Page images


GOLDEN and russet and golden,

Low-lying, lustrous, and still; As fair as the garden of olden,

That Adam was given to till!

Scarlet and purple and scarlet,

Emerald, amber, and pearl; As brilliant as sunset afar-lit,

And soft as a singing shell's whorl!

Autumn, the queen of the seasons!

Thou scatterest beauty like rain. And, lo! here we give thee allegiance,

And, vassals, fall into thy train!


PRINCESS Eyebright's seventeen,
No more princess but a queen.
Who would ever guess 'twas she
Used to sit upon my knee,
Bid me tell of sleeping Rip,
Culprit Fay and flying ship.
Or, from old-world bring her back
Puss-in-boots and climbing Jack;
Then, when I had said my say,
Pouted her bright lips for pay?
Though she's grown since then, somehow.
Her lips are farther from me now.
Yet she lifts in olden wise
Dusky veiled, violet eyes;
But the look they wear is new,
Shy, and yet so trustful too,
That I swear the girl I miss
Charmed me never so as this.

EDWIN BOOTH. LET Shakespeare hold the mirror up to nature, Show scorn her image, virtue her own feature; 'Tis not enough without thy glorious part To hold the mirror up to Shakespeare's art.


Who is the poet ? Who is he
But the man of tears in the midst of glee ?
And who is he but the man of mirth
Amid the sorrows and sighs of earth?

He sees too clear, and he sees too deep, Not to be laughing when others weep; And he sees too deep and clear by half, Not to be weeping when others laugh.

It was the fair, white season of first snow,

When Milton, bard of purity, was born,
When, like a snow-fake through the sky of morn.

His soul, descending, caught the sunrise glow, And, Aushed with beauty, reached the earth below.

There clad in flesh, whose features yet adorn
The halls of art, it dwelt till, toil-worn,

It sought again the skies it erst did know. () Milton, thou hast only half thy praise

In having lowered the heavens within man's ken;

Thine other, equal labor was to raise
The human spirit up to heaven again;

So, underneath thy forehead's aureole blaze,
Thine awful eyes are mild with love to men.

If there be any good

In the Devil's reward,
We may wish it, of course,

For the work of the Lord;

But the common demand

Puts all on a level, -
Claims the pay of the Lord

For the work of the Devil.

First I tried to live on faith,

Which brought me small hilarity,
And then I tried to live on hope,

And now I live on charity.

BEAUTY Her voice is like the sound that comes when bells Have ended ringing. She has wondrous hands, Which can make all things beautiful to see. Her hair is like the darkness, and her eyes Shine like two deep and starlit mountain lakes, When the low moon is hid.

A Woman's Will.

BROWNELL. None e'er like him from war's resounding thong. Loosed the lean, rhyme-winged, thought-barbed

shaft of song.

His name was writ in water, and the dint
Of pity froze the fickle waves to flint.
His name was writ in water,- and has gone
To every shore the wide sea touches on.



'Tis distance lends proportion to the view,
And dwarfs all Asia to a suffering Jew.


It was not always so. There was a time when lameness leaped with joy At sight of these same smokes; and nakedness Was clad and sheltered in expectancy Before it reached these halls; nor only so, But found its hope of bounty realized, Even upon the threshold.

- Orestes, or The Avenger.

GREATNESS. Only when leagues of sea shut out the land, Do men discern what mountains highest stand.

The Great Admiral.

REST. The head-drawn arrow sleeping on the string; The sky-wrapt eagle hung on level wing.

- Resi.
Thou hast a loveliness,

Thou ill can make no less,
And good can but enhance;
Not born of circumstance,
Or dress.

- To the May-Flower.

He trod with shodden feet God's altar floor,

With unanointed eyes
Looked on the Holiest, and forevermore
Discerned not truth from lies.

- Swedenborg DANDELION. While, last of summer's tokens, new-born to feebler

glow, Like love in old age quickened, the dandelions blow.

--Ebeeme. LAND-LONGING. Oh! when I was a little boy I loved the country so; But now I've grown a big boy I may not thither go, But I must 'bide within the town, and toil and moil

and strive, For just enough of misery to keep myself alive. But when I get an old boy, maybe they'll send me

back, Away from tears and toil and sin, from hearts and

heavens black, And lay me down among the flowers, where long

ago I lay, Beside the shining waters,- as free from toil as they.

- Land-Longin:

T. W. BARBE is one of the most prom. ising of the

younger generation of Americ can verse writers.

He is a West Virginian, born near Morgantown, in Monongalia County, and is now about twenty-five years of age. He gradu. ated in the class of 1884, in the West Virginia University, where his record is a creditable one and where he made many friends whose predic. tions of an honorable career have already been realized. In 1884 he took the Bachelor's degree, and three years later the Master's degree. Believ. ing in laying as broad and firm a basis as possible for future building, he is now devoting his spare hours to studying, under the direction of the university faculty, for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Since Mr. Barbe's graduation he has been engaged in journalism, first at Morgantown for a short time, then in Cincinnati. He is now one of the editors of the Daily State Journal at Parkersburg, West Virginia. He is also the editor of the literary department of the West Virginia School Journal. While in Cincinnati he was invited to prepare and deliver a poem for the Centennial Celebration held at Morgantown in October, 1885, when that old college town completed its one hundredth year. This ode, which is now published in booklet form, was received with appreciation. Since the publication of this poem, "Song of a Century," Mr. Barbe has received a great many letters from prominent writers speaking of it in the most gratifying terms. He was elected to read the annual poem before the Alumni Association of his Alma Mater in June, 1887, and in the autumn of the same year he was elected Poet of the West Virginia Editorial Association.

Mr. Barbe is a diligent and appreciative student of Shakespeare, and cherishes a tender reverence for the life, character and poems of the great Southern poet, Sidney Lanier. He has had a number of poems published in leading periodicals, all striking for finish and originality of thought. Literature is with him a passion as well as a profession. Who would not wish to this leal young knight God-speed as he comes riding into the literary lists panoplied with high aims and pure desires, and the unsullied armor of a spotless life? May his good sword, the pen, win him many more bloodless victories and the guerdon of the laurel

D. D.



A PILLOWED head on the cold, cold clay, And a love and a life that died away! Pray God the head that lies so low, Under the sleet and the shrouding snow,

II. The very strength of Nature thrilled

Through all his sinewed frame, But his love was like a broken reed

When the winds of testing came.

Has less of death and deathless care
Than the living heart that's buried there!
For weary years the sun has lain
Below the dreary western plain,
And I have watched with lifted eyes
To see it gild the eastern skies;
But now I know that nevermore
Will light break on that distant shore.
Ah! nevermore! unless, perchance,
With richer, holier radiance,
It crown, through cycles all untold,
The turrets and towers of the City of Gold.
Oh, shall these years of rayless night
Unfit my eyes for scenes so bright!


The snows fall deep, the snows fall fast,

And the lights are' out of the sky; The moan, O the moan of the Winter wind,

And its wail as it skurries by!

The laurel-brake and maiden-hair

Seem dead as the hopes of May; I stand alone beneath the pines,

And the mountains stretch away.

The wolf's hoarse howl, the jackal's bay

Or the least of nature's signs, Would music, welcome music be

Amid these mountain pines.

LIBERTY. The City's great heart has a thousand full veins,

And it throbs with a strength all unknown; But the Fields with their harpers full-feathered in

gold, Have a thousand free hearts of their own.

The City and the Field's.

“A pearl! a pearl!” exclaimed a lad,

As he tracked by the surging sea.
“Look what a wealth the wrinkled waves

Have washed ashore for me!"
And out upon the glassy deep

He tossed and skipped the shells
That round him lay, and laughed to hear

The billows moan their sad farewells;
But never dreamed that he had thrown

Into the mouth of a hungry sea
A pearl that far outworthed the stone
That he had gathered in his glee.

- Pearls.
But just as he who watches from afar
The axe-man dealing sturdy strokes that jar
The very hills, can hear the final blow
When he no longer sees the gleam and glow,
So we, from this high-rising hill of time,
Look o'er to where these men were in their prime,
And hear the echo of their blows roll on,
Though woodman, axe and forest all are gone.

Song of a Century.

CONTENT. How like that wondrous plant of a wondrous clime, The Century Plant, that takes its time with Time, And strikes its roots and lifts its leaves in blind Content a hundred years, before the wind Has scent of bud or breath of blooming flower.

-Ibid. THE LOVER AND THE BOOK. Thousands of men have fallen in love

With Books, and, as Knights of old, obeyed them And unto this day it has never been said

That their Mistress has ever betrayed them!

From the cold gray earth to the cold gray sky,

They reach like plummet-lines, And I am but an unseen speck

Amid these mountain pines.

THE WINDS. “ A FLOWER! a flower!” The South Wind cried; And the violet blushed and bloomed.

“A weed! a weed!” The North Wind sighed; And the violet's life was doomed.

Better things than summer flowers
Are cheered or killed by words of ours.


WEAK was her arm as a bruised reed

And her voice in whispers fell,
But the might of her love triumphant stood

O'er the powers of earth and hell.

THE PLANE OF CLEAVAGE, Society cleaves at the stratum of gold,

And it matters nothing at all If the gold is washed in blood untold,

And tears as bitter as gall.



his cruise to the principal ports of Europe, enjoying, throughout all their intercourse, the warm personal friendship of the Admiral. In 1868 he resigned his position, and returned to East Hartford, where he died, of cancer, Oct. 31, 1872, in the maturity of his powers, with his best work still before him.

There is no exaggeration in Aldrich's tribute to the personal character of Brownell. A soul of fire and dew, brave and gentle, he was beloved by all. His fortitude was unflinching. He loved all that is best in art and literature, and read widely and deeply; but, if he had a supreme devotion, it was to Nature.

Brownell's literary fame has suffered from the forgetfulness in which, until lately, his countrymen have been content to bury all subjects pertaining to the Civil War; but, at what a loss they include his poetry in that general neglect, the following extracts, though of necessity but few and short, will show more convincingly than the strongest words of commendation.

H. L. K.



Providence, R. I., Feb. 6, 1820. He was the second son of Dr. Pardon and Lucia Emilia D'Wolf Brownell; and a nephew of Bishop Thomas Church Brownell. His mother, a woman of rare qualities, and herself a poet, long survived him, dying in 1884 in her 8gth year. The family moved to East Hartford, Conn., when Henry was four years old. At the age of fourteen or fifteen he spent a year in a commercial house in New York. Later he entered Washington, now Trinity, College, at Hartford, where he was graduated in 1841.

He next taught for some months in Mobile, Ala., and then, returning home, began the study of law.

He was admitted to the bar in 1844, and opened practice in company with his brother, Charles D'Wolf Brownell. The winter of 1845-6 he spent in Cuba, going out in a sailing vessel. On this voyage and on others by steamer to New Orleans and Havana, between 1853 and 1860, he acquired that familiarity with the sea that is so conspicuous a feature of his poetry. About the year 1849 he gave up the practice of law, and thenceforth devoted himself to authorship.

His first literary venture had already been published in 1847, and contained poems written from his IŠth to his 28th years. During the next eighteen years Brownell published occasional poems in newspapers and magazines, which he gathered successirely into his“ Ephemeron,” “ Lyrics of a Day,”and " War Lyrics"; but for a time he gave most of his attention to the more profitable if somewhat less congenial form of literary work that he found in historical writing. His nistories are not mere compilations, but the subjects are freshly treated in a spirited and attractive style that won for the books wide popularity. Brownell took a deep interest in the political questions that led up to the Rebellion, and when the war came it set on fire his whole being: -- witness such poems as “Coming," "Annus Memorabilis," and "April Nineteenth.” Then followed “ The March of the Regiment," “ The Fall of Al-Accoub," and other pieces, struck out at a white heat.

But Brownell's ardent nature could not rest content with the trumpeter's office of inciting others to battle. The naval service was his natural choice, and, in 1863, a correspondence with Admiral Farragut occasioned by the poet's version of his General Orders, resulted in Brownell's accepting the position of a master mate on board the Hartford. He was afterwards promoted to ensign. In this capacity Brownell was present at the fight in Mobile Bay, and was commended by the Admiral, in his official report, for coolness and accuracy in taking notes of the action. After the war he attended Farragut on * Accented on the first syllable, like the names of the poets Tickell and Parnell.

Turee days through sapphire seas we sailed,

The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet,

We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set

In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,

And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped

In the warm washing of the gulf.

But weary to the hearts of all

The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach

And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol,

The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll

Their drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet, coast-wise as we cruised or lay,

The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay,

Sweet odors from the enemy's shore.

Fresh from his forest solitudes,

Unchallenged of his sentry lines The bursting of his cypress buds,

And the warm fragrance of his pines.

[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »