statesmen distinguished in literature, Mr. JNIa- ^|_ caulay said : " The literary men of a State form its most ^ valuable possession. They are its greatest pride, and have the best claims to remembrance. Without them, literature has no hold and commands no respects. Without them, the literary history of a State has nothing that inspives, nothing that kin- kles the mind with an emulating glow. We should honor them by gathering fragments of their lives and labors, and hand them down to succeeding generations." Among the great men of our noble State, the subject of tliis biographical sketch claims an honorable place. He was great in the extent of liis capacity, in the.vastness of his literary at- tainments, in his patriotic usefulness, in his elevation and purity of character, and the moral feelings that guided and di- rected his whole life. It is well to speak of the many virtues of so great and so good a man. He deserves more than a pass- ing notice, and should be honored by the whole State for the noble eflbrts of his life, for its freedom and prosperity. Mirabeau B. Lamar was born in Macon, Ga.,in the year 1702, and died in 1859. He came to Texas in 1836, about two weeks before the battle of San Jacinto. He served with distinction in the Texas Revolution, and afterwards in the Mexican war. In 1836 he was appointed Major-General of the army of the young Republic. Every one of the army appeared to estimate Mr. Lamar higlily, but was disposed to reject him as Commander- in-Chief on the ground that the Cabinet had no right to super- sede Gen. Sam Houston. The disposition to object to Mr. La- mar taking command was known, and a committee was ap- pointed to draft resolutions to present to him, requesting that MIRABEAU B. LAMAR. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 17" r he should not act in the official capacity of Major-General until the subject could be more maturely considered by the officers of the army. Gen. Lamar determined to lay the subject of his re- ception before the whole army and take their vote. At his re- quest the army was formed in line. Gen. Rusk introduced him to the army, after which he made a short speech, recounting his deeds in a glowing manner. He said that be had been made Commander-in-Chief unsolicited by himself; that he was not ambitious of the office ; that the voice of man made generals, but God made heroes, and that if his appointment was not ac- ceptable to the army, he would cheerfully go into the rank and fight l)y their side, and lead the vaiT to victory or to death, guided by the flash of the sword. His speech was followed by Generals Green and Rusk. Vote was taken and Lamar was re- jected. The army was in general agitation, and it was with great difficidty that the friends of Lamar were reconciled. October 22nd, 1836, Gen. Houston was installed first Consti- tutional President and Mr. Lamar Vice-President. In 1838, Lamar and Grayson were the candidates brought forward by their respective friends for President of the young Republic. A few days before the election. Col. Grayson put an end to his life at Bean's Station, Tennessee. Mr. Lamar was elected President without opposition. Mr. Lamar proved not to have so fine executive abilities as Houston, though the government was put on a high road to prosperity. He was not the slave of party, but showed himself manly independent on more than one occasion. Col. DeMorse says of him : "Of Mirabeau B. Lamar, another of our heroes, it is proper to say that in conduct, in manner, in presence, he illustrated the courtly chivalry of Sir Philip Sidney, with a similar poetic temperament, and more mental ability. His gal- lantry and modesty enforced the warmest eulogiums from Rusk and Houston, and by general acclamation of the army, to which he was a new-comer, he won his spurs in one day— the action of the 20th— and on the final day, the 21st, by common I7(i Poets and Poetry of Texas. approval, was placed in command of the cavalry. Coming to Texas a Knight Paladin, offering his sword and person in the cause of liberty, as Lafayette did, by a vote almost unanimous, he rose to the highest position in the country," Mr, DeMorse pays Gen, Lamar a worthy compliment wlicn he says that he had more mental ability than Sir Sidney — a man who could be a gallant and graceful courtier without du- plicity, a warrior and a hero without loss of rank in the courts of the Muses; one who was successful in almost every Avalk of honora])le enterprise, without incurring the cnv}'- or reproach of his competitors; one in whom the most ordinar}' affairs of life became invested, in the eyes of his countrymen, with some pe- culiar fitness; whose very sentiment was n melody, whose every act was rhythmical, whose whole life, indeed, was one con- tinued poem. Mr. Lamar possessed fine literary attainments and devoted much of his time to the study of the great poets. lie liad a well trained power to discover excellence, and his mind was enriched V>y constant reading and hard study. He had a faculty of perceiving beauty in a variety of objects and forms in lit- erature and scenery. He felt the unity of beauty and love amid all nature. He publislied Verses Memorial in 1857, which contains many beautiful tributes. His longest })oem, SaJl]i Ni/Jey, is full of wit and satire. Hobbs called him the "Texas Rhymer.'' Weaver called him the "Bard," and when he died, inscribed to his memory the following estimable poem which will live as long as our literature endures : — HK patriot, the bard, and the warrior is dead ! Mourn Texas, one more of your Nobles has lied ! And the wail of the weep(n*s comes up from afar — In the bosom of Texas lies gallant Lamar I The shield of the soldier is broken in twain ! What freeman today will his sorrows restrain ■i- For him who left hoiiK! and its kindred delights, To battle with stranc^crs, and bleed for their rights ? I Rusk, Burleson, Henderson, Hunt, and again Death has severed a link in the bright Hero-ehain; But Time the relentless, or Death cannot mar The brilliant escutcheon of radiant Lamar ! Oh ! lives there a Texan, so cold and so mean, Who, today, will remember poor partisan spleen? And not mourn o'er the chieftain, the foremost in war, The nol)lc, chivalric, and gifted Lamar? Bathe his tomb with the tears of alSIation's distress ! Tjct the votaries of Freedom his memory bless ! [jet sweet scented flowers deck the turf on his breast ! In the grave of a hero — " rest, warrior, rest !" Come, matrons and maidens of Texas, com And drop for your fearless defender a tear ; But drape not our Star — no, still let it wa\ As in battle, all bright o'er the soldier's fre jf Texas, come near, ve fresh grave Plant there the magnolia, the laurel and pine, For no "cypress, nor yew " shoidd droop over his shrine, But our own evergreen should unfadingly wave O'er the last resting place of a Texan so brave ! When the Lone Star was shrouded in Tyranny's dusk, ' Twas the genius of Houston, Lamar and Rusk That marshaled and led the victorious band, Who drove the invader afar from our land! Bring fresh immortelles and the red Texas plume, And twine them in garlands to strew o'er his tomb ! Oh ! light lies the green prairie sod on his breast, In th<; Patriot's grave let the warrior rest ! Mrs. Lamar is now residing in Richmond, Texas, and it is said that she will soon have a second edition of Verses Memorial issued. Any person wishing to see the various workings of a 178 Poets and Poetry. of Texas. man's mind while burdened with office of State, "will do well to read Mr. Lamar's poems — filled with fire and patriotism. Mr. Lamar was an ardent lover, an affectionate husband, and a Christian patriot. Mr. Lamar's poem, The Daughter ofMendoza, holds a very high place. It is exceedingly musical in its flow, and for beauty of conception and perfect execution, it has seldom been excelled. President John Tyler said of this poem: " ZVic Daughter of Mendoza enshrines forever the memory of its author in its mel- ody." I give the poem : — LEND to me, sweet nightingale, Your music by the fountain ; And lend to me your cadences, river of the mountains. That I may sing my gay brunette, A diamond spark in coral set. Gem for a prince's coronet — The Daughter of Mendoza. How brilliant is the morning star. The evening star how tender ; The light of both is in her eyes — Their softness and their splendor. But lashes bright that shade their light, They were too dazzling for the sight ; And when she shuts them, all is night, The Daughter of Mendoza. 0, ever bright and beauteous one. Bewildering and beguiling, The lute is in thy silvery tone. The rainbow in thy smiling. And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell, The bounding of the young gazelle, The arrow's flight and ocean's swell — Sweet Daughter of Mendoza. What though, perchance, we meet no more, Though our paths of life should sever, •wM i.-«arMiBai«i mmmmmmmm eaBut not for him who goes to rest Among the (juiet dead ; For there no dreams disturb llu> mind, Though dark the mansion be ; And if in faith I sink resigned, Why need they Grievk for Me? Oh, if they knew my soul's unrest, Tlie agonies I hoar — If they could view my inmost hreast, And see the vulture there — They would not (ihain me to my woes, But freely let me thn;, Nor hreak their own })ur<; iieurt's repose Jiy Gkikving After Me. Around nohrotluirs how, No sisters vigils keej) ; No mother l)athes my aching brow, Or fans me while I slecsp. Alas ! I wouhl not have them near — Sad would their presence he; I could not hear their i)laints to hear. Or see tliem Orikvh I'on Mk. But there are those I dearly love. Whose i)ilgrimage is o'er. Called to the shining realms above, Whore sorrow is no more. 1 humbly lio))e, O Ood to find A home with them and Thee ; And strengthen Thou each sufF'ring mind That vainly Grieves for Me. THL' RULING FAHSIOIS. +, LAS ! in all the human race, We may some ruling passion trace — Some monarch-feeling of the breast, That reigns supreme o'er all the rest. With some, it is the love of fame — A restless and disturbing flame, Which still incites to deeds sublime. Whether of virtue; or of crime. With others, 'tis the lust of gold — Sad malady of rooted hold. [c^^ ..-■^ Which closer round the bosom twines, As virtue dies and life declines. With many, 'tis [but] the love of pleasure— A madness without metp or measure, Which never faileth soon or late, To ])lunge its votaries in the fate Of thoughtless tiies in comfits caught— Dying 'mid sweets too rashly sought. But woman, always gay and bright, (ireat Nation's pride and earth's delight. What is this monarch of thy soul — This tryant of sublime control. That tramples with despotic force All other feelings in its course ? — Thou needst not speak — thou needst not tell, For all who know thee know it well:- - We read it in that downcast eye, We learn it from that stifled sigh. We see it in the glowing blush That gives thy cdeek its rosy iiusli ; , And though compelled, by shame and pride, Deep in thy heart its sway to hide, Still do we know it as a fire Wliich only can with life expire — Sole inspiration of thy worth. And source of all that's good on earth. Love ! all-conquering and divine, We know where thou hast built thy shrine. IN LIFE'S UNCLOUDED, GAYER HOUR. %f^ life's unclouded, gayer hour, 3 I I bowed to beauty's sway ; f I felt the eye's despotic power, And trembled in its ray ; But beauty now no more enthralls- Its magic spell hath flown ; Upon my heart it coldly falls, Like moonlight on a stone. Poets and Poetry of Texap. 183 Tlio cliords of feeling soon were broke, Where love delighted played ; Afflictions dealt too rude a stroke, And all in ruin laid ; Yet, lady fair, there was a time I niiglit have worshiped thee ; Tiiy beauty would have been the shrine Of my idolatry. That time is past, and I am left A sad sojourner here — Of hope, of joy, of all bereft. That makes existence dear. Despair hath o'er my bosonj cast The gloom of starless night — A darkness which through life must last, Unpierced by beauty's light. 184 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. WELTHEA B. LEACHMAN jJ||rS. LEACIIMAN is the dau-hter of Col. C. G. Bryant. ^|l SIk- was born in (ialveston, December 2jth, 1847. While ^' she was an infant, her parents moved to Corpus ("hristi, where her early life was passed. In 1860, she was jilaced in Orleans Academy to complete her education. Tlie next five years were passed amid scenes of war. It was during this pe- riod that her first poems were written. When scarcely fifteen years of age two of her poems attracted much attention. They developed in th(> young author tiie budding of poetic genius. Though the efforts of the seliool girl, yet they i)ossessed evi- dences of real merit. The closing years of the war, being sep- arated from home and friends by the blockage, she was placed under the care of an aunt residing in Boston. While in this city, she wrote Not Dtad, which elicited many kind criticisms. Especially was this tru(% when it was known that a school girl had written it. She was married to a Mr. Graham, i:i 180 >. This marriage did not terminate happily, and she was divorced in 1874. She married her present husband — an elegant gentlemen — ]\Ir. J. S. Leachman, in May, 1875. The loss of several children ami subsequent ill-health have so preyed upon her mind, as to almost paralyze any desire for literary notoriety. She is a lady of indomitable courage and indisputable genius. She exhibits both fire and energy. Her poems are pervaded with all the tenderness of which her sub- jects were susceptible. Her education is ample, and her talent is of the most commanding nature. She excites the admira- tion at once. It will not require much to convince the reader that the tn'o Poets and Poetry of Texas. IS" poems pro.-cnted here possess merit of a liigli order. Bltler- Sweet is a natural sta that are gor}', 'mid heaps of the slain, The enemy swiftly are flying; The shrieking of shell and ihe cannon's deep boom Are thundering still at the gate of the tomb, The rattle of grape-shot replying. But ah! the last enemy conquers tonight. And death is the victor — in vain is the fight When God and his creature have striven ; The struggle is over; life's colors are furled — Are lost in the dark of the vanishing world ; The bonds of the spirit are riven. But ero I go down 'neath tlie conqueror's tread, And lie white and still in the ranks of the dead Through silence forever unbroken, To you, my old heroes, my Tkxas Brigade, From the dimness of death, from the cold of its shade, One last solemn charge must be spoken : '• My faithful old followers, steady and true. My children are orphans, — 1 give; them to you, A trust for your sacredest keeping. By the shades of the heroes who fought at your side, By the few who have lived, and the many who died, By the brave army silently sleeping. " By the charges I led, where you followed so true. When the soldiers in gray and the soldiers in blue. And the blood of the Vjravest was llowing, Be true to this last and this holiest trust, Tho' the heart of your leader has crumbled to dust, And grasses above him arc growing." 214 Poets and Poetky of Texas. R. B. M'EACHERN OBERT BRUCE MoEACHERN was bum in Lawrence county, Alabama, and has been blind from infancy. When quite young, his father moved to Texas, and settled in Rusk, Cherokee county, the present home of the poet. Here among the classic liills of old Cherokee, he rambled with flute or other musical instrument in hand; and here among the forest oaks the Muses found him, and he tuned his harp to sing the simple melodies which in his mature years were followed by those rich gems of poesy which have made his name a house- hold word in Eastern Texas. Mr. McEaehern, as his name indicates, is of Scottisli descent, and it seems that he has imbibed some of the spirit of his kin- dred countryman, tlie " SAveet singing Bard of Caledonia." When about sixteen years of age, the Legislature of our State made an appropriation for an Institution for the Blind, at Aus- tin ; he was among the first to avail himself of this, his first op- portunity, to attend a school suited to his misfortune, and his name today is upon the records of that noble institution as its first matriculate. He remained in Austin four years, and his pre- ceptors, were they all remaining, would bear witness that his ef- forts in pursuit of knowledge were ever energetic and untiring; his sole and only aim being to place himself above the common herd of men, and make a name that would reflect credit upon himself, his family, and his State. After his sudden call home by the death of his father, who lived but a short time after his return, he, despising the idea of being a dependent upon the labors of others, availed himself of the most excellent thorough training he had received in his favorite study — music — in Austin, and opened a school in Rusk, J_ Poets and Poetry of Texas. 215 at which place, and one or two others, he has since constantly taught, niakii^g a most enviable reputation for himself by his apt and comprehensive system of training, and his own thoroughness and capability in that department of education. But during all these long years he has written much and it is only recently that he has concluded to give to the world, in book form, wliat he has wiitten. Youthful Days and Other Poems speak much more for its author than any praise whicli 1 can give Mr. McEachern. Throughout that volume liis thoughts are expressed with cul- ture, force, and eloquence. This is the goal for which he has so long toiled, and the success with which everything he has written has met with, is due to the refined language he uses, with the mora] he seeks to inculcate in all he writes. Mr. Mc- Eachern is yet a young man — of indomitable energy and per- severence — he has yet a useful life before him, and should he still continue to court tlie Muses, T anticipate much pleasure in reading anything he may write. May he be long spared to all true lovers of poetry. Since the above sketch has been put in print, I have learned that Mr. McEacliern's mind is detroned and that he is an in- mate of the asylum at Austin, with poor prospects of recovery. TBJE TWO FRIENDS. E were friends in the palmy old days of the past, SJ-ji| |] When the present was hid from our view; 4?' But we know that the chill of a wintry blast Is the prelude to summer and dew. We were friends in the beautiful morning that broke O'er the pathway we traveled so long ; And our parting is sad, but the heaviest stroke May be lightened and turned into song. We were friends in the evening that brought a respite To the sick and the suffering and poor ; And you told me of worlds, in the .sky of the night, As we sat on the step at the door. We'll be friends till the friendshii) of earth has grown cold, And our forms have been laid in the dust ; For a heart that is faithful is better than gold, And I know you are true to your trust. We'll be friends in that beautiful haven of rest, Where these tears shall be wiped from our eyes ; And we'll sing with the angels and dwell with the blest. Where the love of the soul never dies. WAITING. %i AM waiting for Jimmie to come, ^1 And I know not how long it will be ; f But the angels that wafted him home May be patiently waiting for me. In his life, he was loving and kind; And in Heaven methinks he will say : " I've a brother on earth who is blind. Send an angel to show him the way." And the Father will grant the request For the sake of His son, Who was slain, That the weary might enter the rest Of the righteous, in glory to reign. When the beautiful messenger flies On the wings of the morning to me. From his radiant home in the skies, Jle will bear me, dear brother, to thee. And the portals behind me shall close, As I stand, with astonishment dumb, In the sanctified presence of those, Who are waiting for others to come. I shall hear the refrain of the Choirs, And be clothed with a garment of white, While the song of Redemption inspires All my soul with ecstatic delight- And I'll treasure the tone and the time. And remember the pitch of the bars Till the marmony, grand and sublime Is sustained by a chorus of stars. Then I'll wander along the bright shores Of that Beautiful River above, 'Till the Savior my vision restores. And my heart is renewed by His love. I shall look on the features of those Who have led me so tenderly here ; And forget that I ever had foes Who could smile at the fall of a tear. Thus, I'm waiting for Jimmie to come. And I know not how long it will be ; But the angels that wafted him home, May be patiently waiting for me. Oh, the riches of heavenly grace, What an ocean without an alloy ! I shall rise from the icy embrace Of the grave, to a mansion of joy. — ^-Sf=:^l^r:3l^^— 15 218 Poets and Poetry of Texas. JOHN ALBERT MURPHY. N the eastern slope of the riclge 'dividing the waters of 'Abbott's Creek and Rich Fork, in Davidson county, North Carolina, stood a little wooden cottage, the birth place of the author of Cosinoiitoria. If tliere is a poetry in nature that inspires some favored genius, born in the midst of its charms with the spirit of its sweetness and beauty, it is but just to say that in this land, this 'gift divine has been nncharily bestowed. The mountain grandeur of the Appalachian Highlands, the ocean majesty of the Atlantic, and the wild variations of romantic scenery, were powerful agencies, moulding and inspiring the young mind that in after years should take rank with the sweet singers of the South. The laurels that grew indigenous on the banks of the limpid streams are the fadeless emblems of the honors that endure upon the name of the hero of New Orleans and of the Bismarck of America, who were born there, as well as upon that of the gifted author of Cosinostoria. His parents, John and Mary Livengood Murphy, were only well-to-do in worldy resources, pursuing husbandry as the business of their life. To this, their children, two brothers and two sisters, of whom John Albert is the youngest, were brought up. They possessed a degree of intelligence above the average of their day. Mr. Murphy having taught school at a time when, in the rural districts, graduation took place at the end of Scott's Lessons and Pike's arithmetic. Not until he was ten years old did the golden haired boy enter the little log school house at Reedy Run, which Avas three miles distant from the homestead. But it must not be concluded from this that he began at this time to take the initial steps to edu- cation, for he does not remember, it is said, the time he could not read. Reedy Run might be called his Alma Mater in the JOHN ALBERT MURPHY. rudimentary branches of education. Having a sprightly and vigorous inind and an indomitable ambition to excel, he always stood at the head of his class. In the fall of 1853 he entered Catawba College, in the town of Newton of that State, where he maintained a most enviable reputation for those embryonic ele- ments, which, in after years, made the stai)le of his character. liis collegiate course did not conclude in graduation according to the regular curriculum, but laid the foundation for a devel- opment of mind broad and critical. He was married in early life to Miss Louisa Jane Yokley, the daughter of David Yokley, Esq., of Davidson county, North Carolina, and in the fall of ia57, joined the St. Louis Conference of the M. E. Church South. For twenty-two suc- cessive years he served as pastor in honored positions — in charge of circuits, stations, and on districts as Presiding Elder. In 1879 he was transferred to the Northwest Texas Conference, and at the end of five years located at and is now a citizen of Austin. Cosmostoria is by far the most finished and polished poem Mr. Murphy has ever written, and ranks high with Paradise Lost, the Messiade, and the Aiujel in the Cloud. When a stu- dent sits down to read an epic, it is generally a task, or from a feeling of duty. No doubt Waller felt this when he says of the Paradise Lost : "The old blind school-master, John Milton, has published a tedious poem on the Fall of Man ; if its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other." Waller was not as generous as the Grecians. We are told that Tasso and Homer were not admired for their poetry alone, but the moral tone of their writings was talked of and rehearsed from family to family, and thus the critic was unarmed. As long as one of their masters kept within the bounds of reason, justice and morality, so long was he toasted, loved and venerated ; but the very first departure from these, brought with it condemnation^^ envy and final ahandonnement. On account of the looseness of Arciiilochus' poetic numbers, he was banished from his ances- 220 ' Poets and Poetry of Texas. tral home, where his genius found no favor. His writings, though full of fire and vigor, were exceedingly biting and licen- tious, and more likely to corrupt the youths than become use- ful in cultivating their understandings. Thus he passed a life of misery. Reproach, ignominy, contempt, and poverty, were the ordinary companions of his person ; while admiration, glory, respect, splendor, and even magnificence, Avere the mel- ancholy attendants of his shades. There is a tendency toward the moral in poetic numbers. This may be owing to the de- mands of the times, but we think it owing to the fact that man js always inclined to religious reflections, even in the midst of great adversity or prosperity. The author of Cosuiostoria is a poet of very great genius. In the poet's flight from region to region, between heaven and hell, he feels what Milton felt when let down into "chaos and old night." The style of the author is admirable, and the poem rich in imagery and sublime pathos. He combines scholarship with ability, cultivated taste with industry. He is pure, clear, vigorous, direct and impressive, and in his sphere of labor, is as fine, as polished, as ornate, as that of any American writer- The beautiful phraseology of the strictly faultless rhyme in which the author has chosen to clothe his poem throughout, is bright to gorgeousness and decorative display — varied, profuse, and effervescent, and seems at times to constitute an array of ornamentations creditable indeed to the designer for ingenuity, arrangement and elaborate skill. The very evident conciseness, the succinctness of the design, not satiating with long-drawn digressive descriptions, unincumbered with the slow march of the Miltonic poem, is truly wonderful, considering the magni- tude of the theme. It abounds in beautiful expressions and felicitous phrases. The following beautifully expressed confi- dence, being an episode on woman, illustrates the author's feeling. It is a most magnificent tribute, and is taken from Ninth Part, after Eve had induced Adam to eat the forbidden fruit : — Poets and Poetry of Texas. 221 'AIR woman, thou art in thy ruins grand; And, like the autumn leaf, art lovely still, Though changed ; thy very weakness doth command Thy lord's divinest love, and rules his will. Unseen, though felt, the scepter of thy power Rules as it is, the world, or might have been ; Thy gallant husband owned it in the hour, VVhen for thy sake alone he dared to sin. Thrones weaken at thy love's bewitching art. And conquering armies march in thy employ ; Bathsheba's charms imprisoned David's heart, And Helen's beauty caused the fall of Troy. In secret power thy fingers touch the spring That bares the treasured wealth, of mammon's store ; Thy graces to the halls of pleasure bring The sole resistless charm of value more. For thee thy smitten lords all fears dismiss, And pour the crimson flood in deadly strife. That some strong lover might, in nuptial bliss, ^ Embrace thy charming hand, and call the wife. The stalwart arm its ready strength expends. From dewy morn till starry eve, for thee ; And mighty mind its willing tribute lends, And at thy feet bestows its homage free. All oceans have for thee been bravely sailed. Nor pilgrimage of peril deemed too great ; The dangers of all mountains have been scaled To witness to thy worth and on thee wait. About thy husband's care thou dost entwine, As like a cheerful wreath of evergreen ; And in his household art a fruitful vine. Whose branches cluster in a living screen. When trials thicken on his weary path, Thy strong devotion strengthens with each stroke ; And fiercer blasts of the devouring wrath Inspire thy zeal and new thy aid invoke. Thy gentle hands oft soothes his fevered brow. Nor tires beneath the languid flight of years ; As fragrant bloom adorns the thorny bough. Thy presence sweet his wasting sickness cheers ; Thy touches warm melt off the gathering frost, And kisses mark his slow receding breath. 'I-"-*- Thy flowing tears embalm the treasure lost, And, true in life, thou lovest him in death. Untaught the better wa}'-, where idols reign, Thou mountest bold thy husband's funeral pyre, And, to attest thy love, thou dost disdain All fear to burn in his cremation fire. The rank that Cosmostoria will occupy in the literature of this century is not difficult to tell. Its modest form and limited circulation cannot always keep it in the back ground. It will make itself known and felt when the world knows of its exist- ence. It may require the pen of a Macaulay or the learning of a Masson to bring it to that pictured eminence upon which its author has so long delighted to gaze. Mr. Murphy's best short poems are Our Silver Wedding, Pro- gressive Perfection, and Texas. Our Silver Wedding was written on the celebration of his silver wedding, June 30, 1881, and con- tains some very tender and touching tributes to his wife. Progressive Perfection was read before the Clionian Society of Marvin College, June 14, 1881. It'was well received and elic- ited quite an applause. Of this poem a writer says : "The subject of the poem was Progressive Perfection and of his deep inspirations, sublime flights, flowery conceptions, and rich and chosen figures, the poet seems to have combined the beautiful imagery of Moore, the sublimity of Milton, the fire, energy, and condensed brilliancy of Gray, and the inimitable melody, tenderness, and simplicity of Byron. Any effort to abridge the lofty sentiments contained in that beautiful po.em would be as vain as an attempt to portray upon canvass the rich golden colors of sunset." I select one passage alone from this poem as its length will prevent its publication complete : — Warmed by deceptive sunshine into life, Some flowers try to blossom in the snow, But frozen early, cease unequal strife, And wrap themselves in mantling whiteness Low. )^ Poets and Poetry of Texas. 22^ Thus oft does struggling genius strive to rise, At first by friendship lured to soar alone, Then hurled by adverse storms from tempting skies. And early doomed to live and die unknown. Texas is the longest of his short poems. It was written on the occasion of the laying of the corner stone of the capitol of the State of Texas, March 2nd, 1885. On the 11th of June, 1885, Trinity College, North Carolina, conferred upon Mr. Murphy the degree of Master of Arts — an honor not at all inappropriately bestowed. THE FIRST FALLEN SOLDIER OF 1861. 'HE bow is in the clouds ^Whose arch lies in the sky and spans the race. With peace, slain hero, it enshrouds Thy resting place. The star is in the sky That once illumed the sepulcher divine ; Now, in the march of centuries by, It shines on thine. There's sweetness in the air, Lent for perfumes to constant nature's claim, That she may, with her latest care, Embalm thy name. There's beauty on the lea ; Its myriad charms their ample wealth combine, And closing round, thy memory And dust enshrine. There's music everywhere. In earth and sky, and in the ocean surge; 'Tis nature's mournful way to share Thy funeral dirge. 4 There's light in heaven above; Its burning Lamps their shining stations keep ; And day and night while cycles move, They guard thy sleep. There's love in human hearts That over death achieves the victory, And will, as hoary time departs, Kemembcr thee. The gold-winged butterflies In pensive groups display, like living bloom, Their blended beauties e'er they rise From off thy tomb. Beneath the sod to lie ; If thus, perchance, thy comrades dared to pause To put thee there, who dared to die For freedom's cause. Death In-ought thee late renown ; But gave thee not the soul the patriot bears ; Nor put upon thy head the crown The hero wears. Thy bed of clay unknown. The bitter tears of solitude receives, And of the flowers by nature strown A garland weaves. Her deepest mourning wears ; Her brow and breast with flashing diamonds spread, The sable virgin Night her tears Weeps o'er thy head. And Day, with vesture bright. And lavish smiles upon the good and brave, Awards to thee the soldier's right, An honored grave. No midnight bugle blast. From peaceful sleep shall rouse thy valiant soul, Till heaven's Connnander calls at last The Judgment-roll. Then, in the great review, When uniforms and crowns shall never fade, Hero, receive thy honors due On grand parade. LOUISA, OR OUR SILVER WEDDING DAY. (^ S oft as the snow-clouds have fled, /^The roses have bloomed on our way, <^^ And the winter's crisped locks have as often outspread Into gold-flowing streamers from summer's gay head, Through the twenty-five years to this day. Louisa, we're husband and wife. And started in love's early cheer From the dew-glistening hills of the springtime of life, And we've reached in our journey the summer-land strife, And the autumn and winter are near. Our love has been brought to the test By fires that have burned in the race, But our virtue as pure as in childhood possessed We have kept and will lay at the borders of rest. As a trophy of mightiest grace. ■ My darling, just twenty-five Junes, Like roses with snow drifts between, Made immortal with notes of the mocking-bird's tunes, And the silvery hair of as many full moons, Now imborder the marital scene. In memory I linger a while, Lost roses of youth to regain, For I seem to be watching that Venus-like smile, That bewitchingly strayed from the sweet fairy isle, Where the honey-moon fulls to remain. 1 linger, and over the field Will nnninate, blithesonu! and free, \\'heiu'e the broad-breasted mountains of eare Avere con- cealed, And our f()r(une huuj:; low like a fane\•-^Yroug•lll shield On the walls of the West, we now see. l\Iy darlinj;-, the Ifeavenly Dove, l'\)r us has the greatest things done ; Vov the life-giving angel has eome from above. And has twelve times ignited the altar of love, \\'ith the sparks from eternity's sun. 1 know you remember the hour, One, lliekering, wont out in your arms ; And a palaee was there, whii'h tlie lilies endH)wer, And sweet roses immortal eneir(\l(Hl the tower, And it roso and was lost in the eharms. The sight of thos(* nu»rning-lit lands Kemains with their dew-hun\ished sod, W'luMe ou.r shoulder.^ were stumbled with ivory bands, l>eing pressed with the touehes td" wax-lingered hands, As wi' passed 'neath t lie chastening rod. 1 hear now the eadenec>s break Ol the love-bearing wavtdets below, When we started the haven of glory to make. As wi^ launched our eanoe on the uuplial-sailed lake. Only twenty-live summers ago. Their feet still resound on the bar, As, lloating, we left the sln>re-light. And hav(> followi>d the gleam of the fate-guiiling star, Until now we have ri>wed down the river so far. That the isle o( the bh\^t is in sight. ]\Iy love, as the storm-clouds have eome And angrily blacken the sky. You have balanced oin- bark as it cut through the foam. Ami discerned through the spray the sweet groves o[' the l\onu^, WMiore the blossoms and leaves never die. Poets and Poethy ok Texah. 227 What tumult of rapture is this That roars in the; iuhnito gh'arn ? Oh ! th(! frionds tliat wo meet and the lips lliat vvc kiss As wo Hoat tow'rd the (!()ral-i)a,ved haven oi" hliss, Down th(! !aur(!l-rrinut they told us they were l)y the an^roln convoyed To the neetar-hived gardens of (iod. The milestones tliat mark tlic {i;i"<'on sliore l/ik(! s<)l(U(!rs with hanners ot't^'old, Are retriiatiufj; so fast we can count them nc) more, For the current se(^ms swiftcu- tiian liver Ijei'ore As the sunset's red glories untold. My love, wIkmi the sun gets low down, You, toil-worn will row with much pain, I'.ut the beacon-light guiding t,o life and renown Will sustain you, when summer surrenders the crown 'i'o our life's purple; autumn to reign. Already t,he breezes we feel P.low soft from the bright suminer land, And they sonu;times echo on the bow of the keel Th(! fragments of tune, which the water-waves steal As th(!y sphish on tin; limitless strand. "Ho tired !" Did J hear you complain As feebly the oar strikes th(i wave? In the island of light, we nrv. hoping to gain. There is rest uiuhu- roses, life's waters sustain, While the coasts, they eternally lave. The perils of voyage we spurn, Though storms down the river alfright : For we'll hold to the oars till the pale waters turn, And the fring(!S of life's sinking shadow shall burn In the rays of eternity's light. Ere long one must row without mate Down stream, a frail fragment of love ; But llu! other will watch at the hridechamber gate, Till both have arrived to be wedded in state 111 the holy cathedral above. The High Priest regaled with the sun WW] at the white alter a{)pear, And of twain will pronounce us eternally one, While tiui strands of orange bloom over us run Through the June of the winterless year. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 229 R. M. POTTER. 'HE condition of ;i (.'ountry is geina'iilly coniplctc;] y ;in;{, when his post of iluty was New Orleans. Mr. Potter's desire for literary glory has not been strong, and he has never performed any literary labor, when other duties denumded his attention. The oidy book ever published from his [)en was an old-fash- ion live-act tragedy in blank verse, wdiich was performed with tt)lcrable success at the old Park Theater of New York, after which it went to the limbo of dead works. Ilis account of the Fall of the Alamo, as published in the Magazine of American History, is by far the most accurate, and at the same time the most authentic account of that bloody tragedy, though he makes the common error in regard to Lieut. Dickerson's lea]) from the building. Anything like a history of the allair would occupy too much space, and lead me from L Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 233 my »)l)joci. For ii j^M;ii)lii(; account of the I'^ill of the Alamo, I n^fcr the vciidrA- to the little i)auii)hlct edited hy Col. R. M. Potter. The poems introduced hero will illustnito iii.s genius, and give him the !c[)utation of a writer of no mean ahility. HYMN OF THE ALAMO. H\ ISK^ iiiun the wall, our clarion's hlast nil i\ Now sounds its linal reveille 1 „ This dawning morn must be the last Our fated band shall ever see : To life, but not to hope, farewell — Yon trumpet's clang, and cannon's ])eal, And stormi)ig shout, and clash of steel, Are ours, hut not our cituntry's kneel. Welconu! the Spartan's death — 'Tis no despairing strife — \V(! fall, we die, but our ex|)iring hre:itli is Freedom's breath of life! llei'e, on this new Thermopyhe, Our inonument will tower on liigh. And Alamo herciafter be In hloodier lields the battle cry 1" Thus Travis from the rampart cried, And when his warriois saw the foo Jyike wludming billows move below, At onci! each dauntless heart rc[)lied, — "Welcome the S[)artan'H death — 'Tis no de8])airing strife — We fall, we die, hut our expiring breath Is Freedom's breath of lite ! They come ; like autumn's leaves they fall,— Yet, hordes on hordes, they onwar every land beside, '^iJ Ky Nature fairest traits are shown In thee, C-rcation's i)ride ; As if the latest touch essayed J5y llim, whose hand yon planets made. Thy region beautified; When resting to pronounce it good, Complacently this work He viewed. I see thy plains of waving green, All llower-enameled spread. From whence the morning's ruddy beam To thence upon them shed — It awes my soul as when 1 view. The sunnncr sea's expansive blue, While ruining winds are dead — So calm, so vast, so grand to see A type of God's Immensit}'. But ere the day-beam meets the eye Upon the i)rairie's breast, An earlier glowing gilds on high The Sierra Madra's crest. To him whose feet the cliffs explore. Out peeping veins of precious ore That region's wealth attest ; And grey embowered rocks unfold Their specks and winding threads of gold. Exulting in their purity Thy_countless limpid rillsj With joyous bound and gladdening sound, Hush from a thousand hills; And parting wind with wandering (h)w, That with a hlooin like Kdon's glow, Tiiat broad wild garden lills Where Nature craves no liuuian toil To beautify the virgin soil. Thou dear enchanting solitude, Unknown to grief and pain, To woe and want and wrath and blood Of mortal steps the train — In such an undisturbed al)ode, Where war his course hath never rode, ITow blest could I remain. And hear no sigh, save that alone, Which wooes in Zephyr's melting tone. My mitre well might I forego, Forget the scholar's pride, Amid the freshening sweets that grow Unprun'd on every side. Like man in Eden ere 'twas trod By sin, communing with my (Jod. In peace would I al)idc, Nor envy wearied grandeur's care, Nor wisdom's laurels long to share. 238 Poets and Poetry of Texas. AMELIA V. PURDY RS. PURDY, one of the most voluminous female writers of Texas, was born in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, in the year 1845. Her maiden name was McCarty. Her pa- rents were of English and Irish extraction. At the time of her birth her father was in affluent circumstances, but when she was four years of age he failed in business. He remained only a short time in Pittsburg after this sad occurrence, and soon Avent with his family to Cincinnati. Soon he was on the high road to prosperity; but through the influence of friends was induced to move to Texas. In 1857, he landed at Galveston. He early became dissatisfied with his change of latitude, which proved every way unfortunate for him. Almost from infancy, Mrs. Purdy showed an insatiable desire for knowledge. Such was the wonderful facility with which she acquired knowledge, that before she had reached her eighth year she had become familiarly acquainted with tlie great his- torians — Rollin, Gibbon, and Hopkinson— and read, intelli- gently, Piutarch^s Lives and French history, and was not un- acquainted with the great poets. Her parents possessed more than ordinary culture and nice discrimination, and such works as they furnished her were those best calculated to strength-en and whet and brighten the intellect. Nor did she confine her- self merely to the study of history, but cultivated rhetoric, divinity, music and poetry, and, indeed, everything that would have a tendency to improve and adorn her mind. In her girl- hood she read fiction only in the absence of other reading, but before her death she considered it the best vehicle to reach the popular heart — to instruct and benefit. Her first effusion was sent to the Galveston News in 1862. r Poets and Poetry of Texas. 239 Soon afterwards she began to contribute to the Houston Tele- graph. These fragments were well received, and encouraged her to nobler efforts. In 1868 she was married to Major L. Purdy, at Bryan Texas, who was at that time a very prominent business man at that place. He soon failed in business, and consumption developed rapidly, from which he died December 5th, 1875. After her husband's death, care, sorrow and disease, bore heavily upon her. Her pen, once only a source of pleasure to relatives and friends, became her ansesthetic and all potent to comfort and soothe her, even when the storm was at its worst. She prepared First Fruits for the press under adverse circumstances — she being in feeble health, while her husband was daily losing strength. The stormy and turbulent times, while they would oppress ordinary powers, were such as only contributed to give additional energy to a mind like hers. "Indeed," says Mill, "it is evident that such times are more favorable to poetry than those which are more quiet and ])eaceful. The Muse catches fire and inspiration from the storm, and genius rides upon the whirlwind, while, perhaps, it would only slumber during the calm." Mrs. Purdy is a regular contributor to the Sunny South, a popular and widely circulated literary journal. The matter she furnished has been humorous articles, stories, poems, and serials. She was a lady of fine judgment, and promised to win literary celebrity. She always had something to say, and said it in a very efficient and pleasant style. She learned that there was no royal road to success without labor. I admire the directness of thought and the naturalness of style, the rich abundance of genuine poetic feeling and imagery which distinguish Mrs Purdy's writings from any other Texas writer. Of Mrs. Purdy's ability, Major Lorence says : "Scenes and passages of terrific grandeur and the most thrilling agony are often mixed with good humor from her pen." 240 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Mill says : " The life of poets is, if we judge of it from the light it lends to others, a golden drama, full of brightness and sweetness, wrapt in Elysium ; and it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid vision by which they are attended in their path of glory, fade like vapor, and their sacred heads laid low in ashes, before the sands of common mortals have run out." This is the common idea of the poet's life, hut with this the testimony of Mrs. Purdy does not accord. It is true that her early life was quiet and unmarked by any striking incident of sorrow, but her later days were draped in gloom. Mrs. Purdy was long a resident of Ennis, Texas, where she married Dr. Jones, an eminent physician of AVaxahachie. She died April 23, 1881, of that fearful disease, consumption. Her little volume of poems, First Fruits, lies on my table. I have read each line with much care. Her sentiment is good, but her rhetoric is bad. While following out her train of poet numbers, she forgets her rhetoric, and here she commits her gravest fault. She was very much devoted to her children, and took views very different from others of her sex, in her poem, Filial Piety. This poem is one of her best, though faulty and sometimes unintelligible, owing to the redundant isms hinted at and really betrayed. FILIAL PIETY. N Iconoclast, And the world's gods are numerous, a fine disgust Fills me and nerves me to go forth to hurl Them in the dust. And this is one, This filial pieiy — the corner stone Of old Confucius' creed, and rightly understood, A pillar of our own. But as nine-tenth Of the good people do not think — reflect, But what tlieir father's taught, receive content. Too idle to dissect. And hence, The popular acceptance and the wrong Of this command has made our homes accursed, Makes discord all life long. For everywhere I give you life, declares the parent, and This obligation makes you, all your days, Mine to command, Mine to abuse or pet. I brought you in this world, you must love me ; What can yon give me worthy the great gift I've given to thee ? It matters not — Whether I work for you or labor not. Whether I make you loathe your name and niche And curse your lot, T gave you life. You must forever love and honor me, The Bible so commands ; bear that in mind. And grateful be ; 1 am your i)arent — I Have done my part e'en if I give you blows. Starve you, and curse you — never let you know Peace or repose. Ah God, I've seen This doctrine poison many a home, and make The children crushed and bitter — flit away To still heart-ache ; P'ly forth, or yet Half fledg(!d but weary of abuse and care, The tomb-like, sunless home, chilled through and through With Arctic air. And so 'twill be, The callow birdling will essay the air, Rejoice to leave the old nest set with thorns — Live anywhere. 'J'his (ills the world With drifting human leaves — that recklessly Let the winds bear them, where the winds may list, Over life's stormy sea. " I give them food and clothes, See that their wants are cared for, that's enough, Why should I make myself a quarry slave? — My duty ! that's all stuff'." fool of fools, Know this — your child oives nothing unto yon, You never, while you live, can do enough, No matter what you do. 'Tis yours to make his days Sweet as a flower— to ward off" pain and care ; You last— he first, to make his life with you Serene and fair, Making his childhood's home Beautiful and pleasant, home in fact, as name. Ruling him graciously with inner light, With wisdom clear of blame. That he may afterwards. When old and grey, look back, through happy tears, To the sweet home that parent love made heaven So many years. The parent who Makes his child's happiness a constant care. Works towards this end with steady eyes and hands. And daily prayer. Shall be repaid By seeing noble sons and daughters grace his age. Heroes and heroines, with eagle eye and mien, 'J'o walk life's stage. But few, alas ! Few parents do their duty — understand Wherein it lies, tho' teachers, preachers fill And flood the land. Go forth and view The homes around you, and you then will see That " Home, Sweet Home's" a satire, keen and sharp. And e'er will be, Till parents feel The truth of what I sing in simple rhyme, That they who oivc so much should hourly pay, And pay thro 'out all time. I heard a child once say, " I know my mother does not care for me. She never kisses me nor calls me ' pet,' Nor sits me on her knee." Coldness is badness — there Are many ways to pain a child's pure heart ; When parents do their duty crime and man Will drift apart. In the old days, When it was fashionable to be austere, The father's coming made the children's hearts Grow dumb with fear. We know they sat Not in their father's presence — gazed on him With awe-struck eyes, as tho' they gazed upon Dread Seraphim, Let this old god be hurled Down from its altar, give the child its place, And thou shalt find this worship fill the world With wondrous grace. Let us hear no more The duty of the child, for that has been Preached since from Sinai Moses brought the Law, And the world's foul with sin. And mourns the time. Oh, ye blind preachers of the world — declare In organ-tones what must be done if we \Vould have this black world fair. Preach no more Of the "children in the furnace," we are tired ; Preach down the errors of the time in which Feet and soul are mired. Open your hearers 's eyes ; Each day you preach teach something that will do Lasting good ; let each one leave the church Taught sometliing new. How oft we hear The idle, senseless, vapid woman say, "Cliildren are only torments, how 1 wish I had no children today." Only a torment — charge And kill — ^^joy thinking thus — I here declare, That this is why infanticide and crime Reign everywhere. Why is it bliss, 244 Poets and Poetry op Texas. Passing all language to express, to know That an immortal has been given to you, With soul like snow, A little angel child, With tiny dimpled hands so warm and white, Eyes full of innocence and deep content. As stars of light. Who does not feel, When those soft dimpled arms enclasp the neck, A deep delicious sense of purity Sans any Heck. Is bad, all bad. Woe unto ye, oh women, who disdain. And murder these, that ye may dress and dance, For ye shall dance in pain. VOCATION. |ACH child born has Nature gifted With a talent ; parents pause, Solve the problem of this dowry In accordance with her laws. Find the path, then lead the tyro, Set him right and all is well ; lie who finds his true vocation Lives to prosper and excel. Not one Poet, past or present, Not one man that's made a name On the shining scrolls of glory, But has urged a rightful claim. To such honor urged and won it. By the use of Nature's dower, While perversion floods the country With the feeblest mental power. Hence arise the shallow legions, Which we view in sheer distress ; Doctors, lawy(!rs, rnorchants, preachers, Each one reckoning less and less. What the bent is thither guide it, ^ Then shall Earth have greater lights ; Fewer men with sounding titles, And with minds like Arctic nights. W. H. RHODES. erf OME of my readers will feel as if confronted by the spirit of the departed when they read the name at the head of this sketch. Many of them have long ngo for- gotten the stripling boy whose name was so familiar to them during the early days of Texas. Not only was he familiar to the readers in Texas, but throughout the United States. Dur- ing this period he wrote and published a great many poems. Some of his best and earliest were published in the Southern Literary Messenger. The first poem by him I ever read was published in this journal. It pleased me, for I discovered in it new beauties. I felt that, whoever the author might be, he was a poet. There was a something fascinating about it that startled me, and caused my youthful brain to stagger. But imagine my surprise and pleasure, when I discovered the author to be a resident of Texas. I was but a boy; he a man; yet the beauty of that poem haunts me still. I can only recall these lines of the poem, which were written soon after the death of his mother : — In a moment of great sadness I tripped adown the street of Gladness — My heart was weary, It pained me so — William Henry Rhodes was born in Windsor, North Carolina, July 16, 1822. In 1844, his father, Col. E. A. Rhodes, was ap- pointed United States Consul to Texas. William Henry was then just budding into manhood. Possessing a great ambition, and a mind superior to his companions, he became a leader among the young men of Galveston, where his father was lo- cated in his office as Consul. Here he gathered arovuvd hiui an WM. H. RHODES. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 247 association of young men, whose zealous natures were congen- ial to his lofty ambition. In 1844, he entered Harvard law school, where he remained for two years. Here, as a home, he was a master-spirit and a leader. He was a great favorite of his instructors and noted for his studious and exemplary habits, while his genial and courteous manners won the lasting friendslnj) of his classmates and companions. After he completed his study at Harvard he returned to Galveston, where he entered upon the practice of his profession. He was measurably successful in it, and won many friends by his gallant and chivalrous advocacy of the causes intrusted to him. He was personally very jiopular, and in 1847 was elevated to a Probate Judgeship. He filled this office with distinction for one term, at the close of which he re- turned to his native state and entered upon the practice of his profession. Ho remained there but a short time when he caught the inspiration of adventure in the new El Dorado, and sailed for California. He continued to the time of his death a citizen of that state. Here he became widely known and re- spected by all with whom he was brought into contact. He practiced his profession in a disjointed way, continuing to write both prose and poetry. While*a resident of Galveston he published a volume entitled Indian Gallows and Other Poems. It also contained a play called Theodosin. The heroine being the daughter of Aaron Burr who married Allston, of South Carolina. The story runs that she was lost on a vessel sailing North, and that she was captured by the pirate, Lafitte. 1 have never seen a copy of this book — it is long ago out of print — but have a vivid recol- lection of having read notices of it in the newspapers long after the book had been forgotten by most men. Soon after his death in San Francisco, his essays, poems, tales, and sketches were collected and published in a large volume, bearing the title Caxton^s Book. It bears the imprint of A, L. Bancroft and Company. It is edited by Daniel O'Connell, and contains ^ brief memoir of Mr. Rhodes written by W. H. L, Burnes. From this memoir I have drawn largely my material for this sketch. In 1852, Mr. Rhodes visited his childhood home in North Carolina. In a sketch of his, entitled The Deserted Sclwolhouse^ he gives the following account of his visit to the village of Woodville, where his earliest school days were passed : — " Woodville was the scene of my first studies, my earliest adventures, and my nascent love. There I was taught to read and write, to swim and to skate, to wrestle and box, to play marbles and make love. There I fought my first fight, had the mumps and the measles, stole my first watermelon, and re- ceived my first flogging. And I can never forget, that within that tattered schoolroom my young heart first swelled with those budding passions, whose full development in others have so often changed the fortunes of the world. There eloquence produced its first throb, ambition struck it first spark, pride mounted its first stilts, love felt its first glow. There the eter- nal ideas of God and heaven, of patriotism and country, of love and woman, germinated in my bosom; and there, too, Poesy sang her first song in my enchanted ear, lured me far off into the ' grand old woods' alone, sported with the unlanguaged longings of my boyish heart, and subdued me for the first time with that mysterious sorrow, whose depths the loftiest intellect cannot sound, and yet whose wailings mournfully agitate many a schoolboy's breast." This visit was made after an absence of twenty-two years. As a writer of short sketches and romances, Mr. Rhodes is equalled only by Poe and Arrington. With the latter he was intimate, both having traveled over the same scenes in Texas together. Both lawyers and both poets of acknowledged genius, their lives are similar, and their minds moulded after the same fashion. It is strange to note how they worked together in absolute unconsciousness of their joint mission. The story of their lives is so interwoven with the romantic and weird, that Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 249 you can scarcely disconnect it from the mythical. So far as per- tains to their success in a monetary sense, they were twin brothers. Born in the same State, drinking from the same per- ennial fountain, and inspired by the same scenes, their lives stand out incomparably the most romantic in the history of our State. Covering the same field of thought, occupying peculiar stations in life, the romantic history of their successes, their trials, and their labors, fill a page in that volume in which the names of few indeed are inscribed. Col. A. M. Hobby wrote : " There are few men who possess that rare commodity genius as do Poe and Arrington. Their lives and works are alike illustrative of what genius really is." Add the name of Rhodes, and you have a trio towering like the mountain heights. There is a curious symbolism in these three names, and never since literature began have such strange characters occupied the same stage, traveled the same field of romance, and embodied in their writings such kindred charac- teristics. The fame of Poe is greater, but his career no more marvelous, nor his labor more enduring. Poe has never given to the world anything that will live longer in the minds of the people than Suiiimerjield''s Case. Nothing can be more fascinat- ing or more musical than Rhodes' way of telling a tale. I speak of him as a romancer, and in this lies his greatest abil- ity, though his })oems are productions of rare power. Few in our country have written with more fire, greater fervor or more individuality. He wrote upon all kinds of subjects with that wit and ready command of language which few possess. His intellect was acute and cultured; his imagination full to over- flowing, with a style as clear and distinct as it is beautiful and varied. The circumstances of his death are highly tragical. He was awakened at night by a burglar in his room, whom he attemp- ted to capture. The bed room of Cjuite a family of children opened into the bed room of him and his wife. A fight ensued between him and the burglar in the dark. His wife and children rushed around them screaming and terrified. The burghir had a knife, and cut and gashed him very severely, though perhaps not fatally, but the horrors of the midnight en- counter in total darkness, amid the terrors of his wife and children, left him bereft of reason, and he died more from the nervous attack than from his wounds. The poems presented here are not Mr. Rhodes' best poems. They are his best short poems. The long ones are narrative, and I cannot extract from them without impairing their beauty and doing great injustice to the author. THIt; LOVE KNOT. ^]| PON my bosom lies A knot of blue and gray ; You ask me why tears fill my eyes As low to you I say : ** I had two brothers once. Warm hearted, bold and gay ; They left my side — one wore the blue, The other wore the gray. One rode with " Stonewall " and his men, And joined his fate with Lee ; The other followed Sherman's march, Triumphant to the sea. Both fought for what they deemed the right, And died with sword in hand ; One sleeps amid Virginia's hills, And one in Georgia's land. Why should one's dust be consecrate, The other's spurned with scorn — Both victims of a common fate. Twins cradled, bred and born? Poets and Poetry of Texas. 251 01)! tell me not — a patriot one, A traitor vile the other; John was my mother's favorite son, But Eddie was my brother. The same sun shines al>ove,.their graves. My love unchanged must stay — And so njion my bosom lies Love's knot of blue and gray." POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA. ^?[i|^E is gone ! the young, and gifted ! ^ijO By his own strong pinions lifted hJ^ To the stars ; Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, Choral harps, whose strings are golden, Deathless bars. There, with Homer's ghost all hoary, Not with years, but fadeless glory, Lo ! he stands ; And through that open portal. We behold the bards immortal Clasping hands ! Hark ! how Rome's great epic master Sings, that death is no disaster To the wise ; Fame on earth is but a menial. But it reigns a king perennial In the skies ! Albion's blind old bard heroic, Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, Greets his son ; 252 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Whilst in pteans wild and glorious, Like his "Paradise victorious," Sings, Well done ! Lo ! a bard' with forehead pendent, But with glory's beams resplendent As a star ; Slow descends from regions higher, Wit'i a crown and golden lyre In his car. All around him, crowd as minions, Thrones and sceptres, and dominions, Kings and Queens ; Ages past and ages present, Lord and dame, and jjrince and peasant. His demesnes ! Approach ! young bard hesperian. Welcome to the heights empyrean, Thou did'st sing. Ere yet thy trembling fingers Struck where fame immortal lingers, In the string. Kneel ! I am the bard of Avon, And the Realm of song in Heaven Is my own ; Long thy verse shall live in story. And thy Lyre I crown with glory. And a throne ! Poets and Poetry of Texas. 253 A CAKE OF SOAP. ^•ff STOOD at my washstand, one bright, sunny morn, fj!| And gazed through the blinds at the up-springing corn, 'r And mourn'd that my summers were passing away, Like the dew on the meadow that morning in May. I seized, for an instant, the Iris-hued soap, That glowed in the dish, like an emblem of hope. And said to myself, as I melted it.s snows, " The longer I use it, the lesser it grows." For life, in its morn, is full freighted and gay. And fair as the rainbow when clouds float away ; Sweet-scented and useful, it sheds its perfume. Till wasted or blasted, it melts in the tomb. Thus day after day, whilst we lather and scrub. Time \yasteth and blasteth with many a rub, Till thinner and thinner, the soap wears away, And age hands us over to dust and decay. Oh, Bessie ! dear Bess! as I dream of thee now, With the spice in thy breath, and the bloom in thy brow, To a cake of pure Lubin thy life I compare, So fragrant, so fragile, and so debonair ! But fortune was fickle, and labor, was vain. And want overtook us, with grief in its train. Till, worn out by troubles, death came in the blast ; But thy kisses, like Lubin's, were sweet to the last. E. A. RHODES. DWARD ABESETTE RHODES, half brother of W. H. Rhodes, was born in CJalveston on the 15th of June, 1841. He was a cadet from California in the Military Institute at Lexington, Ky. He entered the Confederate army at the commencement of the war, and was killed at Gettysburg, July 1, 18G3, being Lieutenant and Adjutant of the 11th North Caro- lina (Bethel) Rrgimont. He i)ossessed a brilliant intellect, and had he lived would have distinguished himself as a writer of both prose and poetry. The following lines were written by him on a ])ane of glass in a window of his bed room on the morning of the death of his father, May 24, 1858: — The lines which on this pane T write, Though gently touched with diamond bright, May last through Time's eternal flight. Thus sorrow's piercing point may trace A line of woe upon the face, Which time itself cannot erace. r J-. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 265 ROBERT H. RHODES. OBERT H. RHODES, a younger brother of W. H. and Edward A. Rhodes, was born in Galveston May 18, 1845. He also entered the Southern army from California, and was taken prisoner twice. He possessed a talent for writing both prose and poetry. Shortly before his death from con- sumption, in 1874, he wrote the following lines, the last he ever penned : — ^-AREWELL, life ! my pulses thrill In the grasp of giant Death, Heavier is the labored breath, ' Keener airs the senses chill. Press, oh, press thy lips to mine, That at last my soul may be, E're it pass beyond the sea. Thrilled by one fond kiss of thine. When the otlier shore is won. Crowded with its silent ships, With thy kisses on my lips I shall know a Heaven begun. This and the following poems are all I am able to present of his. They were written when he was a young man, just grown to manhood. They show genuine sentiment: PR A YER. 'HE thronging town is silent, Still is the busy street. That all day long has echoed The sound of restless feet. 258 Poets and Poetry of Texas, No sound breaks into the stillness, That folds the day like a shroud, And into my brain, and over my soul, A host of fancies crowd. "Oh for the light of wisdom ! Oh for the vision bold ! To pierce beyond the valley That the waters of death enfold." Breaking through the stillness And out in the startled air? Comes from across the little street An answer to my prayer. Calm and unutterable, Upon my soul it fell, As I heard a voice from Heaven speak In the tolling of the bell: "Come ye that are heavy laden, Here all your burdens bear, And lay them at the feet of Him Who's quick to answer prayer." UNDER THE CACTUS. NDER the Cactus, soft and low. With many a dimple and quiver, "■ From a quiet nook the babbling brook Sweeps down to the swelling river. Beneath the light of a tender moon. The silvery tide caresses The bare, brown feet of a maiden sweet, And laves the floating tresses. A footfall steals down the hidden path, " Say, Sweet, have I come too soon?" Poets and Poetry of Texas. 257 And love is confess'd, and lips are pressed, 'Neath the light of a tender moon. Under the Cactus the forked spears Keep guard o'er a solemn mound, And a watcher stands with folded hands, And looks upon the ground. "Ah! faithful Sentinel, guard her well, And keep this spot from harm. For naught can I do but leave her to you, To the strength of thy barbed arm." LA MADRE DE LA CANYON. [At about the center of Temacula Canyon, in Southern Cali- fornia, and three hundred feet above the bed of the river, there stands out in bold relief upon the mountain side, the perfect figure of a woman. A loose robe falls to her feet, one arm is crossed over her left breast, while the other points upward.] virOR many a weary day my perplexed soul /ijlf Had blindly sought to know the right; "^-^i Still nearer waves of doubting roll. And hide the rock of faith from sight. Despairingly I heard a knell. And Faith and Hope bade me adieu ; Then thick and fast the shadows fell. And veiled the face of Heaven from view. I heard the flow of water in the sand ; Upon its shifting banks my feet were pressed ; While rising upward, near my hand, The mountain reared its giant crest. And lo ! upon its rocky side, I saw Unmoved, and still, and sternly fair, With hand u})raised to Heaven afar, A woman's face, and ibrm, and hair. And while I stood, with 'hated breath, I seemed to see the cold lips move ; "That, mortal, which thou callest death "Is but the perfectness of love. "And wlien thine earthly course is done, "Thy 'raptured eyes with jo}'- shall see "The Gates of Ileavcm in triumph won "And wake to immortality. "Behold! around, on every hand, "The Tkuth still shines with patient ray, "And all created things do stand " lJnchang(Kl, to })()iutthe way. "He dazzled not by Reason's glow, "lUit cling to an unfaltering trust "That at the last tliou may'st know, "Man is weak, but (U)i) is just." --^ Poets and Poetry of Texas. 259 JOHN M. RICHARDSON C|^HE life of Col. llichardson has been a very busy one, and ^J consequently one of intellectual advancement. He is one ♦ of a line of a distinguished family who has been conspic- uous in private and public life since the American War of In- dependence. His paternal grandfather, llichardson, was a Captain in the Continental Line during the Revolutionary War; and his paternal grandfather, Buford, belonged to Marion's Partisan Corps, during the same period. He is of English and Huguenot-French blood. He was born in South Carolina, March 13th, 1831, and is the youngest of tiftecn children. Sev- eral of his family have occupied high ollicial positions; his uncle, J. S, Puchardson, was for a long time on the bench of South Carolina. One of his brothers, James S. G. Richardson, was, at one time, State Reporter. Col. Richardson is said to be a polished scholar, having grad- uated from South Carolina Military Academy, the University of Virginia, and Harvard University. He was graduated from the latter University, taking the degree of Bachelor of Science, July 19, 1854. Soon after liis graduation from Harvard, he went to Georgia, and began teaching. He married there, June 14th, 1855. In 1860, he was elected Professor in Hillsboro Military Academy, Hillsboro, South Carolina. The war com- ing on, he resigned his place in the Academy and joined the Confederate service, July 3d, 1801, and participated in the first battle of Manassas. In 1862, from exposure to rain and cold, he was compelled to leave the army, having been attacked with rheumatism. He did not remain idle, but took a position in the Georgia Military Institute, at Marietta. In 1863, he was elected Professor of Mathematics in the University of Ala- 200 Poets and Poetry of Texas. bama, but declined, and accepted an appointment on the general staff of the Confederate Army, and returned to battle in the latter part of 1863. In the battle of Winchester, September 19th, 1864, he lost a leg. He returned to Georgia and began teaching, and taught in that State until 1876, when he came to Texas, and located in Sulphur Springs. He taught there and at Leesburg till January, 1885, when he moved to Pittsburg, where he still resides. He has writter a great deal of a miscellaneous nature. What he has written is marked with the spirit of conservatism. lie makes no claims to poetic fame, but his quiet, unobtrusive work deserves recognition. THE WHISKY FIEND. tHE Devil one morning arose in a rage, I And vowed that each city should be a vile cage — "^ A cage of uncleanness, hate, malice, and strife, Where cursing and murder shouhl ever be rife. " 'Twas God made the country, but I made the town. I'll fill it with vices, pollutions — and drown What little of virtue man's vain soul has left, Since him of his Eden and Ciod, I bereft. ''The pool I will open shall spread far and wide, And o'erflovv the country with its turbid tide. Of earth I would make, in despite, a vast hell. With ev'ry pollution to seethe and to swell." So he put up a whisky-shop, right on the square, To deal out damnation to all who go there ; And those passing by he would call and invite To enter his parlors, by day and by night. To rope in his victims, the men and the boys. He garnished his hell-traps with many decoys — tmrar- a With billiards, and pictures, and dicing, and cards,— With music, and dancing, and flowery yards. " Just walk 'round my green blinds, and see how I'm fixed ; INly parlors are furnished, my li(|Uors are mixed; Look there, at that picture ; "'twill kindle the fires Of slumbering passion and Venus desires. " Come now to the counter and get you a drink ; 'Twill banish your cares, nor allow you to think. A fig for your scruples of silly [)ropriety. Drink ]il('asure's full bowl toyour perfect satiety. " Now, won't you play something? Cards, billiards, or dice? Walk in ; never hesitate; never tliink tvviee. Your fortune try boldly ; faint heart never won Fair lady, or riches, beneath the bright sun. " Have you lost? Never mind! Next time better luck. Go out in the garden and look for your duck. That picture — I see you remember it well. Let music strike up with voluptuous swell ! " Ha! ha! Now I have him ! Wife, mother, look out I Wine, dicing and sirens have fenced him about! A cloud of i)ollution stands 'twixt him and you ! To home— life's pure pleasure, lie's bidden adieu. " His soul and his body belong all to me ! For here, from his conscience, for refuge he'il flee ! I'll drug him, and pluck him, and squeeze him till dry, Then kick him out, hopeless, to curse God and die ! "His children, I'll beggar; his wife's heart, I'll break, And drive them to curses, their vile bread to make, That high on hell's gate-posts their names deep will carve ! They'd better, with virtue, in poverty starve ! " 'Tis thus I would have it all over the land ! My mark on each forehead, deep scarred, I would brand ! In hatred to God, I would make man forlorn ; Then mock them, and jeer them, and laugh them to scorn !" •f"^ 2G2 Poets and Poetry of Texas. IIo! daughters and sisters ! Ho! mothers and wives ! Your loved ones are staking and hosing their lives ! Tlie cess-pools of Satan are right at your gate ! Awake from your lethargy, ere its too late ! Sons, hushands, and brothers, save <]uick from the foe ! Oh! keep them from contact with that overflow Whose liquid pollution damns body and soul, By drowning the senses in vile pleasure's bowl ! Oh, strike down the whisky fiend, banish it far ! Its temples destroy, and its juggernaut car! The makers and victims of liquid hell-fire, And dealers, all pra}^ you to help them up higher ; To take their feet out of the miry clay ; From dens of Acrasia to lead them away ; To cleanse them, and clothe them, and help them to find Return to their kinship with God and mankind 1 Arise in the God-given strength of love's pray'r ! Arise in the courage that will not despair ! Arise in the might of such courage and strength, And cleanse our fair land, in its breadth and its length I So shall the race bless you ! And ever shall rise The incense of pray'r, all unmixed with sin's cries ! So heaven descending to earth shall remain, And God from His children depart ne'er again ! Tiri; PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SOOTS. " O Domiue Deus, Speravi in Te ! HOLY and Just God, My hope is in Thee ! Jesus, Thou Strong Rod, lean upon^Thee! Poets and Poetry of Texas. 2G3 My body with chains bound, My spirit in pains foiuid, None love I but Thee ! Knees bending, eyes blending, Heart rending, soul wending ; Adoring, Im])loring, Now take me to Thee ! ± 264 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MISS ROBINSON. ISS WILLIE BLANCHE ROBINSON, one of theyoung- est of the Texas poets whom I have under consideration, was born in March, 1857, at which time her father, Major B. F. Robinson, was Indian Agent, and located with his family in Southern Kansas. She belongs to a dignified and genteel family of English-Scotch descent, being granddaughter of Gerard Robinson, an officer of the British Navy, and who married a Miss Menteith, of the ancient house of that name. She is also a maternal descendant of Thomas Marshall, father of John Marshall, long Chief Justice of the United States ; also of the well known Gen. Humphrey Marshall, of Kentucky, whose daughter. Miss Nellie, has written of passion-life, earn- est, intense, and full of pathos and heroism. Willie learned to read and write at an unusually early age, and at eight, it is said that she read understandingly the works of Shakespeare. "A wonder of the times," says Boyle "for I have lisped in Shakespearean numbers for nearly a half cen- tury, and yet cannot comprehend much in him." She was not long contented in mere rhyme, but actually aban- doned the lighter songs of her Muse, and boldly struck her lyre to the noble strains of the heroic and sublime, and attempted an imitation of Shakespeare's Tragedies, for " She felt the fire that in her glowed." Some of her poems, composed at a very early age, were pub- lished in the Kansas City Journal, under the assumed name of " Persia." They received much attention at that time. She is not a native Texan, but the greater part of her life has been passed here. For the past twelve years she has resided with Poets and Poetry of Texas. 265 her parents, near Dallas. Most of this time she has been en- gaged in teaching. Hon. John Henry Brown says of Miss Robinson : " She is author of many beautiful poems. She is young and hand- some, with a countenance beaming with intelligence and the milk of human kindness. Had it not been for Dame Fortune, her name today would have been known to the reading people of Texas." She is full of sympathy for the Southland, and did not hesi- tate to express herself when that great and good man, Jefferson Davis, visited Texas. Her poem, Texas to Jefferson Davis, which I give, was inspired by Mr. Davis' visit here about a dozen years ago. I have never seen this poem in print, but think it worthy of preserving. TEXAS TO JEFFERSON DA VIS. A WELCOME. AIL to you ! To you who come not 'mid the mighty tread Of conquering armies, but with noble crown Of principle, upon your honored head. You have no power to fill men's hearts with fear, No nation waiting at your touch to move, But better far than this, 'tis left to you To thrill a noble people's heart with love. They love you for the memory of those days. Whose glory still their hearts, a-hungered, feeds ; They love you for the memory of your deeds ; They love you for the grandeur of your face. Where sorrows and wrecked hopes have left their trace. Hail to you ! You who are mighty in your fallen state ; From the immensity of my wide lands, I lift my voice up to call you great. 18 I from my prairies blossoming forth swoet, Do give my flowery treasures unto you, My eager children cast them at your feet — Small recompense to one so brave and true, But could I stand the mistress of the airs, On ev'ry hill that roars, on ev'ry plain, A grand orchestra of my winds I'd raise, That to the very stars would lift your praise. Hail to you ! You who bring us with your presence dear. The memories of the many battles fought ; The memories of the time when void of fear, I and my sisters gave you our young throne, When all the hills shook with our battle cry. And on the winds our young flag was out-blown ; And memories sad of tinies, when all the lands. Were wet with tears, and solemn cries of pain, Went up like that from Rama long ago, When Rachel wept above her children slain ; But brave, kind heart your tears were shed for us ! Hail to you ! Oh faithful master of a brave, young host ! A memory holds all Southern hearts to you, The memory of the noble cause they lost; For this they beat with love for you, for aye, For this your laurel wreath is ever bright, Amid so many crowns of withering bays. And oh, may He the Master of all lands. Give peace to you, and multiply your days, And far off" years shall keep your memory — white ! Poets and Poetry of Texas. 267 r*5S^ VICTOR M. ROSE. R. ROSE is a notable instance of an author who, with- , out neglecting Lis duties as editor and citizen, has a warm place in the literary history of his State. He has made his mark in various branches of literature and journalism, and is an untiring worker. He was born in Victoria, Texas, and served in Ross' Texas Brigade during the war between the States. He was admitted to the bar in 1870, but has spent most of his life as editor, and is at this time connected with the Daily Times, Laredo. He has written : — 1. Lo3 Despenadores, a Spanish Story in verse, — in one vol- ume. 2. jRoss' Brigade, — in one volume. 3. The Texas Vendetta. 4. Demara, the Comanche Queen; and Other Rhymes. Pub- lished by Little & Co., New York. This is a neatly printed volume of about one hundred pages. 5. History of Victoria County. This is his last publication, but he has in press two volumes, which will be issued soon, one a Life of General Ben McCulloch, the other, a poem— ^ Legend of Dixie. I have seen but one of Mr. Rose's books — Demara, the Co- mache Queen; and Other Rhymes. It is made up largely of lyrics and sonnets. Demara, for which the book is called, is a poem of twenty-eight stanzas of eight lines each. It is too long to include in this collection. To make extracts from it would not do the poem or the author justice; so I have selected two of Mr. Rose's minor poems illustrative of his style. The followingpoem—Dea«/i-— according to the author, "being some unconnected thoughts in regard to the undestructibility of matter," is dedicated to A. P. Hope, of Marshall, Texas:— 2G8 Poets and Poetry of Texas. •^^^HERE is no death, O transitory man, «1| /Contained in all Dame Nature's perfect plan ; ^:^This tenement, of dust create, may go Rotting back to its kindred dust, and so With dissolution's sad, expiring sigh, The jeweled spirit seeks its native sky ; Thy frame, like some old ghostly household stands, Where mortmain's tenure holds the ancient lands. Or, decomposing on the ambient air, Sends zephyr-ships deep-freighted everywhere, That countless transmigrating spirits range. Like commerce carries o'er the ttags of 'change ; Thus round and round the endless circle move, (As boundless is God's own infinite love). The myriad effects produced by cause. Ceaseless creations under Nature's laws ; Thus, genial Spring, but smiling, comes to greet The flowers gemmed by dew, and laden sweet. Each of earth's atoms form'd by will divine. That decked ere this, perchance, the Delphic shrine ; Each animated by a single ray Of light and life, from the "Eiernal Day." Behold the pupa in its prison's womb, A noxious grub, disgusting to our sight, Which soon assumes the gorgeous hues of light, Blended prismatic colors of the sky, Uniting all to deck a butterfly ; Thus a Samian, with deep learning fraught, Of the mystic metempsychosis taught. And so, he of the "Silver Veil" once dared To claim the attributes that Jesus shared In part with Moses and the other few. Who the awful councils of Jehovah knew. And thus fair Livia, of a later day. When her brave lover, in a distant fray, Fell, with sword in hand, where wildest battle waves, Strewed wrecks of life on life in soldier graves, Turned in dejection from the severed tie, With heart forever crushed, but tearful eye, To wander from the haunts of all her kind. And seek in solitude for peace, and find Nepenthe, self-consuming though it be, Oblivious to all unto eternity. r His bloody manes a shrine the wildwood tuck, And thither she to tlie remotest nook, A vested virgin robbed of reason lied, To pledg(! her troth again with the ininK)rtiil dead. Ah, who can say that reason ever pidos ; That the vital sparks of life y in my dream, For all things then to me did seem Approved by heaven and man. Time limits law to all who do Not their murderous hands imbrue With blood. But oh, alas ! how few Of the man-slaying thousands can Flee Justice, with her perfect plan ? Down to the " Mountain Meadow," past The silent host, with footsteps fast, And not until arrived the last, And the dread circle was complete Around the silent, slumbering host, Which had no sentry on his post. Was the signal given, and lost 'Mid shrieks of anguish wild replete. As half awakened " pale face " met Painted savage, who had whet His passion and his knife, to let Vengeance glut with blood its might ; Or, when frenzied mothers gave Up their lives in hope to save Their offspring, on that dreadful night. But short the cries of lessening breath — Silence reigned o'er the scene of death. Dawned the morning mild and bright, But never has high heaven's light Shone on such a sickening sight As " Mountain Meadow Massacre !" For death that night full license sent. And youth, and age, and childhood lent Corse on corse, in confusion blent. To form the graveless sepulchre. 272 Poets and Poetry of Texas. I dreamed that, 'neath the church's wing, No power on earth could ever bring 01" justice or remorse a sting, To a bishop of Brigham Young. But two decades have ])nssed away, And with them gone of hope all ray; While for twenty years, day by day, Remorse has at my heart-strings wrung. Tlirice welcome then to me is death ; What matter hmv my parting breath Shall l)arter earth for 'tother lot? Yet, as the choice is mine Ijy law. Not cruel axe, nor hempen draw, But wing me death by rifle shot ! - HORACE ROWE. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 273 HORACE ROWE. Jl GRACE ROWE was born April 15, 1852, He was a son of Dr. Joseph Rowe, who was Speaker of the Second Con- gress of Texas when it was a Republic. His mother's name was Emily Van Zandt, sister of the Hon. Isaac Van Zandt, Minister to the United States during Houston's second administration, and whose death occurred very suddenly at Houston, while a candidate for Governor against Geo. T. Wood, in 1847. Mr. Rowe's birth-place is on the banks of the Colorado river, in Travis county, six miles below the city of Austin. Before he had reached his fourteenth birth-day, his parents were called from earth to a higher sphere, leaving Horace, Arthur, and Emily under the guardianship of Rev. J. H. Wofford. Soon after the death of his parents, Horace was placed in school— becoming a pupil of Dr. Burleson, of Waco University. His education was desultory, incomplete, and painfully un- satisfactory to himself in his after life. The laughing and lov- ing lasses with whom he was brought in contact, made sad havoc of his romantic and dazzling brain. He hated, and con- sequently shunned, all text-books, but became a companion of Roliin, Hume, Gibbon, Virgil, and Milton. Thus his college • days were spent, until the year 1870, when he withdrew and took final leave of the University. After leaving it, he re- turned to the city of Austin, and spent two years in reading and versifying. When the two years had dragged their mo- mentous length along, he went to New York City to superin- tend the publication of a book of poems, entitled The Years of Youth. From this period his life ebbed into a very different channel. It had previously been flowing through smooth and mmiammm»ammmmmmmmmiitimmm»mmmm ti i mmsvv*m: im .m ii juin wa— ■»— — 1>— «— 274 Poets and Poetry of Texas. verdant vales, while its pracid currents touched only poems and violets and lilies that everywhere grew along its banks. When this life-stream changed into other channels, it became swift and deep, and its nature was dark and bitter. Being weighed down by care and sorrow, he prepared to travel. In 1874, in company with two friends — Dr. E. C. Wise and Mr. N. A. Rector — he started for the City of Mexico via New Or- leans and Havana. The party remained several months in the great ancient gala and voluptuous city of tlie Montezumas, when Mr. Rowe joined a party of Americans, who made the trip from the Capital of Mexico to Texas, on horseback. On this journey he visited the city of Queretaro, where the great and gallant Maximilian was brutally shot by the Mexican authorities. From this place, he next went to San Louis Potosi, thence to Saltillo, Monterey, and Laredo. At this latter place he crossed the Rio Grande. He visited that little town of his- toric fame where lived Hidalgo, the patriotic priest, who, in the year 1810, by shouting the glorious repartee. Viva la Inde- pendencia, gave to Mexico her liberty and freedom from Span- ish rule. June 19th, 1879, Mr. Rowe read before the Alumni Associa- tion of Waco University his longest poem — The Mind. It is evident that the young poet, in the elation of his genius, felt himself full of power and in a position to influence and almost command. He entered into copartnership with Mr. Perry Mc- Combs in the publication of the Stylus, a magazine of some promise. But from past exposure, over study, and close appli- cation to his editorial duties, his health failed him, and the medical fraternity concurred in the one idea that he was a victim of pulmonary consumption, and advised him to seek a milder climate. So he joined a company of Texas Rangers commanded by Captain L. H. McNelly. He lived with him for seven months, most of the time on the Rio Grande. On his return to Austin he soon fell into evil and ruinous habits, and to rid himself, he fled to New York, where he remained two years. He Poets and Poetry of Texas. 275 returned to Texas in the summer of 1878, and was elected Pro- fessor of Literature in Waco University, which position he held for a brief period only. Mr. Rowe was very precocious, having written and published the Years of Youth before he had reached the years of maturity. And being but a boy, and far from wise, he had made a little flourish of self-importance about his ambition in that little book that he had innocently issued to a hard world. The manner in which his book was received emboldend him to greater efforts. Thus The Mh^d was produced. This poem is his longest one, and, by Mr. Longfellow, considered his best. It shows evidences of haste. The last-one hundred and fifty lines were composed within the incredible short period of one hour and a half. Its style is smooth. The secret of his pleas- ing style lies in his simple manner of narrative, beautifully constructed sentences and precision of detail. In some instances he is elevating, grave, sublime, and polished to a wonderful degree of brilliancy and beauty. While on the other hand, he sinks and descends into humble dialogue, provincial rusticity, coarse obscenity, and even puns. In some passages he soars beyond the ordinary into the loftiest flights of poetry, and in this he is scarcely excelled by Mrs. Shindler or Mullie Moore. In sentiment and good sense he is not their inferior ; and in the beauty of his historic allusions and the acuteness of his criti- cisms he has been excelled by few. Mr. Rowe lived a life capable, perhaps, of excuse, but not of justification. There are times in which concealment is the worst injury that can be done a man, as there are also cases in which disclosure is a crime. I am incapable of saying in which category Rowe's life-story is to be placed. Concealment, how- ever, satisfied his vanity, which was great, and his imagination, which, notwithstanding his great genius, was not great, but limited, and I might even dare to say vulgar. His imagination, like Byron's, was much inferior to his genius, and he wanted both personal dignity and critical discrimination, which has so 276 Poets and Poetry of Texas. much to do with personal dignity as well as with excellence in art. During his two years sojourn in New York, the young poet, in the midst of all his loves, his frivolities, and his embarrass- ments, produced a succession of poems, written with the greatest rapidity, and with a total absence of study or retire- ment hitherto thought necessary to such composition. In 1880, Miss Florence Gerald issued Adenheim, and Other Poems. Mr. Rowe had the hardihood to review her poems and the art of planting wounds that they should sting and burn. Had Miss Gerald been wise, she would have borne the pain like a heroine, without gratifying her critics by an outcry of pain or vengeance. But she felt keenly the stings, and with an outburst of young passion and energy she made a spirited reply. If it were possible to drop these facts out of Rowe's and Miss Gerald's lives and works, I believe their admirers would be glad to have it done and I myself not the least contented; but they cannot be dropped out of a literary history. He did not show much skill in his reviews. His education was im- perfect, his information desultory and chaotic. The university had conveyed to him but a small share of those humanizing influences with which I am fondly apt to credit that seat of learning. But, curious as it may seem, it was his assault upon Miss Gerald's poems that won him his greatest notoriety, and the " Rowe-Gerald " controversy will long be remembered. Society, which had been coldly unconscious of his existence, opened its doors wide to the poet and critic who had so many claims on its considerrition. In 1882, Mr. Rowe took a school at Bremond. He made daily visits to Wooten Wells, near by, and improved in health. A series of misfortunes befell him there, and he left for Waco where he died in 1884. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 277 THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. ^q-PRING is coming on in beauty Hailed by all the glorious earth And her voice is sweetly ringing, With the songs of joy and mirth. And her path is strewn with flowers, Garlands wreathed about her brow, Robed in Nature's richest costume She is comin.r gayly now. All the world is up and doing, With a heart as light and free As the little birds that carol, • 'Round them in melodious glee. And the industrious farmers early Hasted onward to the field, For this is the time to labor, If their "harvest much would yield. If abundance they would gather Of the fruit which Autumn bears, They must labor now or never, For the present's only theirs. Youth ! to you this time is given — This bright spring-time of your life It you must improve, or falter In this world's unkindly strife. Let not petty trifles turn you. Such as maiden's smiles of art ; But look thoughtful down the future. With a proud, defiant heart. What is life without distinction f What a name without a nam^ That can rest in blazing letters On the tablet wrought of Fame! Would you die and be forgotten Like tlie ripples of a stream ? Or the bare and baseless fabric Of a sluggard's idle dream ? Then know this — without exertion, You will not behold your name Blazon'd on the banner floating O'er the battlements of Fame, Ask — where shall ray name be written ? Then but mark the loftiest height Aim at this — o'ercome each barrier, Reach the pinnacle, and write. Write by merit — not hishonor, Nor by avaricious wealth ; For the wealth of glory fadeth When 'tis won by treacherous stealth. TUB CITY. AS DESCRIBED BY A CRUDE OLD COUNTRYMAN. I ELL, wife, I've seed the city I We've beam so much about, An' when I got right squarly in I hardly could git out. It is so big an' grand-like That ev'ry whar I'd go, 'Long any street just thar I'd meet A thousan' folks or mo'. I ax'd 'em if 'twas 'lection day, Or what was gwine on—' But cv'ry lark would laugh an say, " Oh, goodbye, country John !" I did not know what all this^meant, I wasn't gwine then ; ^ But, in my life, I never seed Sich fine dress'd gals an' men. I tell you, wife, them gals look'd gay, An' was so purty, too ; An' some was dress'd in green an' red, An' some was dress'd in blue. Now rosy Moll at farmer Jones' Did never look so fine. In spite of all her Sunday's on, When she goes out to shine. But ev'ry time I stopt a man, An ax'd him what was up, (He always had a stick in hand, An' at his feet a pup), He only look'd at me an' grinn'd, Or said some sassy word; An' tho' I got right squarly mad, I couldn't hurt the bird. No, wife, he was so white an' fair — Jus' like our baby Sue — That in my heart I was ashame So dirty thing to do. But sometimes I was awful ril'd, An' wish'd for little Jim — If he'd been thar, to lick them lads Would jus' been fun for him. But all is pass'd an' over now, An' I'm at home agin ; So let me tell you what I saw In that big town of sin. I know you'll wonder, wife, to hear What people do an' say In sich a place, so fix your mind While I prepar the way. 280 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Now, when I'd tromp'd a noiir or so Alono; the biggest street, A-wonderin' at the purty things, An' at the little feet All shod in shoes with buttons on, Or some sich fancy thing, I felt a grip upon my arm, An' thar was Peter King. You know he left our neighborhood A year or two ago, 'Cause farmer Jones' silly Moll Would never love him mo'. Wife, 'tis a pitty that the gal Should sich a filly be, For Pete was sich a fine young man, An' stronger, too, than three. I used to watch 'em, with my heart A-bilin' up with joy To think how happy they was then— That handsome gall an' boy. But skittish Moll driv Peter off— I know she'll rue the day, When some young fellow not as good Shall take the lass away. But let me tell you now of Pete (Ah, wife 'twill fetch a tear); He ain't the same by half he was When he was livin' here. He's jus' as handsome, tho', an' kind, An' looks as tall an' brave ; But when I grasped his manly hand, His face was sad an' grave. He did not even laugh or smile As he was used to do, But only in a low voice said, " I'm glad to meet with you." Then shook my hand as hard an' long As when at home we met : Poets and Poetry op Texas. 281 But, wife, I'm 'feared his heart is sore With lovin' Molly yet. He never ax'd of her ; but once When I was tellin' him Of how the folks was gittin' on — Of you, an' Sue, an Jim — I chanc'd to strike on Molly Jones, An' I was sorry, wife, For now his face was sadder still — fie look'd like death in life. Oh, if vain Molly did but know How grand a heart was broke. She would not walk so happy now Beneath the elm an' oak. But Peter King was poor, you know, An' Jones a wealthy nut; An', wife, a wall must be betwixt The palace an' the hut. But Pete is well-to-do- now, Avife, An' gittin' rich, he says ; But he will never be the same As in his boyish days. 'Tis strange the love of one bright face Will turn the mind to gall, An' make a noble life bewail That it was made at all. He never spoke when Moll was named, But stood till I was done, An' then he ax,d me how it was That I had come to town. I lold him that I hearn it said That skins an' sich like truck Was wuth a pile of money here. An' come to try my luck. Jus' like him, wife, he went an' sold What things my wagon bore For twice the money they would fetch At old man Hobson's store. 19 282 Poets and Poetry of Texas. An' when the night come on he said, " I'll show you somethin' new ; So let us go an' see the play Of ' Black Crook' acted through." I did not know Avhat then he meant, So gaily went along, But soon, dear wife, I found myself A-watching somethin' wrong. We sot within the grandest house Which ever I had seed ; An' lads an' ladies too was thar Pete call'd the finest breed. Right after we had took our cheers Sich music fill'd the room That for a minute, wife, I thought The angel bands had come. You know, when me an' you was young. How Uncle Jack did play — 'Y, his old fiddle now would sound Jus' like an ass's bray. An' then right 'fore us riz a kind 0' curtain, rich an' wide, An' on the stage (Pete call'd it this) A hundred gals I spied. A hundred gals with nothin' on — With nothin' on I swar. Except jus' down below the^waist, An' all the rest was bar. Pete scarce could hold me whar I sot, I felt so strange an' quar, An' that's the only time he smiled While I was with him thar. But what was stranger still than this, Thar sot them ladies gay, A-lookin' on beside the lads, No more ashame than they. I did not go, dear wife, till all The sinful people went ; Poets and Poetry of Texas. 283 But then I know you'll not complain, Since nothin' wrong I meant. For 1 was prayin' in my heart While lookin' with my eyes That they might read their titles clear To mansions in the skies. An' many other wicked sights ^ I seed within that place, An' wondered if the Lord had hid From them his shinin' face. I hf)pe not ; lor 'twould grieve me sore Upon the Judgment day To know that all them lovely gals Had missed the Narrow Way. But here I am at home once mo'. An' will not make a fuss, For God, so wise an' good, perhaps, Has dealt the best with us. An' so I've seed the city, wife, We've hearn so much about, But when I got right squarly in I hardly could git out. THE WINE-DEATH OF LOVE. [The following poem was composed during the month of June, 1877, while the author was sojourning at the San Lucas springs, in the State of Coahuila, Republic of Mexico. These celebrated springs are situated in a deep and exceedingly rugged canyon, about one hundred and sixty miles distant from Piedras Negras, and in a southwesterly direction from the Rio Grande. From beneath the mountains which form the canyon, innumerable springs issue, — some as cold almost as ice, while others are comparatively hot or tepid. The principal spring, and the one 284 Poets and Poetry of Texas. resorted to for medical purposes, lies within a huge and awe- inspiring cave, arched overhead by adamantine roofs of rock. In was beside that pearly, sparkling fountain underground, and while listening to the plaintive fall of other waters, that the author was constrained to give vent to this weird and fantastic improvisation. Of course the creature herein referred to as ''love" is purely fictitious and mythical, and is employed merely as an image to represent a passion that was made utterly hopeless by the lover's too frequent indulgence in the sweet and soul-soothing potations of wine.] *HE waters are moaning sad j Over the pebbles and stones ; And my soul is gloomy, yet glad, As it catches the wild sweet tones. Is gloora}^ not mad. Though the water is wild with its moans. I linger and listen and hear A sound from under ground, That has a ring so strangely clear, * That I wonder whence comes the sound, For in truth I fear 'Tis the voice of my love that was drown'd. The voice of my love that died In the mystical dream of wine, Leaving me and becoming Death's bride, In the moment I thought her mine, And thus do I pine All the night-time away at her green grave's side. . Yes, she was wedded to Death while the hue Of the wine kissed her lips and chin. And the smile she' gave as she pass'd from view Was the skeleton smile of sin. But alas ! within My soul was a madness none ever knew. In truth 'twas the fiend of despair That had cursed my soul with that gloom, Poets and Poetry of Texas. 285 For the love of my life, so white and fair, When to Death in the red wine's foam ; Even her golden hair Was bloody with wine for the tomb. And I linger and listen and hear A sound from under ground, That tells me my love is near, And calling me in that sound ; For with grief I aver Not in water, but wine, was she drown'd. Oh, what a horrible, horrible dream Is the wild wine-dream of death ! But my love she sought the blood-like stream, With a fevered and panting breath, And like a star-glean She sank to the fathomless depths beneath. So, from under the water and ground Is stealing a strange, sad wail — 'Tis the voice of my love that was drown'd, And that looked so ghostly pale When phantom hands wound Her form in a shroud, not a veil ! Not a veil, like I thought 'twould be — A veil wreathed with orange flowers — For the one that hid her face from me. And irnbittered, like gall, the hours, E'rom wine was not free As the foliage in Summer showers. Oh, the mad, the inefiable curse of wine ! It from me my love has riven ; And I fear it has stolen the key divine That would have unlocked the doors of Heaven. And thus do I pine That never from sin shall my soul be shriven. 286 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. MARY SAUNDERS. R. A. A. FORBES has kindly furnished me the following ^sketch of Mrs. Saunders: "]\Irs. jNI.ary Saunders was born in Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire, England, March 29, 1836. Her father, John Ingle, was a reduced gentle- man, hut both jiaronts had been liberally educated, and had sa\'cd from the wreck of their fortune a fine library. Her edu- cation was very limited, on account of ii most delicate constitu- tion, which precluded a regular attendance at school. The old library, however, was both school and comj)anion to the girl, who eagerly devoured such books as a discerning mother would allow her to read. Under the shadow of the old castle which was the scene of a famous tournament rendered immortal in Scott's Ivanhoe, she read the volumes of that great ])oet and novelist. She came to San Antonio in 1852, and two years later married INIr. Wilson, an English gentleman, who threw himself heart and soul into the Confederate struggle ; was promoted to cap- tain, and accidentally drowned in the Sabine river, near Orange. He had invested in Confederate bonds a small legacy which had been bequeathed her, and his death left her alone in the world, and penniless. She supported herself comfortably l\)r several years by teaching, and in 1S71, married Mr. Saunders, her pres- ent husband, a farmer and stockraiser of moderate means. At bis faiin, on Curry's creek, in Kendall county, she leads a happy and contented life. INlrs. Sainulers has a wonderful power of recalling vividly every beautiful scene in nature. The sparkling little stream on which she lives seeks the clear waters of the swiftly flowing Guadalupe, with several beautiful leaps; and the loftly hills Poets and Poetry of Texas. 287 which shut it in on either side have suggested some of her sweetest poems. She has heen a cripple for four years, yet her cheerful spirit has never deserted her. Her life, though uneventful, has been one full of love, and many a poor soul has been cheered by her sweet philosophy and active kindness. Her poetry is, like her life, modest and unassuming, but full of beauty and sweet harmony." For a number of years Mrs. Saunders has been a constant contributor to the Texas press, notably the San Antonio Ex- press. These contributions, in almost every instance, have been poems, and so admirable have they been that they have been copied by the papers throughout the country. Her long- est poem — Texas — is an ambitions attempt to give a picture of the grandeur and beauty of her adopted State. I quote from this poem the following stanzas. It is too long to give in full : — 'HERE arc groves of green willows, where echoes have spoken. And waters of brightness from rudo rocks are flung; Where solitude reigns, and the silence is broken At morning and night by the mocking-bird's song. There are woods where the pine tree its proud head upheaveth To meet the warm kiss of the life-giving sun ; While through its dark branches the soft south wind grieveth In mystical music o'er days that are gone. There arc prairies outs])reading a miniature ocean Of emerald billows all brilliant with bloom; Wlicre the wing of each zephyr that lendeth a motion In passing is bathed in the richest perfume. There arc rocks piled on high like the castles of story, By fast flowing rivers all frowning and grand. While the live-oak outreaching, gigantic and hoary. With moss-bannered branches o'er shadows the land. There are graves of the heroes whose deeds are immortal, And rival Thermopylae's history old ; In the Alamo death opened glory's grand portal, And nations applaud when its story is told. There are fair smiling cities in valleys embosomed, Where clear streamlets wander from pure flowing springs, When tropical verdure in beauty hath blossomed. And tropical birds plume their glittering wings. There are riches untold in the heart of her mountains ; And plains where the wild horse and buffalo dwell ; And health's the free gift of her mineral fountains — She has caves where the honey bee buildeth his cell. But with treasures of mountain and valley and forest. She boasteth of others more precious by far, Of all God has given, the noblest the rarest — The hearts of the people who love the "Lone Star !" This little poem, San Jacinto Dai/, is far above most of the eff'orts commemorating the gallant deeds of Houston's men, April 21st, 1836. Hence, I give it space : — 'OVED Starry Banner, unto thee Our time dimmed eyes we proudly raise, Thou wavest o'er our children free And glad hearts glow with grateful praise. How dark the cloud that wrapped us round, Ere San Jacinto's field was won, Our martyred brethren, laurel crowned. Had gone before, their work was done. But ours remained, and we were few, To meet the fierce invading horde. But arms were strong and hearts were true. For memory whetted every sword. The murdered prisoners' blood still cried To heaven against the faithless foe, J. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 289 And vengeance breathed on those who died For Texas at the Alamo. The victor's brand how can they wield Whose victims fill such awful graves ? For they must meet on battle field The living and the buried brave. How Texans fought let histor}' tell ; Ne'er will this day forgotten be Before the Star, the Eagle fell, And our beloved home was free. Those scenes are past, the fragrant blooms, Like jewels, deck Jacinto's-plain, Soon tears of dew shall bathe the tombs Of all who fought, for few remain. Ah ! comrades, we are weak and old. With trembling hands, with snow}^ hair, Our iron lives have had their gold; Thank God we stood with Houston there. Another poem I here present from the pen of Mrs. Saunders is very suggestive. It is one of her best. The life of the sol- dier is a sad one, filled with many terrors and heartaches. In this poem — The Dying Soldier — the author causes the soldier to tell an o'er true tale : — I have walked with graves for land marks, Across the sunless waste, And only wrecks betoken Where the stormy years have paesed. The death of the true soldier is a mere "passing over the river and resting under the shades." I give the poem in full. It cannot fail to please the reader : — 'OVE, wheel my chair to the window ; The streets are thronged to-day With busy, happy faces, With sounds of laughter gay ; With rhyme of ringing footsteps — The frosty air, like wine, Sets warm, rich blood to dancing — How slow and languid mine. Hold closer the robe around me, And sit beside me, dear ; The elm tree's ice-clad branches Make music soft and clear. The icicles are ringing Their tiny tinkling bells ; Sweeter than birds in summer Their fairy chiming swells. A thousand pendant rainbows In the morning sunlight gleam. And weird, fantastic pictures, As fair as poet's dream. Arc traced upon my window Before my breath to die, As I, before the spring tide, My love why should you sign? Think of the desolation My weary eyes have soon, My life a scorching desert, Or dark morass has been ; I have walked with graves for land warks, Across the sunless waste, And only wrecks betoken Where the stormy years have passed, A river, whose turbid waters Are swollen by tears and blood. Flows o'er the sacred altars Where the love of a nation stood. The star from heaven has faded That shone above the gray ; The flag is furled forever I bore through many a fray. At last my heart is broken, And lost my hold on life. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 291 Would I liad died in battle, In ''rapture of the strife," But come as 'twill, 'tis welcome, As to the pilgrim shrine, Not even your love could keep me And that was never mine. Nay, love, why are you weeping? Dear, tender heart and true, I never should have spoken. But that I surely knew My hours of pain were numbered, But, Sweet, before I go, Has earth a type of heaven? . Kiss me that I may know." He died before the sunset. And on his pale dead face Was something like a memory Of boyhood, s careless grace. Was it her loving kisses Or rain of tender tears That freed him from the shadow Of sorrow-darkened years ? 292 Poets and Poetry of Texas, MARY DANA SHINDLER, I |%ARY STANLEY BUNCE PALMER was bom in Beau- ford, South .Carolina, in 1810, and is the most widely known poet in Texas, and really the most versatile female writer of the South. She is known to the reading world as Mrs. Dana. The poems by which she first gained celebrity appeared in 1840, in a vol- ume called the Southern Harp. Her maiden name was Mary Stanley Bunce Palmer. She is the daughter of Rev. B. M. Palmer, D. D., pastor of the Congregational church at Beauford, at the time of her birth. In 1814, her father moved to Charleston and took charge of a church in that city. In this city Mrs. Shindler was educated by the Misses Ramsay, daughters of the historian, Dr. David Ramsay. This enchanting climate was best adapted to inspire raptures peculiar to the ode — agayety characteristic of Southern song. Amidst the romantic scenes of Charleston was felt with uncommon sensibility the force of that pleasing painful passion, which, uniting grief, joy, and enthusiasm, contains the fruitful sense of whatever is most perfect in music and poetry. Mrs. Shindler was married in 1835 to Mr. Charles E. Dana, of New York, in which city the first yesiX of her married life was passed. In 1838 they became residents of Bloomington, Iowa. But she soon had the misfortune to lose her husband and only child by death ; and thus left in early widowhood, she at once returned to Charleston with the intention of resumine: her residence amidst the scenes and associations of her early life. She found, however, that the recent troubles through which she had passed had clothed every scene of early association with attributes so gloomy that a residence at Charleston had no lARY DANA SHINDLER. loii<,'er any attraction lor her. Lililt' encouragfUKMit to genius and lt!;unin;j; was held out to her; though she resolved under all disaijpointnients to devote herself to literary i)ursuits— to the relined and even to the enjoyment of \\\r. soitiety of the great and good. Maturity had now [)erreete(l her early heauty and strengthened the ardor of h(!r alleetions. Professor John S. Jlart says of iicr at this time : "The anguish of these domestic sorrows found voiei; in song, and originated her lirst volunu!, The Soalhern Ilarp. This was followed hy The Northern Jlarp, The Parted, The Young Sailor, and Forecadle Tom.'" Tn IS IS, she was married to Ilev. Ilohert 1). Shindler, a clergy- man of tlu! l^^piscopal church. Immediately after the war Mr. Shindler moved to Texas, lie settled at Nacogdoches, where he remained up to his death, in 1874. She has only one near relative, a son, who i« engaged in the mercantile business in Nacogdoches. In the fall of 187(1, she visited Mem[)his, Tennessee, in which city she spent the winter, and there; i»ublished a voIuuk! of ahout two hundred pages, giving a detailed, thougii con- densed record of her investigations into the s[)iritual i)hc- nomena. The Ixxjk is st)ld l»y Colby & Rich, Hoston. it is entitled .1 Southerner AinoiKj the Spirits. The book is very highly prized by those whose time is given to the investiga- tion of tiie subject of which it treats. Of this work the Spir- itual Journal (Chicago) says: "Mrs. Shindler is a pleasing writer, and her work is a valuable addition to the accumulating evidences of Spiritualism. * * * * * Iler purity of thought, earnestness of purpose, and unswerving honesty, en- dear her to her readers, and add greater value to her work, which sh(} has thrown in the right channel." Mrs. Shindler returned to her home in May and sjjcnt the summer, and again visited Memphis in the following fall. In connection with a Memphis lady of high literary attainments, she commenced the editorship of a Spiritual and rcd'orm ])a[)er, called The Voice of Truth. Her associate being principally in 294 Poets and Poetry of Texas. the lecture field, she h;id nearly the sole charge of the paper, and a vast amount of writing, besides proof reading, etc., finally broke down her health, and she was obliged, in May, to return home for rest and recuperation; her companion, Mrs. A. C. llawkes, well known in Texas as a fine lecturer, taking the editorial chair. She soon became dangerously ill, and it was found necessary to suspend the publication of the paper, with the promise that they would resume in the fall. Then came the dreadful scourge — yellow fever. Every member of Mrs. Hawkes' family was prostrated with the fever; her mother died, their funds were exhausted; and thus The Voice of Truth passed out of existence. It took a high stand as a literary journal, and its prospects for success were remarkably prom- ising. Both of its editors were Texans, Mrs. Hawkes having lived in Texas from childhood. As a writer of both prose and poetry, Mrs. Shindler has few equals in the South ; and in the sweetness of her numbers, the fervor of her language, the splendor of her imagery, and the condensed power of her expression, she is, by none of her Southern contemporaries ever excelled, and Poe alone can be regarded as her equal. Her verses, it is true, were anguish versified. You cannot regard them as voluptuous, but as ab- stract, etherial, elevated and David-like in principle. The critic who regards Mrs. Shindler's songs as mere fragments, greatly degrades her genius. Her strains are of a more elevat- ing and commanding kind — simple, vehement, rich in images, and sparkling in words — her poetry is the poetry of th-e soul. Every sentence contains words of sentiment, a finished deli- cacy of thought. She is totally unconscious of her powers ; but such is the tenderness and enthusiasm of her sensations, that she has infused sublimity into her most simple subjects. Rowe is soft and delicate in the extreme. His drinking poems have all the gayety of their subjects, without any of its grossness. MoUie Moore, on the other hand, is always serious and impressive ; and though capable of the sublime, she does Poets and Poetry of Texas. 295 not often deal in it, but excels in those subjects which call forth peculiar strains of i)athos ; while Mrs. Shindler's soaring gen- ius led her to indulge in those daring flights of sublimity to which few of the Texas authors ever even approached. Her best known poem — Passing Under the Rod — is acknowl- edged to be one of the most perfect gems of this age. The poem may, at first glance, appear forced and affected. Dr. Samuel Johnson says: " Where there is real sorrow, there is nothing of niere poetry." This criticism is, however, hyper- critical, and contrary to popular feeling ; hence we find that Shakespeare, who had from nature the deepest intuition into the com[)licated science of mental phifosophy, saw that the human mind perpetually foils the calculation of previous rea- soning. This is no impeachment of the poet's accurate taste or genuine simplicity of feeling. It may disappoint the vulgar notions which uniformly follow the impulses of practical hu- man life, but it is simply the revelry of the poet — a luxury of sorrow. Such is her life, and such is her work. A mind which leads the public taste by her nice distinctions, startling paradoxes, hair-splitting arguments, and detonating use of lan- guage. Among Mrs. Shindler's religious songs, / am a Pilgrim and a Stranger, and Sing to Me of Heaven, are the best known ; and few who sing these songs on each returning Sabbath are aware thot the author of them lives in modest retirement at her home in Nacogdoches, Texas. Since the above sketch was prepared, I have learned of Mrs. Shindler's death in 1883. PASSING UNDER THE ROD. SAW the young Bride, in her beauty and pride, Bedeck'd in her snowy array. And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek, While the future look'd blooming and gay, 296 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Ami with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart At the shrine of idolatrons love, And she fastenM her hopes to this perishing earth By the chain which her tenderness wove. But I saw when those heart-strings were bleeding and torn, And tlie chain had been sever'd in two, She had clianged her white robes for the sables of grief And her bloom for the paleness of woe. But the HKAr,EH was there, pouring bahn on her heart, And wiping tiie tears from her eyes, And He strength'd the chain He had broken in twain, And fasten \l it lirm to the skies. There had whisper'd a voice — 'twas the voice of her God, I love thee, I love thee, pass under the rod! I saw the young Motiier in tenderness bend O'er the coueii of her slumbei'ing boy, And she kiss'd the soft lii-)S as they murmured her name, While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. Oh, sweet as a rose-bud encircleil with dew, When its fragrance is Hung on the air. So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd As he lay in his innocence there. But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form. Pale as marble, and silent and cold ; But paler and colder her beautiful boy, And the tide of her sorrow was told. But the HivAi.KU was there. Who had stricken her heart, And taken her treasure away. To allure her to Heaven He has placed it on high. And the mourner will sweetly obey. There had whisper'd a voice, 'twas the voice of her God, 1 love tliee, I love thee, pass under the rod! I saw the fond Brother with glances of love Gazing down on a gentle young girl, And she hung on liis arm while the whispering wind Freely played with each clustering curl. Oh, he iov'd the soft tones of her silvery voice. Let her use it in sadness or glee. And he chisp'd his brave arms round her delicate form As she sat on her brother's kuee. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 297 But I saw when he gazed on her death-stricken face And she breath'd not a word in his ear,' And he ciasp'd his brave arms round an icy-cohl form, And he moisten'd her cheek with a tear. But the Healer was there, and He said to him thus : " Grieve not for thy sister's short life," And He gave to his arms stiil another fair girl, And he made her his own cherished wife. There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of iiis God, I love thee, I love thee, pass under the rod! I saw a proud father and mother, who lean'd On the arms of a dear, gifted son. And a star in the future grew bright 'to tiieir gaze. As they saw the high place he had won ; And the fast-coming evening of life promis'd fair, And its pathway grew smooth to their feet. And the star-light of love glimmer'd bright at the end, And the whispers of fancy were sweet. But I saw when they stood bending low o'er the grave Where their hearts' dearest hope had been laid. And the star had gone down in the darkness of night, And the joy from their bosoms had fled. But the Healer was there, and His arms were around, And He led them with tenderest care, As He show'd them a star in the briglit upper world, 'Twas their star shining brilliantly there ! They had each heard a voice, 'twas the voice of their God, I love thee, I love thee, — pass under the rod. TJIE MOTHER TO HER DEPARTED CHILD, ^M MUST not weep for thee *|| In hopeless agony, T ^ My baby dead ! Away from earthly things. From sorrow's deadly stings, On bright, angelic wings, Thus early fled ! 20 Ere thou hadst tasted woe, 'Tis better thou shouldst go To porfoct bliss ; ]\ry darling— hoiivenward tied ! Oh, shall 1 hang my head, And mourn my baby dead, And weep— for thiu, baby, see, Which made thee smile on me. When death stood near to thee. Stealing thy breath ? A gleam of swcit surprise Lit up thy languid eyes And polish'd brow ; And the same heavenly ray Around thy lips did play As pass'd thy life away. And 'tin there iu)ir ! I never thought that 1 Could see mv babv die, Yet feel like this! Dead— ileavl— and yet so fair ! N*> anguish, no despair. Comes o'er nu^ while 1 dare Thy lips to kiss! Those lips that smile in death ! I ahnostfecl the breath, As once it came, When, sleei)ing on my knee, Wliile burned my love for thee, Thy breath, so sweet to me, Did fan love's flame. Ah mo ! what have I said ? Sweet baby, thou art not dead. For, hovering 'I'^li, I feel thy s))irit now, Soft fingers touch my brow ; I might have /moy/m "that thou Couhlst never die ! My beautiful ! my own ! ! We'll lay tliy body down Beneath the sod ; Farewell, my baby dear ! Oh God, forgive this tear ! Thyself my heart must cheer My Father, (lod ! I'll thank Thee, every day, That o'er this i)ale, cold clay, My baby dead — I've felt as now I feel ; Though down the tear-drojjs steal Thou dost thy love reveal. And grief has fled ! 500 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. ANNA WORD SPRAGINS. NNA WORD SPRAGINS was a native of Alabama. Very early in life she exhibited a poetic genius, and became a distinguished contributor to Southern periodicals, at sixteen years of age. In a short time after her debut, her poems were being published extensively throughout the South- ern States. In 1859, she visited Texas in quest of health. She spent nearly two years here, during which time she wrote some of her most beautiful poems. In the spring of 1861 she re- turned to her home in Alabama; leaving, with many regrets, tiie land of flowers and soft sea breezes, to meet at home the saddened hearts of loved ones in grief for sons and fathers, and brothers, that were just " off for the war." Her heart was en- listed in the cause of the Southland. She did a noole work by her unceasing efforts to procure blankets, food aud clothing for the gallant men in gray. So enthusiastic was she, in this work, the enemy wickedly arrested her on false accusations. But as no evidence of treason was produced, she was released without imprisonment. In 1863 she was married to Capt. E. C. Spragins, and for several years she seldom wrote poetry. The love of husband and family seemed to till her heart and take the place of poetic vision. In 1S6G her mother moved to Texas, leaving her alone with her family in Alabama. Three years later she visited her mother in Texas, and while on the eve of returning to Alabama, she wrote one of her sweetest poems — Farewell to Texas. Her husband died in 1871, and she soon afterwards came to her western home to live. Poor in health, sad at heart, she souglit health and rest; but vain hope! She died of consumption, J. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 301 June, 1876. Just before her death, she prepared her poems for publication. Up to this time, however, they have not been published, though richly deserve such honor. Mrs. Spragins lived an earnest life. In the schoolroom she was gentle, though imperative ; in the domestic circle, queen of hearths, though kind and loving. In society, she was so- ciable and winning in manners ; in the church, a zealous and devoted Christian. As a wife and mother, she was always af- fectionate, earnest, and patient. Her early death was regretted by every one who knew her. There is much in Mrs. Spragins' poems to admire, and little to condemn. She made no attempt at classic imitation, but wrote as her Muse inspired her, and always selected such sub- jects as were native to her intellect. Shiloh, which I present here, calls to mind many scenes of battle. This is a true story; and it is told in comely verse. There is poetic thought, beautifully expressed, in this line, from the eighth stanza :— "And midnight wept its surging tears of rain," — 'Twas [\n April rain, and many a poor form lay "With wan, white faces to the drenching flood." I turn from the melancholy scenes of that sanguinary con- flict between the Blue and the Gray, and give the reader an op- portunity to read the "first impressions" of Texas as expressed in Mrs. Spragins' Farewell to Texas. Her departure she calls a " Sorrow full of weeping." There is a beautiful thought in these two lines, from the third stanza : — And my heart will stop to listen To the tinkle of the bells. This poem is entirely unlike Shiloh, though not inferior in imagery or artistic finish, 302 Poets and Poetry op Texas. 8HIL0H. "Had but the strength of thy arm, Demosthenes, equaled thy spirit, never had Greece suuli under the Conqueror's yoke." 'HE wings of midnight hovered still and solemn Around our army in its garb of gray ; A hush of death lay on each silent column Of men, who waited for the bloody day. Ah ! who can tell the thoughts just 'ere the hour of battle, Who tell the fire or yet the fear of men, Who wait the day like heroes or like cattle To slay the hosts, or by the hosts be slain. Along the line war's heav}'^ deep pulsation Was felt as daylight streaked the eastern sky ; The holy day throbbed, that its desecration, Was told in mutters of the thunder nigh. The roar of muskets broke the Sabbath morning, And knells of death rung- 'mong the budding trees, The smoke of battle soon o'erspread the dawning, And flung dull vapors to the April breeze. The crimson sun, like some mad god appealing To orient armies, rose upon the day. And threw red light into the fray, revealing The pitted ranks of blue and sombre gray. Yet heavier rose the lifting boom of cannon And shriller muskets, 'till each friend and foe Went into death with war's sad, hot abandon. Where life was but a diceman's hurried throw. They fought like men, our gray-clad earnest heroes — With bated breath, and sinews strung to steel — And many a message sent the bloody nerves, Which made the columns of the bravest reel. Then back again came the hot missile showers, The red hot plague, into the hearts of men ; And through the long, long, bloody day the hours Were told to Heaven by the piles of slain. Some hearts were there, beneath gray tattered wrappings, Which valued life not by its gain, but loss, Strong men who loved to count blue gilded trappings, As the refiner counts the worthless dross. They asked no mark of any man as brother, J>ut fought relentless as the hand of Doom, With thoughts alone of wife, and child, and mother, Made wretched wanderers from the olden home. Some souls were there who had lost all but Heaven And common (M)untry ; deadly were the blows Which their hands dealt, and deep the sword was driven In severest vengeance, as remembered woes Came u|) to speak of homes laid waste and burning; Of loved ones hunted to the bitter death, And Shiloh saw their faces turn from yearning To darker thoughts — their words to murderous breath. Dim clouds hung low at evening's close, and darkly Uprose the last black volume of the day ; And glazing eyes through lifting smoke, gazed starkly Up to the clouds, unheeding where they lay. The sunset hour was redder than the dawning, The blush of pain was deeper in the west; The Sabbath day, which broke on Shiloh's morning, Wore sadder robes than when it flushed the east. And hushed the battle, save anon the jarring Of sleepless cannon rolling on the air; The Southland braves had ceased the bloody warring When night came down without a single star. On the damp night-wind rose the heavy morning, The anguished pleading, and the cries of j)ain. And 'mid the broken prayer and stifled groaning The midnight wept its surging tears of rain. Oh, night of Shiloh! Friends and brothers pleading Blent with the foe. Oh, night of April rain! The pitying God looked down upon the bleeding. And send some death to still the mortal pain. Oh, night of Shiloh ! Dying forms that shivered With wan, white faces to the drenching flood. 304 Poets and Poetey of Texas. Prayed long, 'till, kind, their hearts-strings breaking, quivered. And left the dead at rest in pools of blood. Oh, night of Shiloh ! Priceless were the treasures Our army paid to call thee once its own ; With truest hearts, and blood in untold measures, The bloody day and moaning night were won. Oh, field of Shiloh ! Victory's form revealing The hard won guerdon to the ranks of gray — On the tomorrow, all her words repealing, Unfurled her wings and bore the gift away. Ah, who may tell the sadness of that morrow When victory took our heritage and fled — Ah, who may tell the bitter tale of sorrow, The gallant gray at second midnight read ? Today 'tis ours, and gratefully we read it With other tears than we were wont to read. They could no more, and mournfully we heed it, While we strew flowers for the Shiloh-dead. And to the maimed, who wear the scars of Shiloh In deep remembrance of the day of blood, We bring our hearts to wreathe a lustrous halo. Around the noble Southland Brotherhood; And lay heart off"erings on our dripping altar, But the more sacred, that 'tis broken now; And with the lips, which never knew to falter Repeat today proud honor's solemn vow. And some were there who fought for deathless honor, - Which fills high hearts, for well they loved the land, And would hurl back the foes which smote upon her, Or meet them proudly, ever hand to hand. Oh ! Southland fair, had truth e'er yet been plainer — Had thy sons known their blood was spilled in vain — They yet had looked upon thy proud barred banner. And given their lives that it should know no stain. Yet whether vengeance or our Southland's glory Nerved the strong arm, they fought the day full well. And Shiloh's plain at midnight's hour, was gory, All red with blood where many a hero fell. Ah, deep the roar, and quick the smiling rattle Heard through the stilling canopy of smoke, Tell the fierce hour of evening turned the battle. And Southland voices the proud victory spoke. But bought so dear, when past the midday turning. The tide bore down the legions where they stood. When the loved tongue the slow advance was urging, The "Sun of Shiloh" set in reeking blood ; The XVestern Hero, in meridian glory. Far better than that at the awful close, When lips grew pale to speak a nation's story, And write in tears a thousand bitter woes. Blow, Western winds, o'er the fair land of flowers, Forever whispering the proud Hero's name ; — Bloom of the West, come from the myriad bowers With breath of fragrance offered to his fame ; These, to his memory, while a better brightness Rest, on his soul beyond the honored tomb — Hearts guard his grave, 'til the tomorrow's lightness Speaks to the dust— "A better Shiloh come." FAREWELL TO TEXAS. ^ARE thee well ! bright land of beauty, Emerald land, a long farewell ; Words are faint, too faint to speak the Sorrow which my heart would tell. 'Tis a sorrow full of weeping. And a parting full of gloom, As I look farewell and turn me From thy face of glorious bloom. Adieu to shades where I have wandered 'Neath the elm trees' greenest blow, And to places bright to sadness With the sunshine's mellow glow. Adieu to the briglit green prairies, Wild flowers and the river dell ; Groves and birds — oh, land of beauty, 'Tis a pang to say farewell, I shall dream of her at morning In another home I seek. Dream of all the wondrous beauty ■) Which a Texan morn can make. And my heart will stop to listen To the tinkle of the bells. Floating o'er the wavinj^ grasses Like some happy music swells. And at evening's hour so stilly Will my heart fly home to thee, Fast and far as doth the sailors Home, from o'er the rocking sea. And a loving heart will linger Just beyond yon sloping hill Listening to the low, sad music From the solemn whip-poor-will. Aye, my spirit will come to thee In the witching hour of night, When the live oaks on the prairie Are aflood with li(piid light. When the sky wears on its bosom All the glory of the moon; And the South sea-wind is coming Laden with the heart of June. When the mesquite bends and quivers To the night-wind sighing low, And the shading moss is waving Gently from the trailing bough. When upon the sea breeze wakens Songs the sweetest ever heard, Pouring in the poet numbers From the wakeful mocking-bird. Poets and Poetry of Tkxas. 307 Ah, bright Land the heart which loves thee, Loves thy every changeful cliarm, Will come home in dreams full often With a love as pure and warm. As the sun which glows and brightens On thy peerless emerald brow — Warm and fresh — the years can dim not The great love I bear thee now. But farewell, tliou home of beauty, Parting hath a pang today ; Blessings of my saddened spirit / I will give thee, and away. Fare thee well, broad, bright prairies, Wild flowers and the mossy dell ; River blue and vale of cashmere. Emerald land — a long farewell! 308 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. BELLA FRENCH SWISHER, ITHER as author, editor or poet, Mrs. Swisher is well known throughout the United States. She is a native Georgian, and was born in 18o7. When four years of age she moved North, where she resided till 1877, when she came to Texas, and established here the American Sketch Book. She began literary work while very young. In 1867 she was liter- ary editor of Pomeroy^s Democrat. In 18G8 she established the Western Progress, at Brownsville, Minnesota. In 1872 she be- gan the publication of the Busy West, at St. Paul. In 1874 she began the American Sketch Book, at La Cross, Wisconsin, and in 1877 she moved it to Austin. The literary labors of Mrs. Swisher would fill several volumes. She has published only two books, one a novel — Struggling up to the Light, — and one — A History of Brown County, Wisconsin. In 1878 she was mar- ried to Col. John M. Swisher, an old veteran, and a gentleman of culture and wealth, of the city of Austin. The poems I present from Mrs. Swisher's pen are true pic- tures. Her San Antonio River is a poem of beauty, while Leav- ing Home is extremely touching and "heart-true." Mrs. Swisher promises to collect her poems and present them to the world in a neat volume soon. TJIi: SAN ANTONIO RIVER. MOST fairy-like thing winding in, winding out, Overshadowed by leaflets that quiver 'In the breezes which toss the clear wavelets about, Flows the sweet San Antonio River, Under bridges, by churches, near ruins most grand, With its numerous gladsome surprises. In its grandeur of landscape on every hand, From the beautiful spring where it rises. I sat down near the source, on one glorious day, When the sweet mocking-birds, a great number. Were each piping forth its melodious lay, And I think that I dropped into slumber; For up from the foxgloves of every hue, From all points of those emerald bowers. Groups of fairies came forth to my wondering view, Quite us numberless as the sweet flowers. One ran down to the spring with a wee larkspur cup — (O, has nature a tinier daughter I) And the pure little goblet she brimful filled up With the beautiful shimmering water. Then I said, " Fairy Queen, can you tell me, I pray, From whence came this most glorious river ?" In a silvery voice replied the fair fay : "Yes, a woman's bright tear was the giver ! " In the ages agone lived a sweet fairy queen. And this sky over us was her cover, And her carpet, like this, was a flowery sheen, But her heart was possessed by a lover — One as fickle as man in all ages has been When he finds that a woman will love him. And who turned from her arms yet another to win. Ever longing for what was above him. "For the god of the fays had a daughter as fair And as pure as the light of the morning. And he fell deep in love with her beautiful hair, Never heeding our time-honored warning: 'Should the child of a god ever mate with a fay, Both are banished in the darkness forever.' But the goddess and he thought to flee far away To some land where no more they would sever. "It was here that the lovers were plighting their troth, On this spot never pressed by a mortal ; 310 Poets and Poetry of Texas. But that instant the god sent his vengeance on both; And, direct from his heavenly portal, A thunder-bolt fell on the love-plighted pair. The green earth quickly rending asunder, And the lay and the goddess with beautiful hair In the ruins were here buried under. **A great crevice was all that was left to the view ; This was dark, and unsightly, and j'^awning, Till the queen of the fairies, in love ever true, Stole alone to its brink, at one dawning, And low kneeling beside, dropped a pitying tear Which has blessed this sweet vale through the giver ; For the tear grew at once to this spring, sweet and clear, And the spring to the beautiful river. "And e'er since that bright morn it went dancing away, Woman's pitying tears have been flowing !" I awoke — out of sigbt wenttbe strange little fay. But to where — it was not for my knowing. Yet as then, on its way, winding in, winding out. Overshadowed by leaflets that quiver In the breezes which toss its clear wavelets about, Flows the sweet San Antonio River. LEAVING HOME. WHAT a host of holy recollections All cluster round the spot which we call home ; Dear memories are they, that linger ever With us, though /a?- our wandering feet may roam ! I go out in the busy world tomorrow. The dear ones whom I love I leave behind ; The}'^ have been mine in pleasure and in sorrow, And friends like those I never more may find. Out in the busy world, perhaps no more to meet them, Their paths and mine, I know, must be apart; Poets and Poetry of Texas. 311 No wonder, then, that my weak soul should sicken, And that a dreary pain should pierce my heart. P'orever more, perhaps, beside home's altar At morn and eve, a vacant place will be ; And when upon the path of life I falter, O. who will cheer and guide and strengthen me ! Sad, sad am I tonight. My soul is weeping Such tears as those we shed above the dead, When, one by one, the sods fall on the coffin. And we turn from the spot with hopeless tread. 0, there are sadder tilings for us than dying ! Yes, sadder things than closing glassy eyes, When some loved one in death's e'mbrace is lying. ''J'is when we put aside what most we prize. Farewell, dear ones. May God's sweet angel guide you To blooming paths, where skies are always clear! 0, if a prayer of mine had power to bless you, Then what a world of joy would crown each year ! Farewell ! Farewell ! This world is full of sadness, And of wrecked hopes, and joys, and wasted lives. 0, hapjiy he who keeps its faith and gladness, And all its bitter, blighting storms survives. — ^-^rJ^^^J^^-- 312 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. JULIA PHIFER TRUITT, RS. JULIA PHIFER TRUITT was born in Mansfield Louisiana, and received her education in a college in her native village. After her graduation in 1873 she began to teach. November 28th, 1877, she was married to Rev. J. M. Truitt, a member of the Northwest Texas Conference. The easy circumstances and high rank of her family left her at liberty to devote herself to literary studies, for which she had from youth showed a strong predilection. She possesses a noble and enthusiastic nature. Her brilliant passages, and her penetrating knowledge of the human heart, will spread a lustre around her name of which the admirers of Texas poetry may well be proud. Everything is individualized and brought strongly and closely to the eye and understanding of the reader, and stamps upon the mind the impression of nature. Her genius is not limited to the rough and rustic, but passes with equal facility to the refined and elevated subjects which inlist her whole nature. If her mind is not permitted to be active, her whole thinking faculties are paralized. This is a physiological condition more or less characteristic of the female writers of the South. There is more heart and less brain in Southern literature. In 1879 and 1880, Mrs. Truitt wrote a novel which appeared in part in the Galveston Christian Advocate. The story was well received by the public and elicited some enthusiasm among her friends, when it was suddenly discontinued by interference of the Conference which controlled the paper. This sudden stoppage created quite a sensation among the Methodist of the State, but the difficulties were settled without serious trouble. Mr. W. E. Shaw says : "Mrs. Truitt is the most graceful -I. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 313 writer aiiiong the Texas poets." Dio Rivers, in Southern Lit- erary People, wrote : "Mrs. Truitt ranks very high among the female writers of the South and has few equals in Texas." BIRDS OF PASSAGE. ^|UST an airy wedge in the sunlit skies, ^Ijl And a sound of far-up bugles blowing, *^ And the wistful wonder of lifted eves That follow far where the birds are going. A thrill to the heart as of some regret, Some want to the soul of wings for flying ; While the airy wedge to the north is set, And the bugle call on the air is dying. They have brought a dream of a tropic land ■Where the lakes lie wrapt in summer glory, And the mute old mountains in silence stand,' With not a poet to tell their story. But the sea has sung it from age to age, The pines grow sad with its faltering, failing, Aiid these birds that pass on their pilgrimage Have caught the voice of its mystic wailing. But where is the poet can sing the song? Or where is the seer can tell the story ? For the sphynx has sat by the roadside long, And lo ! the mountains grow cold and hoary. Still we wait, and question— and still there lies A dark Beyond that is not for knowing ; Still the wistful wonder of lifted eyes That follow far where the birds are going. SOMETIMES. tllERE is a brighter, fairer land, they say, Somewhere beyond earth's lovely, fleeting day, + A strange, new world, with grander, sweeter climesj .L 314 Poets and Poetry of Texas. And when these snmmer skies grow warm and blue, Such waves of softer light come drifting through, I think the veil is half withdrawn, sometimes. In that fair land such music sweet, they say, Rings round the Throne and to the Gates of Day, Re-echoing in long melodious chimes. That when some subtle sense of music thrills Upon our soul, and all its passion stills, 1 think the harp-notes fall from Heaven, sometimes. No glimpse of all that heavenly land, they say, Can come to us, who wander far away, Until Death wafts us to those sunnier climes; But when the soul, o'erwearied, faltering stands, Such radiance comes, despite her empty hands, I think the Gate stands half ajar, sometimes. Oh, world of beauty ! World of light ! they say; Fair world we long for, — yet — so far away ! How shall we reach those far-off, lovely climes? But just beyond our ken — so close it seems, 'Tis but to wake from these long, troubled dreams. And find Heaven nearer than we think, sometimes. THOMAS SLOSS TURNER! '^ll ^*^' '^'^^^'l^^^ made his appearance as an author in 1883. ^i|^ This was done hy the puhlication of a neat little vol- * nine entitled Poems. This simple child of his genius was put forth without tumult or preface, and is dedicated sim- ply, " To My Friends." He tells us that he wrote his poems often in sorrow, perplexity and distress. Mr. Turner was born in Warren county, Kentucky, in 18G0, and is among the youngest, though not the less promising, poets in our galaxy. His father came to Texas in 1877, and settled near Dallas, and subsequently moved to Hill county, where the poet now resides. His boyhood has been passed on the farm. In 1881, he entered Marvin College, Waxahachie, but failing health drove him b;ick to the farm. In 1883, he entered Southwestern University , Georgetown, where he remained a short time, when he returned to Hill county, where he is at present, engaged in the stationery business. In 1882, he conceived the idea of putting forth a book. Be- ing poor and ambitious, he makes an effort, by its publication, to increase his purse, and to enable him to complete his college studies. This was surely a commendable enterprise, and he deserved success. This book is a 12 mo. volume, and contains 126 pages. It is filled with verses expressive of his childish love and ambition. With a few exceptions, the poems show evidences of imagination, but little genius. He has written of the scenes that surrounded his daily life— its loves, its sorrows and its hopes ; and while he had little to inspire, he has found much to admire. There is a breath of tender simplicity and gracefulness in his writings that impress one that there burns a fire within him. He has written early, and will publish late. 316 Poets and Poetry of Texas. His boyish revelry is not as correct as mature art could make it. I hope to know more of his verse. The poems presented here are among his best: LIFE'S BREVITY. HERE are many people who sit Ever wearily complaining That tlie hours of this life do flit With such a short remaining. They sigh its lack of sweetness, They mourn its incompleteness, They wail its rapid fleetness, And sit with folded hands, And such dark gloom upon their faces, And frowning brows and horrid traces. That men shun them in all places As pestilential lands. And there are those who work With patient hands and willing, Who never swerve aside or shirk, But are life's missions filling. To them the birds are sweetly singing, For them the beauteous flowers are springing, And life to them reward is bringing. And gives them happiness. They take no time to think of sorrow, And still of grief refuse to borrow, But look with joy unto the morrow, And thus their lives they bless. And while one walks in gloom and pain The other walks in pleasure, And singeth e'er a glad refrain — Contentment is a treasure ! To one this life is cheerless, dreary ; Its joy to him's obscure and bleary ; Through life he goes unblest and wearv. To one this life is real, He makes it so by ever doing, By striving still/and still pursuing; Each day his strength he is renewing By seeking an Ideal. LINES. W'VE wasted many a precious hour Jl That might have been ermployed, f And many a pleasure turned away I might so much enjoyed ; And many a high-born thought has died That never was expressed, And many a cruel wrong has been That never was redressed ; And many a noble impulse, too, And good resolve have died ; And many things that might have been Were slain by foolish pride. I've spent my life in useless grief, And craved what could not be, And fretted o'er the slightest thing That went amiss with me. 31S Poets and Poetry of Texas. MRS. MARY E. TURRENTINE, HE subject of this sketoli is a noble daughter of a noble I sire, being the oldest child of Judge Alfred W. Arrington, one of the most prominent lawyers in this country and a poet above mediocrity, a sketch of whose life appears in this volume. The widow o\' Judge Arrington. mother of ^Irs. Tur- rontine. is still living at Fayetteville. Arkansas. Mrs. Turrentine was born December 1>>. 1884. and as she grew up to wvMuanhood she received that careful training and educa- tion which goes to make up the lady, the true woman, and which is necessary for the free development o( inborn genius and mental worth. On September 4, 1858, she was married to Mr. A. J. Strickland, of (ieorgetown. Texas, who died in 18oG. After remaining a widow live years, she married her present husband, Mr. W. K. Turrentine, a farmer of Brown county. Mrs. Turrentiue's life has been a busy and eventful one, mingled with many cares; yet she has dotted her horizon with many bright stars created from a fruitful mind and moulded b}' a noble character. She has lived in a tent on the far prairies; has faithfully pertormed the duties of a farmer's witV; has reared a family of six children, four sons and two daughters, and has still found time to write gems of poetry that will" live to perpetuate her memory lonji after she shall cease to be. She is a firm believer in the Christian faith, being a member of the Methoilisi I'l pi son j-ial Church South. She has written some very excellent jioems, as well as prose, and has published a volume of poetry of two hundred and fifty pages. Such, brictiy told, is the history of her, who. among many other beautiful things, wrote the following exquisite lines : — TO A MOCKING-BIRD. ^1^ LIST with senses wrapt in ecstasy S|| Of wild delight to thine own silver tone, f Oh, sweetest warbler of our prairie land, As thou, beneath the stars, dost sing alone ! All songs that other feathered minstrels sing Are also native to thy mellow throat. Yet softer, clearer in thine utterance Than in the bird's, that pipes the one small note. What shallow mortal dubbed thee " plagiarist," Because tliy limpid notes take all the range Of music for thy brethren, oh, thou clear Interpreter of swcict and sad and strange ? Oh, rather say that unto thee is given The high, imperial birthright, thus to be, Of all bird nature tlius the music voice, — A poet, prophet, made by sympathy ! And if the dreamer's tender thought be true, If lower minds still climb a golden stair, Rising up-lifted by the hand of death. To broader vistas, and a clearer air. Me-thinks one crystal stc]) alone remains Until thy genius high shall language find, And then shalt gladden earth, a poet soul. With utterance sweet, fur thoughts of human kind. r 320 Poets and Poetry of Texas. W. T. G. WEAVER, ^JUDGE WEAVER is chiefly known by liis Gems from ^^ Ossian, The Red GirJ, Rosabel, and Cleopatra. * He was born in Missouri about 1834, and came to Texas and settled in Lamar county in 1843, and died in 1877. He was District Judge during Throckmorton's acbninistration— 1866 to 1867. He was a member of the Constitutional Convention of 1875 which framed the present State Constitution. He came to Texas during the Republic, when he was only eight years of age. His childhood was passed here roaming over the widely extended prairies and densely wooded forests. During the early days of Texas, the State was not blessed with schools and colleges; consequently his early training was sadly neglected, his only education being such as could be obtained from the common schools of that day, and from Nature in its diversity. I admire much one, who amid such trials and sore temptations as were meted out to him, could breast all this, seek rest and shelter beneath some wide-spread summer oak, and rehenrse, in magicnl verse, his man}' hair-breadth escapes from privations incident to such a life in the early days of the Republic, and give the coming generations an account of the wild man of the forest who infested hill and dale. The wilder- ness, indeed, was tilled with the fiercest prowlers of the forest and the meanest reptiles of the marsh. He was a poet of nature, and unlike any other of the Texas poets, sang of what he saw and knew, of what he felt and suffered, and in the per- son of our Texas heroes of liberty, he embodies his own life and sufferings. He aimed at the sinless and true, and never soared into the ethereal. His simplicity of diction is a merit that his less enthusiastic admirers acknowledge, and his genius so palpable that his cotemporaries tremble lest he bear off the palm. He was an admiring friend of Houston's, and passed many liappy moments composing lines to the memory of his noble and heroic deeds in wrestling from our common enemy these broad and fertile plains. Iloasion^s Address to His Men at San Jacinto, especially, deserves notice. It shows Houston's abid- ing faith, integrity, and generalship. Such appeals were char- acteristic of him and the scenes in which he was about to enter. I give it place, as illustrative of his patriotism : — OLDIERS ! the moment is at hand When every Texan true must stand And bravely face the daring foe — These murderous fiends of Mexico ! Is there a man whose nerves will quake When home and country are at stake ? No i fight and boldly pledge your lives — 'Tis for your country, children, wives ! What man from these will dare to fly ? What man for these will fear to die ? Trust in God of righteous might. And for our own green Texas fight. Remember the blood-stained Alamo ! And make each stroke a deadly l)low ; Think how those heroes stood their ground, And fell like Caesar, hero-crowned. Bear on our standard ! though we die. The Lone Star still shall gem the sky, And Freedom's flag forever wave Above the death-couch of the brave ! Then on, my comrades ! who would shrink? Aim well your faithful rifles ! think How Bowie's noble blood did flow ! — Remember, then, the Alamo ! 322 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Weaver was an officer in the Southern army during the war between the States, and was a hero in every strife. A braver leader never led our boys in gray. He was an honor to the cause he represented, and Won fresh laurels on the bloodiest plain, And dropped warm tears o'er the comrades slain. He returned to Texas crowned with glory. His only published volume — Hours of Amusement — is in my library. I have read every line more than once, and unhesi- tatingly pronounce it a lit companion for every lover of the poetry and literature of our young State, and a valuable addi- tion to every Texan's library. In the preface to this work the author says: "The classic treasures from which educated poets often borrow a part of their wealth are locked up from me. I can only sit at the foot of Parnassus and cast a wishful look at the bright spirits entbroned in the Temple of fame on its laurel-crowned summit, and ardent devotees who are toiling up its steep sides, eager to gather the green boughs above them, and feel The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendor. " But if my muse be illcgitiniate, still she is Nature's child, born of the dew and sunshine, cradled in the wild forest, and pillowed on the bosom of the verdant plains of the West. Thus she has derived whatever inspiration she may possess from Nature's school. The landscape charms of Texas, and especiall}' the vernal and floral beauty of her enchanting prai- ries, in their spring, summer and autumn dress, has been the themes she has tried to sing." The poems, for the most part, included in his volume — Hours of Amusement — were composed between his fifteenth and twen- ty-first year. He was very precocious, and the flames of his Poets and Poetry of Texas. 323 poetic ardor did not relinquish 40 Poets and Poethy ok Tkxas. She landed that its tender rays reached down And drew hernpwards like caressing arms ; And that its throbbing heart had found a voice Which said, '"Adoring mortal, worship me!'* And then she lifted up her heart and prayed ! In the clear heaven it shone without a peer, Sorone and holy as a new born thought, Fresh from the brain ot' that mysterious Power, Whose attributes, we vainly strive to know. The lesser stars grew pale before its gaze, Until in all the night there seemed but one iireat pulsing heart of scintillating light. A drop of that imperishable flame", wherewith The river of immortal life is tilled. From which earth's dying children long to drink- She said, "Perhaps at this o'ertlowing fount Of Nature's golden wine, I, a poor wj\if. An unbeliever, sick with fear and doubt, ^[ight quati' some cooling drops to soothe mv soul. And then she held it up tv^ drink deep draughts Of that pure peace, which she so wildly craved. Ah, she was happy for a tlceting hour, Tp-borne on Fancy's rosv tinted wing! Happy and trusting, as a "little child . That thinks Heaven lies beyond the distant blue. And waits to see it open, so the angels bright May flash their glories on his wondering eyes! So waited she for the white angel. Peace, To float down to her from thatV^lden world. And light her dark soul with celestial tire. Alas, no blessed revelation came I And the poor soaring soul sank back to earth. (>)»<• white truth, gleaming like a perfect peal. Amid the slackness of its depths profound. For sweet and restful voices of the niirht Spoke softly to her of the power called Dtath, So feared of mortals, yet their gentlest friend— Oreat Nature's tenderest and most loving nurse. Whose soft, cool touches on the aching eyes. And wildly beating heart, brinir instant rest. All, gentle mother", kind and p^itiful ! Surely thou canst not be a foe to us. As sonu! have falsely said, who vainly tell Of iinktiown (lei)ths of misery or bliss, To which thou hearest our iinniortal breath, To bless or curse forever in those realms, 'i'he poor, blind, stumbling- child of life's brief hour. Ah, let us rather trust in Nature's truth, And welcome the still night-time that she bi'ings — The |)eaceful night-time of Ibrgetful Death ! We knew tluni art, and after thee, the dark, The cool, calm, restful dark, for every one — Ah, let the woman wait with patient faith. Knowing tliou surely comest unto all ! As the pure dews in darkntsss are distilled, And fall in silver drops, all silently Into the thirsting hearts of Earth's fair flowers, Until thei)' balmy sighs ascend to heaven, So, from thy mystic tlarkness, showers of peace Descend uj)on the weary, fainting soul. As it iloats onward to that blissful land, That blessed land, " where all things are forgot ! " 312 Poets and Poktky of Texas. MRS. M. E. WMITTEN RS. MAUrilA KL1/Al?hyril WlirrrMN was hom lu-ar -^'l^'ll .the I'ily uf Austin in 1S12. llcr father hiiaiuc a resi- * th'ut o( Austin whou she was livt' years of age. !Sho was edueateil in her native State, ami was a ehissniale nf Flor- eui'e Puval W'l'st.ainl renieinhiTs many pli'asant ineidt'uts in hvv life. She is a ilaughler of .hulge W. S. llotehkiss, so well known in 'Texas. Slie has heen twiee nnuried, ami luis reuied ;i huroe I'aniily. It lias hiuMi while ihseharging her donu^stie duties that she has written most ol' \\cv poems. When she was si.\ years t>ld her father houjiht a traet i»f land near the eity o[' Austin, where he huilt a resiileni'e lor his family. In speakinj;- of this plonsant retreat, Mrs. Whitten says : "In it wt>re eomhined the ehanj;('fnl si-enery of llowery meadow and shaily woodland, towering, elilVs and slopinii, hillside, anil all this hnundtul hy a bright sparkling stream that laugluui and sang and eharniiul my very soul." The attvaetions of this spot dear to her nnide musie in her soul, and sl»e has taken it for the tluMue o\' one o( her longest and happiest songs — The Old Jloiiu . Her mother died when the young pnet was only ten years old. •This sad event inspired her lirst poem ; nud, although very im- perfeet, it betrayed the latent power nf tiio Pokt. Col.John S. Fonl saw in lier the i>riunise oi' the singer, .-md eneoiuageil her to ^^ rite, and he [uddished her poems in a pajti r he was editing in the liflies. She has eontributeii a great many poems to the sei'ular and religious press of tlie eountrv, and is now prepar- ing them tor publieation. Tlu*y will likely a[>[iear soiui. The poeui t\)r whieh Mrs. Whitten will be most vespeeted by the U)vers of simple nudtnly o\' song is The Snotv. This is, per- Poets and Poetry of Texas. 343 haps, her best poem, and is worthy of the poet's crown. Miss Griswold has written of the Heautifal Siiotv, suggestive of the tender and niouinful feelings; but Mrs. Wiiitten lias done all this, and more. There is enough genuine poetry in these two lines to give an undying lustre to iier i)oeni: — It heeds not their tatters but i)ierces througli :dl ; God pity the poor when the snowtlakes fall. 1 give the poem complete from the original manuscript : — ^^hr^IIlO snow, the snow, oh the beautil'ul show I Falling so soltly, so gently below , Hiding the rubbish in by-way and street; Bridging the road for the traveler's feet — (Silently, solemnly eddying down ; Robing the hillside, and shrouding the town. The snow, the snow, it is with us again ! It is drifting in heaps o'er valley and pbun ; 'Tis spoiling tbc paths our feet loved to tread ; Winding its slieet o'er our dear precious (b-ad— Whisking, and whirling, and sailing around; Filling tbc doorway and whitening the ground. The snow, the snow! how we hail its return As higher the fires on the hearth-stone burn ; The young and the merry with fond hearts .-igjovv Welcome thy coming, thou beautiful snow — Flitting, and frisking, and Hying about 'Mid the sleigb-beirK jingle and the scbool-boy's shout. The snow, the snow! unsullied it comes. In its vesture of white 'tis draping our homes ; 'Tis hea[jing a grave for the dear dying flowers; Wrciithing in beauty this bleak world of ours — Till the woodlands sparkle with crystalized gems, Where the sun-rays slant through its glittering stems. The snow, the snow! 'tis staying the course Of the "onward train" with its "fiery horse" Snorting and neighing, it boldly defies, While deep o'er the track the snow-mountain lies — Oh, the snow, the snow, the beautiful snow ! What ruin and wreck it can work below I The snow, the snow! how its feathery flakes Kiss the faces cold of the pure, glassy lakes, Till lost on their bosom in rest serene The moon looks down on the beautiful scene Where the lakes and flakes are blended in one. And the Frost King nigns on his ice-girt throne. The snow, the snow ! it is hurrying past, Borne on the wings of the wild wintery blast j Its delicate down is filling the air O'er village, and steeple, and city so fair — Over the church-yard silent and white It gleams like a sceptre abroad at night. The snow, the siiow! it is finding its way Through the battered hut where the wretched stay ; It mocks their wants with a broad cold grin As through crevice and crack 'tis hurrying in — It heeds not their tatters, but pierces through all ; God pity the poor when the snow-flakes tail. The snow, the snow! the pitiless snow ! Unheeding the pauper bereft and low, He dies alone in the cold dreary street With naught but the snow for his winding sheet, Like an angel kind with delicate wing It bears him away to the home of the King. The snow, the snow ! by wayward winds toss'd, Soon in the mire of the street to be lost, An emblem thou art of man's primitive state, Ere yet the drawn sword guarded Eden's lone gate; But more than an Eden in Christ is regained Since the Cross in His hallowed blood was stained. The snow, the snow! wafting drearily by. Bringing sweet thoughts of the dwellers on high, Who, spotless and pure and unsullied by sin, Poets and Poetry of Texas. 345 Througli the " beautiful gates" are gathering in; Blest boon for the fallen ! 'J'h rough Christ they may rise As pure as the snow when it falls from the skies. Mrs. Whitten's elegy on the death of Dr. Manning is very touching .The circumstances attending his death were sad, and cast a gloom over the entire State. Against the protestations of his friends he embarked for the scene of the yellow fever ep- idemic September 3, 1878, and died of that dread malady a few days after reaching Holly Springs, Mississippi. Amiable and affable in heart and manners, he made friends of all who knew him ; and when the news reached Austin that ho was dead, Mrs. Whitten gave vent to her feelings of pity and compassion in the following memorial lines : — ^li|EEP, Austin, weep ! In sackcloth veil thy head, ^IJI (I And breathe thy sorrow for thy noble dead ; nn' Ilis name embalm with fadeless glory blest And fold his memory to thy chastened breast. Weep, Austin, weep ! Thy Manning is no more ! No braver soldier e'er his ensign wore. Hero of heros ! He, thy champion dies At duty's post — a willing sacrifice. His glorious life has ended but too soon; His "star of destiny" has set at noon ; Scarce could we spare him — so gifted his mind, Minister of mercy to his sorrowing kind. Not as the warrior whose reeking foes By conquered thousands greet his last repose ; Not as the chieftain with his comrades dies, Viewing his dripping scalps— his life-bought prize. Ah no ! not blood his fair escutcheon stained — Love was the weapon that his laurels gained ; Let history's page his valiant deeds recall. And nations learn how Christian heroes fall. 83 346 Poets and Poetry of Texas. Where the Mississippi in its grandeur flows, There comes a voice freighted with human woes — A wail of anguish, like a funeral dirge From bleeding hearts, portrays the dreadful scourge. The call for " help " from that once crowded mart, Fired his warm blood and stirred his gen'rous heart ; He, yielding to that helpless, pleading cr}'-, Resolved to succor, or with them to die. Oh, let his name beside those patriots stand, Who scorned to die — a brave, unconquered band ; And where 'tis told how valiant Fannin fell ; Of him, the martyr, let the record swell. The scroll that bears a Crockett's honored name, Or tells of Travis and his blood-bought fame. Should by these find our Manning's name a place ; They for their country died — he for his race. Sweet be his rest ! May holy angels keep Their silent vigils where his ashes sleep ; ' And when for us death's messenger shall call, At duty's post may ive, like Manning, fall. Mrs. Whitten's longest poem — The Dear Old Home — spoken of elsewhere in this sketch, has many admirers. It is highly descriptive, and establishes the ability of the author as a writer of poems of place. It is too long to give complete, and I can scarcely give extracts from it without impairing its beauty. YOUNG. i;^ TTENTiON ia more readily excited by the momentary JK/ coruscations of the meteor than by the steady light of the abiding star. It is not the gonius uniform and symmetrical in its productions, that gains the meed of popular applause and achieves immortality, but rather some abnormal condition of mind winning distinction in a special line and often by a single act. Thus the universal splendor of the genius of George Elliot shone only from a single point in the literary heavens. Her greatness was special ; and this was the principal cause of her wide-spread and far-reaching praise. The author of St. Elmo Avould have remained within the radius of that social environment to which destiny had assigned her, had not the idiosyncrasy of her genius, like a light from behind the clouds, broken forth in the singularity of its effulgence. It is not that which is common to all cultured minds that engages the pop- ular esteem, but rather that which is anomalous in character, and often prodigious in its manifestations. The real greatness of Mrs. Maud J. Young, the subject of this sketch, was uniform ; and this fact affords explanation of the limits of her fame and of the ardor of her admirers, within the orbit of her movement. To nature's endowment, education had added the stores of knowledge and refinement, which gave to her intellect a singu- larly rounded and well balanced character. When the literary antiquarian of the ages to come shall weigh the Legend of Sour Lake in the balances of criticism, the real worth of Mrs. Young, as a poet, will be better known. The keen discontent of that future day, when observations will be taken in the interest of truth only, will assign to her a place in the galaxy of enduring 348 Poets and Poetry of Texas. lights, and not in the fitful glare of the transient meteor. This work, more tlian any other of this lady, shows her literary tal- ent. Her work on botany, illustrated chietly from the ilora of Texas, is more elaborate and scientific; and her Cordova dis- plays more sentiment ; but the Legend, for its conception and beauty of design, will probably maintain the first rank in the circles of pure literature. The testimony of an able cotempo- rary is given in this strong but truthful language : — ''The Legend of Sour Lake, hy Mrs. M. J. Young, is really one of the finest prose poems we have read for many a day. Though not in verse, it is genuine poetry from beginning to end. Would that all the wild and beautiful legends of our wide field of poetic treasures — Texas — could be put in enduring form by this liter- ary artist. This romantic Indian tradition, so beautifully ren- dered, and whose glorious symbolism, is so happily applied to the instruction of the Southern people will not die." Several essays and contributions appearing in the periodicals of her day, attested her ability and worth as a writer. The last of these, over the signature of Patsy Pry, appeared in the Houston Post, not long before her death. So characteristic was this series — it being quoted and commented upon throughout the State — the author could not be hid. Her devotion to Southen society and institutions gave her a prominence in the war between the States. The Confederate Lady, a fond sobriquet given to her in testimony of the high esteem in which she was held, became well known to the rank and file of Southern soldiery. She was true to her friends, without bitterness to her foes. Her statesmanship was only equaled by her patriotism, both of which she possesed in an uncommon degree, for one of her sex. Mrs. Young, nee Miss Fuller, was a native of Beauford, Korth Carolina, a daughter of Col. N. Fuller. Paternally she was related to the Rolfs, the Randolphs and the Boilings, of Virginia; and maternally to the Dunbars, the Braggs and th; Braxtons, of the same State, and of Maryland. She was mar- Poets and Poetry of Texas. 349 ried in her twentieth year to Dr. S. 0. Young, of South Caro- lina, a gentleman honorably related and of learning' and re- finement. He died during the first year of their wedded life. The young widow devoted her life to the education of her son of posthumous birth, the fruit of her brief married life. At Houston, where for a long time she lived, she was a ruling spirit of all grades and ages of society. Moving in queenly grace among the people, her black eyes flashing with intelli- gence, her voice like the strains of the Eolian harp, gave solace to the sorrowing, and cheer to the merry. Her hands deftly ar- ranged the crescent of orange blossoms for the bride, and wove the cross of immortelles for the casket. She was born on the first of November, 182G, and died in Houston, Texas, April 15, 1882. The most extensive estimate of Mrs. Young's genius I have seen, appears in Living Female Writers of the South, by Ida Ray- mond. Material for a sketch of Mrs. Young is plentiful, but I have few of her poems from which to select. Her Greeting to Hood's Brigade is one of her highly prized poems, and I repro- duce it here : — GREETING TO HOOD'S BRIGADE. 'OT with the tramp of martial train And the stirring roll of drum. Not with the trumpet's proud refrain Do you, our heroes, come. But we greet you with a gladsome pride. In your pure and spotless fame. No victor's crown could add a ray To the lustre of the name Of Hood's Brigade. Its falchion's light Streams far o'er land and sea ; POKTS AND POKTUY OK TeXAS. The (load l>i\ oimood on a lunuirod fields — Tho sontinol's now wilh Loo. Your own triio hoarts and dauntloss arms llavo oovorod it with glory, And whilo a Southornor troads tho soil It will livo in ^on-;- and story. Toaoo has hor viotorios, too, and those Yon havo most nohly won — Tho Ijoritauo oi' agos i>uro, l>oqnoatho«l iVtMu siro to son. 'rht> primipU^s of sovonty-six. Tliough lost upon tho liohl, Aro yot sustainod in t'aith hy you, Who oanniM, will not yiold. Tho mounds that strow i>in- nativo land .\ro watohod by lloavon ahovo, From Sharpshnri: to tho Kio liraiulo, Thoy'vo shrinod in ondl\>s8 lo\o. ^Vo think ot" thom — thought oan't ho hound : Wo wopt — toars oan't ho stayoil : lUit (ilory koops hor sontinol-watoh Ahovo t>aoh bloody gravo. Wo ploiliio thot\i now. in thoir warrior's rost, And again wo plodgo oaoh othor ; Thank (iod ! s»> inany livo today To say : " C»od bloss you, brothor ! " Tnoovor all ! I'p to your t'oot Wo'vo guosts yo oannot soo ; The dead lutre heard o\n' lonei roll call, And auswered it with Lee. Thoy'ro horo ; soul orios it unto soul ; Tlioy soo and lovo us yot ; Living and doad togothor stand. And neither ean forget. Poets and Poetiiy of Texas. 351 MISCELLANEOUS, Under this licii(] I kIimII collect the names of a large number of writers who have written and published poems, but do not claim the poet's gift. I shall not conform to any particular order, but notice them as they appear to my mind, MR. KLMOllE I>. FORSIIEY. of Dallas, Texas, has published several poems of merit. My Heart's Lost Love occupies about thirty pnges of a neat pamphlet. Besides this poem, he has published Fashion's Fallacies, The Modern Ship, and yl Mast Incident. All of these have appeared in pamhlct form under the mmic o( Frromell, which is his nom deplume. Mr. Forshey was born in Fayette county, November 9th, 18G1 . He has been newspaper reporter, civil engineer, and railroad man. lie is married and has one child. MRS. JENNIE BLAND BEAUCHAMP, of Denton, Texas, has written a number of poems. Some of them deserve preservation. She has i)ublished one or two prose works, which sold well. At present she is President of the Texas Department of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, and is laboring for suf- fering humanity. MJSS LIZZIE SMITH LEAVELL, of San Marcos, Texas, un- der the pen name of " Bessie Smith," has recently published, in tlie Free Press (San Marcos) and the Courier-Journal (Louisville, Kentucky), several poems which show a healthy intellect, a warm heart, and a big brain. She has a bright future before her. She is a native of Kentucky, but moved to San Marcos, Texas, CDiHBB 352 Poets and Poetry of Texas. in 1876, where she has since resided. I have seen perhaps a dozen of Miss Leavell's poems, and give Waiting as a sample of those I have read : — I am Availing in the meadow, While the evening shadows fall; While the sunset's golden splendors Fade away heyond recall. O'er the earth a dewy fragrance Flings a mantle, sparkling, hright, Quivering with an untold heauty, Flashing hack the waning light. Meet me, darling, I am waiting 'Neath the sighing asj)cn tree ; Round me winds of eve aresweei)ing, Whispering to my heart of thee. Hasten, on my lips are burning Words I would to thee impart ; Truest love and hope are beating In my restless, throbbing heart. Now the darkening world is sleeping, Resting from all grief and care, Now the silent stars are gleaming On her tranquil bosom fair ; But my heart is growing weary, And a pang akin to woe Steals u])on me in the gloaming, WHiile the shadows come and go. But I know you will be faithful, Well 1 know you will be true ; In your heart a kindred feeling, Like the love I bear to you. 8o I'll cease from all repining. Banish every doubt and fear. For through the fragrant summer gloaming I can feel your presence near. COL. J. L. GAY, of Round Rock, is a writer of verses. He has published several very clever poems, which have made his name familiar to the readers of the State. He writes for amusement alone, and does not claim the name of the poet. .MISS CLAUDIA M. GIRADEAU, of Houston, Texas, has published several poems which possess merit. In the Gems from a Texas Quarry, Mrs. Steuart gave two of her poems, which in- dicate poetic ability. She does not desire fame, and places a light estimate on her work. She is a South Carolinian by birth, but has resided in Texas a number of years. Her father, Prof. T. J. Girardeau, is one of the most finished scholars and liter- ary writers of the State, and has been connected with the press in Houston for a number of years ; most of the time on the Post. L. W. SCOTT, a minister of the Christian Church, has pub- lished one or more works that indicate literary ability. He published a small volume of poems a few years ago which was severely criticized by the press of the State. He has also pub- lished a book of Christian Evidences. He resides at Sulphur Springs. MRS. R. L. GORDON, a resident of Williamson county, Texas, has published quite a number of very clever poems. She is a lady of means and of literary refinement. She is speaking of collecting her poems and publishing them soon. MRS. CLARA BOONE JORDAN, now residing near Mor- gan, Texas, was born in Bremond, Texas. She began to write poems when a school girl, and gained a local reputation as a sprightly and intelligent singer. She married a Mr. Jordan in 1880. Mr. Jordan is a preacher of the Baptist denomination, who, since his marriage, has been teaching. 354 Poets and Poetry of Texas. MR. A. C. MONSON, a resident of Austin, Texas, and a well known newspaper man, has written quite a number of poems showing the elements of the Poet. He is a clever story- teller, and is a regular contributor to several of the leading weeklies. He also published a play in 1883, which was accep- ted by a traveling company, but I do not think it has ever been utilized. MRS. LAURA GRICE PENUEL, of Hearne, Texas, has published some exquisite gems of poetry. She is a South Caro- linian, and came to Texas early in the seventies. She assisted Dr. Royall as teacher in Baylor University for several years. She has resided in Hearne about ten years, and is a widow. She is engaged in teaching, and has the reputation of being a superior literary instructor. MR. I. II. JULIAN, of San Marcos, Texas, has written beauti- fully of his early youth and its charms. He came to Texas from Indiana about a dozen years ago, and began the publication of the Free Press, at San Marcos. He is a vigorous writer, and a man of fine literary judgment. His paper is one of the best county papers of the State. He has done a great deal to de- velop the country around San Marcos, and deserves the success he has achieved. MR. THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK has published two volumes of poems. He was quite a while a resident of Kaufman countj"^, Texas; but for some years has resided in Kansas. Although for a time a resident of Texas, his poems, strictly speaking, do not belong to Texas ; yet he is recognized by our readers as a Texan, as many of his most delicate sentiments were created here. Mr. Peacock is of a splendid family, with an intellect superior to his surroundings. He is an industrious worker, and will gain an undying lustre if fortune will spare him a short time to adorn this life. One of his sweetest poems was written on the death of his brother, Dr. W. C. Peacock, who died September 14, 1885. MISS MAY E. GUILLOT, of Dallas, Texas, bids fair to gain celebrity as a writer of poems. She has already made her name familiar to the reading people of Texas by her frequent poetic contributions. Some of her poems have been very kindly received by the press, and show taste and poetic spirit. She was born in Dallas in 1865, and \Vas educated in her native city. She is the poetess of the Texas Press Association and is a general favorite of the editorial fraternity. I give one of her poems — Venice : — The dusky gloom of the eastern seas, A boat song Uoating in the breeze. The purling dip of oars afar, The twinkling of a rosy star. The darkling lights and shadows met, And Venice slept in silhouette. A blonde moon, looking wan and white, On towers that rise, fantastic, bright, Like genii temples, vast and dim, From out the Eastern ocean's rim. Their palisades with foamings wet, Their towers outlined in silhouette, A villa wrapped in light and shade, A group of boats, a serenade, A fair face peeping from above. A wild, sweet Tuscan song of love. The sound of lute and castanet, The players outlined in silhouette. A balcony, a terrace high. The eastern dancers floating by. A drowsy hum, the sleepy breeze Flings melting music to the seas. Wild snatches from the minuet, Light, graceful forms is silhouette. A tropic garden, gloom below. The tinkling plash of fountain flow, A floating gleam of laces white, A rippling burst of laughter light, The faint, sweet smell of mignonette, Bright eastern maids of silhouette. A cavalier, so brave and gay, A maiden fair as sylph or fay ! A flying boat, the dimpled gleams Of tangled moonlight o'er it streams ; And where the gloom and moon-gleams met, Two shadows kissed in silhouette. MRS. FANNIE SPEAR YOUNG, of Longview, Texas, is author of quite a number of poems which she has contributed to the religious press of the State,. She is ambitious to a fault, but has a sacred love for piety and all religious works. She was born in Mississippi in 1844, and came to Texas in 1859. COL. JNO. F. ELLIOTT, of the Herald, Dallas, has pub- lished some very worthy poems. He disclaims the title of poet, but deserves it. AWANA H. K. PAINTER, of San Antonio, Texas, has, in the Gems from a Texas Quarry, a beautiful poem entitled The Blue and the Gray. I have no further knowledge of this author. This poem is in the right vein, and shows power. DR. SAM HOUSTON, oldest son of Gen. Sam Houston, has written more than a dozen poems which are worth preserving. The Writing on the Wall is his longest and, perhaps, his best poem. He is a resident of Waco. Poets and Poetry op Texas. 857 MRS. A. H. MOHL, a well known Washington correspon- dent, and who resides ai Houston, has written quite a number of very creditable poems. Her poem— An Army with Green Banners— is a very clever one. She spends most of her time in Washington City, where she is a press correspondent. ELLA S. JOHNSON, of Houston, has two short poems in Mrs. Steuart's Gems From a Texas Quarry. These are the only poems I have seen from her pen, and, judging from these, she has genius and a fair promise. MRS. M. J. BENTLEY, of Denison, has also published some very creditable poems. W. A. BOWEN, known to the public almost exclusively by his pseudo-name, "Ike Philkins," is one of the most widely known correspondents at the State Capital. He has gained reputation in several departments of letters, and by most all of the readers of the State is known either as humorist, poet, or correspondent. He is one who uses his eyes and writes of what he has seen. He possesses the happy faculty of seizing the essential features of measures and the ability of presenting them in a clear and vigorous style. Mr. Bowen is a native of Florida, and is just thirty years of age. He has written quite a number of creditable poems. His longest one— ^ New Year -Eye— contains forty-six spencerian stanzas. His poems have been published in the Atlantic and Scrihnerh Monthly and various periodicals both North and South. In 1880 he published his only hoo]^.— Chained Lightning— a. book of humor. About the first substantial recognition of his merits came from Mr. Knox of the Texas Siftings, who boldly engaged him to write a story for his paper. His amazing fertility of invention in this department of literature is seen in the fact that he has pub- lished over a hundred stories in newspapers, exclusive of his essays and poems. He is a married man, and resides in Austin. MR. STEPHEN CUMMINGS, a resident of Austin, Texas, although claiming no distinction as a poet, has written some very beautiful poems. He is a native of Maryland, where he was born in 1810. He came to Texas in 1839, and has since re- sided here. He is a printer b}'^ trade, and followed it for a long time after his arrival here. He taught school a while ; took part in the "Archive War." He was county surveyor of Travis county for one term, and during his term of oHice he established the line between Bexar ami Travis counties. He was elected County Judge of Travis county, and during his official career was married to Miss Mary G. Rowe. In 1850 he accepted a clerkship in the General Land Office, under S. Crosby. He remained there about ten years. Began ranching in William- son county, but soon abandoned it, and returned to the General Land Office, under Joseph Spence. During all this time, Mr. Cummings continued to write poems, which were published in the secular press. I present one from his i)en : ON RECEIPT OF A GARLAND OF FLOWERS. That precious nosegay, clothed in white. In [unk and red and blue, We cherished kindly day by day. But grieved at its waning hue. Awhile it blooui'd, its leaves were green, 'Twas nourished by my side, But soon, alas ! 'twas plainly seen. The lovely flowers had died. Yet still in memory's shrine they bloom. They live in freshness there, Although their fate may yield a gloom, And cause a falling tear. E. J. WEBB, of Columbus, Texas, has contributed one or two poems of merit to the State press. I have nothing from his pen before me. Poets and Poetry of Texas. 359 MRS. M. JOSEPHINE WILLIAMS is another one of those contributors to literature whose productions deserve recogni- tion. SIio was a Miss Hargrove, and w;ib born in Florida, and was married in Louisiana to Dr. Jatnes N. Williams, who moved to Texas, and practiced his profession in San Antonio and Gon- zales, lie died in the hitter city in 18GS. She had never at- tempted authorship until after the death of her husband. She taught school for several years, and was connected with Marvin College at one time. She lived in Dallas and wrote for the pai)ers there. After this she went to St. Louis, and resides there now, and is engaged upon the St. Loui§ Republican. She has had some experience as a public reader, and has read in the largest cities in the State. Her sketches of travel are spicy and full of enthusiasm. The few poems we have seen from her pen evince a vein of poetic feeling. The one presented in this volume was written in 18G9 : A HOME SCENE. Twilight crept in at the window, Fire-light flashed on the wall. Shimmered and shone on the carpet, A fitful, quivering ball. And out on the hush of the twiligVit, A mother's voice came low, A measured, monotone lullaby. Murmuring, musical, slow : " Rest, baby, rest ! Sweet on my breast All tranquil lie. Plush, darling, hush ! And list to the rush Of the wind creeping by." Twilight was lost in the night-time, And fitfully sparkled the fire ; And the song of^ the mother grew softer, Far sweeter than quartette or choir. And tlie father, who paused at the wicket, Caught the sound of her murmuring voice- The cares of the day were forgotten. And his worn, weary heart did rejoice. "Sleep, bahy sleep, While kind angels keep Guard o'er thy rest. Tender blue eyes, Clear as the skies. Sink gently to rest." The baby, now hushed into (juiet, Was laid in its cradle to rest ; The mother slow turned from her wooing, And quick hid the snow of her breast. And siiadovv now darkened the pathway, And shadowed the dusk at the door — Two hands joined in love near the ingle, Kept sacred by trust evermore ! I now bring the Poets and Poetry of Texas to an end. In doing so, I wish to express my thanks to those who have been kind enough to assist me in collecting material for this work. I am especially under obligations to Judge IJallinger, of Gal- veston, and Rev. John Albert Murphy, of Austin, for assist- ance rendered me in securing data for several of my sketches. '1 his book, like many others, has in it the customary typo- graphical errors. I regret their appearing, but they could not be avoided. ^O—