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Cornell University Library 
PS 551.SS6 

A study in southern PoeffJfi'PLSi.j.'li,.?,?,, 

"""3"""l"924""022 1 10" 328 

Cornell University 

The original of this book is in 
the Cornell University Library. 

There are no known copyright restrictions in 
the United States on the use of the text. 


For Use in Schools, Colleges 
and the Library 




New York and Washington 



Copyright, 1911, by 
The Neale Publishing Company 


Index of Titles 

Adonais (Habney) 173 

AHAB Mohammed (Leoabe) 120 


America to Gkeat Bbitain (Allston) 22 

Amy (Legaee) 121 

Angel Watchebs ( Jeefbey) 143 

Annabel Lee (Poe) 66 

ASHBY (Thompson) 116 

Ashes of Globy (Eequieb) 129 

ASSAULT, The (Thompson) 255 

As Some Mysteeious Wandbeeb of the Skies 

(Stookabd) 305 

At Aelinoton (Randall) 210 

At St. Oswald's (Peeston) 140 

AT THE Ninth Houb (Spalding) 218 

AUTUMN IN the South (Malone) 325 

Ballad of Tbees and the Mastee, A (Lanieb) 237 

BAND in the Pines, The (Cooke) 172 

Beethoven and Angelo (Tabb) 266 

Befobe Death (Peeston) 139 

Befobe the Rain (Cawein) 316 

Bells, The (Poe) 68 

Bivouac of the Dead, The (O'Haba) 100 

Blessing on the Dance, A (Russell) 279 

Bond of Blood, The (Thompson) 271 

Bust of Keonos, The (Hayne) 292 

Cameo Bbacelet, The (Randall) 205 


Chbistmas Night of '62 (McCabe) 220 

CITY in the Sea, The (Poe) 62 

Closing Yeae, The (Pbentice) 31 

Cloud Fantasies (Hayne) 164 

Compaeison, a (Hayne) 166 


Confederate Cboss of Honoe, The (Flash) .... 180 



COEN (Laniee) 238 

Cotton Boii, The (Timeod) 146 

Ceeed (Townsend) 193 

Ceismus Time is Come (Boneb) 260 

Cbtstai,, The (Laniee) 226 

Death (Ryan) 202 

Death-Dbeam of Abmenia, The (Thompson).... 273 

Decadence (Sledd) 309 

Depabted, The (Tabb) 266 

Deeamino in the Teenches (McCabe) 221 

Deouth (Cawein) 315 

Enchantment (Cawein) 320 

Envoy (Piatt) 190 

Evening Song (Laniee) 225 

EvEBY Yeab (Pike) 84 

Evolution (Tabb) 267 

Face to Face (Hayne) 167 

Fame (Tabb) .^ 267 

Feud (Cawein) 317 

Few Days Off, A (McNeill) 336 

Fight at the San Jacinto, The (Palmes) 123 

Flood-Tide (Pebston) 141 

Florence Vane (Cooke) 93 


Freshness op Poetic Peeoeption (Hayne) 165 

Ganoese Deeam, a (Hill) 184 

Geoegia Volunteeb, a (Townsend) 195 

Good-By (Stanton) 300 

Geave in Hollywood Cemeteby, Richmond, A 

(Pbeston) 134 

Geeat Man, The (Daboan) 342 

Hark to the Shouting Wind (Timeod) 153 

Harlequin of Dreams, The (Lanier) 236 

Haunted Palace, The (Poe) 52 

H . FAn of Niobe, The (Hayne) 292 



Heamh, a (Pinkney) 36 

He Who Hath Loved (Malone) 326 

High Tide at Getttsbdbg, the 268 

Hymn 151 

Ideal Siesta, An (Hnx) 187 

In Exile (Thompson) 248 

In Shadow-Land (Hayne) 293 

Intebcession ( Sledd) 309 

In the Southeen Pines (Peck) 283 

In Vincitlis (Hill) 188 

Isaac (Sledd) 307 

ISBAFEL (Poe) 49 

John Pelham (Randall) 209 

Lenoee (Poe) 51 

Light'ood Fiee, The (Boneb) 259 

'LiGlON (McNeiix) 336 

Little Elaine (Stanton) 299 

Little Giffen (Ticknoe) 109 

Lost Pleiad, The (Simms) 43 

Loyal (Ticknob) 110 

Man in Geay, The (Cawein) 318 

Mabion (Simms) 40 

Memobies (Cooke) 171 

MiGNON (Peck) 286 

MocKiNG-BiED, The (Hayne) 162 

Molluscs (Stockaed) 304 

Music in Camp (Thompson) 113 

My Babes in the Wood (Piatt) 191 

My Dead Feibnd ( Stanton) 297 

My Life is Like the Summee Rose (Wilde) 29 

My Maeyland (Randall) 207 

My Silent Guest (Sledd) 306 

My Study (Hayne) 164 

My Wife and Child (Jackson) 106 

New Mabket (Goedon) 288 


Ode (Timbod) 152 

OH, Ask Me Not (McNeiix) 335 



Only a Dbeau (Requieb) 132 

Only a Mbmoby (McCabe) 222 

Obigin of the Banjo, The (Russell) 276 

OuE Anglo-Saxon Tonoue (Hope) 159 

Pine's Mysteby, The (Hayne) 163 

PoE's Cottage at Fobdham (Boneb) 261 

POET'S Vision, The (Simms) 39 

Polk (Flash) 181 

Peesentiment (Ryan) 203 

Rainbow, The (Welby) 96 

Raven, The (Poe) 55 

Red Old Hills of Geobqia, The (Jackson) 104 

Remembbance (Bonee) 263 

Resignation, ok Days of My Youth (Tuckee) 20 

Science ( Stockaed) 304 

Sceeech-Owl, The (Hayne) 293 

Sea Lybic, A (Hayne) 295 


Silence (Spalding) 215 

Solace (Thompson) 247 

Song (Pinkney) 37 

Song fob the South, A (Peck) 283 

Sonnet (Timeod) 154 

Sonnet (Timeod) 154 

SOBOLLA (Dabgan) 340 

Southeen Snow-Bied, The (Hayne) 294 

Stab, The (Haeney) 175 

STAEBY Host, The (Spalding) 217 

Stab-Spangled Banneb, The (Key) 26 

Stonewall Jackson (Flash) 182 

Stonewall Jackson's Gbate (Peeston) 136 

Stonewaix Jackson's ,Way (Palmeb) 125 

Sundown (McNeill) 336 

SUNBISE (Lanieb) 229 


that's All (Flash) 179 

Theee Summee Studies (Hope) 156 

"TIME Beings Roses" (Boneb) 264 

To A Lily (Legabe) 119 



Together (Flash) 178 

To Helen (Poe) 48 

To One in Paradise (Poe) 72 

To the Mocking-bird (Pike) 82 

Tree Toad, The (Cawein) 313 

Tulip, The (Thompson) 256 

Twilight at Sea (Welbt) 98 

Twilight Moth, A (Cawein) 312 

Ulalume (Poe) 63 

Vast Unknown, The ( Spalding) 217 

Virginians of the Vallet (Ticknor) 108 

When the Cricket Sings (Peck) 284 

Who Was It! (Eequier) 131 

Widowed Heart, The (Pike) 87 

Will and the Wing, The (Hatne) 166 

Witch in the Glass, The (Piatt) 191 

Wizard op the Saddle, The (Boyle) 328 

Women of the Confedebacy, The (Boyle) 330 


There is a deplorable lack of knowledge as to 
Southern poets. The object of this volume is to give 
a glimpse at their lives and a more complete survey 
of their work than any book that I have seen has 

A few writers, not born in the South but identi- 
fied with it, are included: Albert Pike, an officer 
in the Confederacy, for instance. Quite as many 
others, native here but resident elsewhere, have been 
omitted: Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr and Mr. C. P. 
Cranch, for examples. 

It may appear that undue attention has been given 
to certain poets of the war period. Ample space 
has been accorded them for two reasons: first, the 
intrinsic value of their work warrants it ; and, second, 
their poems either have never been collected or no 
longer are in print. 

I acknowledge my indebtedness to the following 
publishers for the use of poems over which they hold 
the copyright: Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Co. for 
selections from the works of Messrs. Peck and Wm. 
H. Hayne ; to the Independent for Lanier's " The 
Crystal," "Ballad of Trees," and "Sunrise"; to 
Messrs. J. B. Lippincott & Co. for " The Harlequin 
of Dreams," "Evening Song," and "Corn"; to 
Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co. for Tabb's poems ; to 
the Century Co. for selections by Wm. H. Thompson, 
John H. Boner, etc.; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin 
& Co. for poems by James Maurice Thompson and 
Wm. H. Hayne; to Mr. J. P. Kennedy for Eyan's 



work; and to Dr. George Preston for the poems by 
his mother. My thanks are due also to several of 
the poets represented for work generously placed at 
my disposal. 

A work of this character is never complete: 
were it possible to make the manuscript so, the 
printed book would not be; new writers are continu- 
ally appearing, while the living writers who are 
represented are changing their record. To the dis- 
cerning reader, though, one fact will be evident : the 
stream of poesy in our Southland has grown wider 
and deeper and stronger, and others may trace it as 
it widens out into a majestic river. 

H. J. S. 

Raleigh, N. C. 
September 14, 1910. 





Veese. a Verse is a line of a poem. The word 
is often incorrectly used for stanza. 

Stanza. A Stanza is a collection of verses mak- 
ing up a regular division of a poem. Two lines so 
associated make a couplet; three, a triplet; four, a 
quatrain, etc. 

Ehymb. Ehyme is a correspondence of sound at 
the ends of verses. If the unisonance is on the last 
syllahle, the rhyme is masculine, or single; if on the 
next to the last, feminine, or double; if on the third 
from the last, triple. The three kinds are thus il- 
lustrated in the order named: 

Where the pools are bright and deep. 
Where the gray trout lies asleep. 

Nor wintry leaves, nor vernal, 
!Nbr days, nor things diurnal. 

The young May moon is beaming, love. 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love. 

Metee. Metre is the regular recurrence of stressed 
syllables; and such syllables, together with those un- 
accented grouped with them, determine the kind of 
verse. By indicating the former thus ( " ) and the 



latter thus ( ' ) we may illustrate the various kinds 
of feet, or groups of syllables: 

' x|'x|/ x|' X 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. (Iambus.) 

X / I X / I X ' I X 

Love me little, love me long. (Trochee.) 

/ /xl' / XI '/X|'» X 

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold. 


x'/|x' f \ X ' ' \ X / /| 

Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the 

X ' ' I X ' 

palms of the ocean. (Dactyl.) 

There are yet other kinds of feet, but they occur 
in lines of the foregoing types. The pyrrhic ( " ) 
and ' spondee ( "" ) are seen in this line : 

' X]''|' X|' 'I'' " 

The quality of mercy is not strained. 

It frequently happens that a trochaic foot is iatro- 
duced into an iambic line, or that the verse is other- 
wise varied; this may be done with a most happy 
effect, and a poet's skill in such transitions is an 
index to his mastery of his art. 

Kinds of Metre. The number of stresses in a 
line determines its measure. A verse of one foot 
is called a monometer; of two, a dimeter; of three, 
a trimeter; of four, a tetrameter; of five, a pentam- 
eter; of six, hexameter. Browning's opening lines 


to " Pippa Passees " illustrate all measures but one, 
from monometer to hexameter, inclusive: 


Faster and more fast 

O'er night's brim day boils at last: 

Put forth one wavelet, then another, curled. 
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 
Eose, reddened, and its seething breast 
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the 

Longer measures are usually divided, a heptam- 
eter appearing as two verses — a tetrameter and a 
trimeter, as: 

' X I ' '^ I ' "I' " 

Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon, 

' " I ' " I ' " 
How can ye bloom sae fair. 

In place of an octameter, two tetrameters are often 
written, as: 

' X I ' X I ' X|' X 

The tide is high and stormy beams 

' X I / X I /X I ' I X 

Of sunlight scud across the down. 

Sometimes a line lacks a syllable, or has an extra 
one, either at the beginning or at the end; the one 
case is called catalectic; the other, hypercatalectic. 
Examples in the order stated are : 

X ' I X' X 

Touch us gently. Time. 

' X I / X I / X|' x|/ 

Then steal away, give little warning. 


The Caesura. In reading poetry aloud, one nat- 
urally makes a pause at the end of a line and also 
at certain points in the line. This pause is known 
as the caesura, and is usually, but not always, marked 
by punctuation. It may occur at any place in the 
verse, but tends toward the middle. A line may 
have two or more caesuras. The following will illus- 
trate these points: 

Misery, | my sweetest friend, | oh! | weep no more. 
I hear the fruitful stream | lapsing along. 

In shifting this point so as to bring out the mel- 
ody of his lines, the artistic poet exercises his finest 
cunning. Milton was a master of the caesura. 

Analysis of Poems. In analyzing poetic forms 
one should give the kind of feet, the number of 
feet in the line, the number of lines in the stanza, 
and the rhyme order. If there is a mixture, the pre- 
vailing foot determines the type. If there is a 
difficulty in deciding without actual count, — as is 
sometimes the ease in the most artistic of poems, — 
let the effect produced be observed. Illustrations 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Framed thy fearful symmetry? 

The poem of which this is a stanza would be de- 


scribed as trochaic tetrameter, catalectic, in quat- 
rains rhymed aa bb. 

" Traveler, vrhat lies over the hill ? 
Traveler, tell to me: 
I am only a child — from the window-sill 
Over I cannot see." 

In this stanza there are four kinds of feet, but the 
effect is dactylic. Tennyson's matchless lyric of 
grief has an anapestic movement: 

Break! break! break! 

On thy cold gray stones, Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me! 

The first line of this poem has but three sylla- 
bles, but each is accented. The unstressed syllables 
are represented by what is termed the compensating 
pause. If X indicates unrhjrmed verses, this poem 
would be characterized as trimeter, of anapestic 
(effect, in quatrains rhymed xaxa, the third line 
hypercatalectic. However, the corresponding line in 
the second stanza is full trimeter; and in the fourth, 
full tetrameter. 

Exercises in scansion are suggested in connection 
with the poems in this volume. 




Narrative Poetry tells of the deeds of other 
men. It is objective. In it the poet's individuality 
is obscured. Homer is so veiled behind his works 
that his very existence has been questioned. Under 
the division of Narrative Poetry fall, — 

The Epic: a long poem with a noble theme, set 
forth in fitting language. " Paradise Lost " is the 
noblest English epic. 

The Metrical Eomance: the name explains itself. 
Longfellow's " Evangeline " arid Tennyson's " Prin- 
cess" are notable examples. 

The Ballad: a short, ringing narrative poem. 
Tennyson's " Charge of the Light Brigade " is a 
fine one. If the characters of the story speak for 
themselves the poem is a dramatic ballad; and if 
feeling becomes more pronounced than narration, 
the result is a lyrical ballad. 

The Descriptive Poem: objects rather than events 
are treated. Thomson's " Seasons " illustrates. 

There are further divisions, such as the Pastoral 
Poem, the Idyll, the Mock-Epic, the Humorous 
Epic, etc., the names of which indicate their spheres. 

Lyric Poetry reveals the emotions of the writer 
— is subjective. In it the poet's personality stands 
out. Pindar, the great lyric poet, is immortal, while 
the songs he sang are unknown to the vast majority 
of mankind. Lyrics are of several types, and are 
classified with regard to the feeling under which 
they were composed. 

The Sacred Lyric: voices religious fervor. It 


is well represented in Cardinal Newman's "Lead, 
Kindly Light," a song that adds a grace to many a 

The Patriotic Lyric: the inspiration for this is 
love of country. " The Star-Spangled Banner," by 
Key, and "America," by Smith, illustrate. Under 
this head come also War Lyrics, those fierce out- 
bursts of passion such as Eandall's "Maryland" 
and de I'lsle's " Marseillaise." 

The Love Lyric: this is the most common type. 
The lyric is at home in this province, and has been 
since the days of the troubadour and minnesinger, 
some six hundred years ago. Its range is as wide as 
the moods love inspires, — from rapture to despair; 
— as Chaucer puts it, — 

" Now up, now doun, as bokets in a welle." 

From grave to gay are Bums's "Highland Mary," 
Sidney's " My True Love Hath My Heart," and Ben 
Jonson's "To Celia." When death is the central 
theme the poem is a Lyric of Grief. 

N"ature Lyric: the scope of this, too, is wide- 
reaching, for it comprehends not only such simple 
strains as Browning's " The Year's at the Spring," 
but such involved poems as Milton's " L' Allegro " 
and " II Penseroso," in which the analogies between 
nature and life are traced qut. 

The Eeflective Lyric: the philosophical element 
pervades this type, and therefore good examples of 
it are rare; for it is in danger of verging into 
didacticism, and that is not poetry. Still there are 
purely reflective poems of exalted feeling, such, for 
instance, as Matthew Arnold's " Eugby Chapel " 
and George Eliot's "Choir Invisible." 

The Convivial Lyric, a drinking song (also called 



Anacreontic verse, from Anacreon, the master of 
this kind of writing). One of the finest in the 
language is Shakespeare's " Cup Us Till the World 
Go Round." One or two notable illustrations ap- 
pear in this book, pp. 36, 37. 

The Lyric of Fancy : pure imagination is the sub- 
stance whereof this is wrought, and it must be 
clothed with exquisite grace. Ariel's songs in " The 
Tempest," "Full S'athom Five Thy Father Lies" 
and " Where the Bee Sucks " embody these essen- 

The Humorous Lyric: no better instance of this 
need be sought for than " Contentment," by Oliver 
Wendell Holmes. 

The Lyric of Praise has for its theme the lauda- 
tion of some individual. Palmer's " Stonewall 
Jackson's Way," included in this study, p. 135, is one. 

Society Verse: a light, graceful treatment of so- 
ciety trifles. The periodicals of to-day are flooded 
with them. 

Lyrics may be classified also, as to form, into Ode, 
Sonnet, Song, Rondeau, Rondel, Triolet, Ballade, 
Villanelle, etc. Of these, the Ode and the Song as- 
sume many a form; the others have more or less 
prescribed limits. Such of these forms as are rep- 
resented in this book will be discussed in the notes 
under them; as for the others, the student is re- 
ferred to some treatise on poetics. 

Dramatic Poetkt. The Drama is written to be 
acted, — ^to represent before the eyes human life in 
its hopes and fears, rapture and despair. Hence 
into its composition may enter all the elements that 
go to make literature. It is divided into Tragedy, 
Comedy, and Reconciling-Drama. 

Tragedy moves on to some fatal issue. " Ham- 
let" is one example. 



Comedy is of a light, amusing nature, and holds 
up the foibles and frailties of society and the ludi- 
crous accidents of life. "As You Like It" is a 

Eeconciling-Drama threatens a tragic close, hut 
at the last averts it. "The Merchant of Venice" 
is an example. 

The poems in these pages are almost all lyrics. 
In studying each certain points should be especially 
observed : 

The Mood: is it tender, hopeful, morbid, grave, 
tragic, etc.? 

The Movement: is it majestic, tripping, vigorous, 
regular, halting, etc.? 

The Sound: is it alliterative, sibilant, musical, 
sonorous, harsh, etc.? 

Seek to extend each of these lists so as to char- 
acterize accurately each poem. 

Then, too, the theme should be stated, after the 
poem has been classified. If it is a patriotic lyric 
its theme may be love for state engendered by her 
heroic deeds; or love for country roused at threat- 
ened invasion. 

The diction should be characterized and the 
stanza structure and rhyme order indicated. Nota- 
ble passages, or even entire poems, should be com- 
mitted to memory. It is better, however, not to 
examine each poem from all these points of view at 
the same recitation. Such a process might become 
tedious or confusing. Let one or two phases engage 
the attention for several successive days, — the mood 
and movement, for instance ; then take up the sound, 
the classification, etc. 


St. George Tucker 


Mr. Tucker was a native of the Bermudas. In 
early life he came to Virginia, where he received his 
education, finishing the course at William and Mary. 
He took up the law as a profession, and after practic- 
ing in the Colonial courts a while became a judge of 
the General Court of Virginia. Later he was chosen 
professor of law in William and Mary, from which 
institution he received the degree of LL. D. 

He was the author of numerous law treatises, 
dramas, and poems. Chiefly upon these last his fame 


Days of my youth, 

Y"e have glided away; 
Hairs of my youth. 

Ye are frosted and gray; 
Eyes of my youth, b 

Your keen sight is no more; 
Cheeks of my youth. 

Ye are furroT^ed all o'er. 
Strength of my youth. 

All your vigor is gone; lo 

Thoughts of my youth. 

Your gay visions are flown. 



Days of my youth, 

I wish not your recall; 
Hairs of my youth, ^^ 

I'm content ye should fall; 
Eyes of my youth, 

You much evil have seen; 
Cheeks of my youth. 

Bathed in tears have you been; 2" 
Thoughts of my youth. 

You have led me astray; 
Strength of my youth. 

Why lament your decay? 


Days of my age, ^5 

Ye wiU shortly be past; 
Pains of my age. 

Yet a while ye can last; 
Joys of my age. 

In true wisdom delight; ** 

Eyes of my age. 

Be religion your light; 
Thoughts of my age. 

Dread ye not the cold sod; 
Hopes of my age, *^ 

Be ye fixed on your God. 

A reflective lyric. What mood pervades it ? What 
is its object ? Does it attain it ? 


Washington Allston 


A South Carolinian by birth, Mr. Allston removed 
to Ehode Island in boyhood. He was graduated at 
Harvard, and vrent abroad to study painting. For 
some years he resided in England, and during this 
period produced his best pictures. " The Dead Man 
Eevived," " Uriel in the Sun," and " Jacob's Feast " 
represent him best in art. 

His writings are " The Sylphs of the Seasons, and 
Other Poems " ; " Monaldi, a Tale " ; " Lectures on 
Art, and Poems," etc. He was closely connected 
with the beginnings of art and literature in America. 


All hail ! thou noble land. 

Our fathers' native soil ! 
Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Grigantic grown by toil. 
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! ^ 
For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o'er! 

The genius of our clime, lo 

From his piue-embattled steep. 

Shall hail the guest sublime. 
While the Tritons of the deep 


With their conches the kindred league shall 
Then let the world combine, ^^ 

O'er the main our naval line 
Like the Milky-Way shall shine 
Bright in fame ! 

Though ages long have passed 

Since our fathers left their home, ^o 
Their pilot in the blast. 

O'er untravelled seas to roam. 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame ^^ 

Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains? 

While the language free and bold 

Which the bard of Avon sting, 
In which our Milton told *" 

How the vault of Heaven rung 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; — 
While this, with reverence meet. 
Ten thousand echoes greet. 
From rock to rock repeat ^^ 

Bound our coast; — 

While the manners, while the arts. 
That mould a nation's soul. 
Still cling around our hearts, — 
Between let Ocean roll. 
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun : 
Yet still from either beach 
The voice of blood shall reach. 
More audible than speech, 

"We are one." *^ 




A patriotic lyric. State its exact theme. What 
prophetic touches in it seem to have been fulfilled 
by recent events ? 

1. What figure? 8. Meaning of Phoebus? 8, 9. 
Another way of saying, " The sun never sets on 
England's dominions." 10. Freedom is "the genius 
of our clime." 13. The Tritons were fabled creatures 
of the sea, heralding on their conch shells the ap- 
proach of Neptune. 17. Is the simile forceful? 39. 
Explain " bard of Avon." 31, 33. Allusion to what 
work of Milton? 40, 41. Give the thought. 


Francis Scott Key 


The author of the lyric below, thus far the best 
of our national songs, was born in Maryland, but 
spent most of his life in Washington, where he was 
attorney for the District of Columbia. 

The story of the poem is as follows : Mr. Key had 
visited a British ship in Baltimore harbor to procure 
the release of a friend, held prisoner on board, and 
was not permitted to leave until after the attack on 
Fort McHenry. The bombardment ceased during the 
night, but he did not know the result until the next 
morning, when he saw the banner still floating on 
the battlements. While aboard this vessel the now 
notable lines were written, — iirst on the back of an 
old envelope. When the author returned to Balti- 
more he revised them, and gave them to Captain 
E'ades, who had participated in the battle of North 
Point. Eades had them printed, and a copy fell 
into the hands of an actor, who sang them for the 
first time to the air, "Anacreon in Heaven." They 
were received with wild applause, and were immedi- 
ately taken up and sung all over the country. 

A collection of Key's poems was published in N"ew 
York, 1857, with an introduction by Eoger B. Taney. 
Some years since James Lick bequeathed $60,000 
for a monument to the author of the song. This 
memorial, executed by Story, in Eome, stands in 
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. 



Oh ! say, can you see by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the 

clouds of the fight 
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly 

streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in 

air, 5 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

0, say, does that Star-Spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence re- 
poses, 1" 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam. 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 
'Tis the Star-Spangled banner ; 0, long may it wave ^^ 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
pollution. 20 



No refuge could save the hireling anii slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; 
And the Star-Spangled banner in triumph doth ■wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand ^5 

Between their loved home and the war's desolation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued 
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us 
a nation! 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 
And this be our motto — " In God is our Trust " — ^^ 
And the Star-Spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

Compare the theme in this with that in Allston's, 
pp. 32, 23. "What type of lyric is this? What is the 
measure ? 

6. " Gave proof " — ^how ? 12. A good picture. 
17. " That band "—the British. 20. A vigorous line. 
21. Explain "hireling and slave." 27. Criticise the 


Richard Henry Wilde 


The author of these well-known lines came from 
Ireland. Poverty was his by inheritance, but through 
his own efforts he arose to a position of distinction 
in law and in letters. He first lived in Georgia, 
when he became the Attorney-General of the State, 
and, later, its representative in Congress. After- 
wards he moved to New Orleans and occupied a 
chair in the University of Louisiana. While hold- 
ing this position he died of yellow fever. 

The accompanying lyric, first entitled "The La- 
ment of the Captive," is a fragment of an epic which 
the author planned on the life and the experiences 
of his brother, James Wilde, in the Seminole war. 
It was suggested by the story of Juan Ortez, the 
last survivor of the ill-fated expedition of Narvaez. 
Anthony Barclay translated the lines into Greek, 
and the North American Review surmised that they 
were from a Greek ode by Alcseus. Mr. Barclay 
subsequently wrote " An Authentic Account of 
Wilde's Alleged Plagiarism," which was published by 
the Georgia Historical Society in 1871. 

Mr. Wilde was a student in Italian literature, his 
main work being " Conjectures and Eesearches Con- 
cerning the Love, Madness, and Imprisonment of 
Torquato Tasso." This contains graceful translations 
from that Italian poet. He wrote original poems 
for the magazines, and left an unfinished Life of 
Dante, together with translations of Italian lyrics. 


These have not been published, but a completed poem, 
" Hesperia," edited by his son, appeared in Boston 
in 1867. 


My life is like the summer rose. 

That opens to the morning sky. 
And ere the shades of evening close. 
Is scattered on the ground to die; 
Yet on that rose's humble bed ^ 

The sweetest dews of night are shed 
As though she wept such waste to see; 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

Which trembles in the moon's pale ray, ^^ 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief. 

Restless, and soon to pass away; 
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
The wind bewail the leafless tree; ^^ 

But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand. 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat 

Their trace will vanish from the sand; 2" 

Yet still, as grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race, 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea; 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Classify this lyric. What is its stanza structure? 


Its meter and kind of feet? Its rhyme order ? Notice 
the felicity of the simile in each stanza, and the turn 
at "yet" in the middle. Discuss the unity of the 

11. Observe the fine use of "date." 18. What 
fine musical phrase? 


George Denison Prentice 


Mr. Prentice was born in Connecticut, and taught 
school at an early age. He was graduated at Brown 
and, completing his course in law, was admitted to 
the bar. He never practiced his profession, however, 
his inclination being toward journalism. He edited 
the Connecticut Mirror and, afterwards, the New 
England WeeMy Beviep. Moving to Louisville, 
Ky., he became editor of the Louisville Journal, 
and made that paper a powerful advocate of the 
Whig party. He resigned as editor, but continued 
contributions to the paper until it was consoli- 
dated with the Courier, forming the Courier-Journal 
of to-day. 

He furnished a column of wit and humor to the 
New YorTc Ledger for several years, and wrote 
many poems, which have been collected and pub- 
lished, with a biography, by John James Piatt. 
" Prenticeana " is the title of a volume made up 
of his pithy sayings. He did more, possibly, than 
any one else to encourage authorship in the South. 
A life-size marble statue of him stands above the 
entrance to the Courier- Journal building in Louis- 


'Tis midnight's holy hour-^and silence now 
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds, 
The bell's deep-notes are swelling. 'Tis the knell 
Of the departed year. ^ 



No funeral train 
Is sweeping past ; yet on the stream and wood. 
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest. 
Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred. 
As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud, ^^ 

That floats so still and placidly through heaven. 
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn 

And Winter, with his aged locks — and breathe 
In mournful cadences, that come abroad ^^ 

Like the far wind harp's wild and touching wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead Year, 
Gone from the earth forever. 

'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 2" 

Still chambers of the heart a spectre dim. 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, 
Heard from the tomb of ages, pointt; its cold 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away 25 

And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 
The cofiBn-lid of hope, and joy, and love 
And, bending mournfully above the pale. 
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead 
flowers so 

O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow. 
Its shadow on each heart. In its svift course ^^ 

It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, 


And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 

Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged *** 

The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 

Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 

And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 

The battle plain, where sword, and spear, and shield 

Flashed in the light of midday — and the strength *^ 

Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 

The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came 

And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; 

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 5" 

It heralded its millions to their home 

In the dim land of dreams. 

Eemorseless Time! — 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt ^^ 

His iron heart to pity ? On, still on 
He presses and forever. The proud bird. 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the Northern hurricane *" 

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain crag — ^but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind ^^ 
His rushing pinion. Eevolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink. 
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles 
Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back ^^ 


To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear 

To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 

Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise. 

Gathering the strength of hoary centuries. 

And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, '^ 

Startling the nations; and the very stars. 

Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 

Glitter a while in their eternal depths. 

And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. 

Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, *"' 

To darkle in the trackless void; yet Time, 

Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career. 

Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not 

Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path. 

To sit and muse, like other conquerors, ^^ 

Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

A reflective poem in blank verse. Read it aloud 
and note the majestic movement of the lines. In 
this respect it is to be compared with Bryant's 
" Thanatopsis." What figure abounds? Is it used 
ineffectively at any point? 

46. Explain "serried hosts." 56. "Iron heart" 
is what figure ? 69. " Fiery isle " : in volcanic belts 
islands sometimes heave suddenly above the surface 
of the sea; and, owing to their loose foundation, 
almost as suddenly disappear. 71, 73. The slow 
process of mountain formation and disintegration 
here is in strong contrast to the foregoing; but both 
alike, together with " new empires " and " the very 
stars," are one when measured with Time. 73. Any 
criticism on the position of " new empires " in this 
fine climax? 79. See note to "The Lost Pleiad," 
by Simms, in this volume, pp. 43, 44. 

Edward Coate Finkney 


James Pinkney, the father of Edward Coate Pink- 
ney, was Minister to the Court of St. James. In 
London, during his parents' stay there, the subject 
of this sketch was born. The first nine years of his 
life were spent in the British metropolis. On his 
father's return to Baltimore, the family home, the 
boy was placed in college, but before he had com- 
pleted his course he entered the United States navy. 
Here he remained six years, resigning at last on 
account of a quarrel between himself and a superior 
officer. After this episode he studied law and was 
admitted to the bar; but, as has often been the case 
with spirits of like temperament, he grew tired of 
this profession. After essaying the navy again, 
with the patriots of Mexico, he returned to Balti- 
more, and soon after was appointed professor of 
rhetoric and belles-lettres in the University of 
Maryland — a position that yielded no salary. After 
a short while he was chosen editor of the Mary- 
lander, a political newspaper ; but failing health soon 
resulted in death. 

A thin volume of poems, published in 1825, em- 
bodies his contribution to literature ; but it contains 
exquisite work. As a proof of this it is sufficient to 
state that, when it was proposed to publish biograph- 
ical sketches of five of America's greatest poets, he 
was chosen as one of the numiaer. 




I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone; 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon; 
To whom the better elements ^ 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds, ^^ 

And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words; 
The coinage of her heart are they. 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see 'the burdened bee ^^ 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her. 

The measures of her hours; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy. 

The freshness of young flowers, ^o 

And lovely passions, changing oft. 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years. 

Of her bright face, one glance will trace ^^ 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain; 


But memory such as mine of her 

So very much endears, 3* 

When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex ^^ 

The seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life might be all poetry. 
And weariness a name. *" 


We break the glass, whose sacred wine 

To some beloved health we drain. 
Lest future pledges, less divine. 

Should e'er the hallowed toy profane: 
And thus I broke a heart that poured ^ 

Its tide of feelings out for thee. 
In draughts, by after times deplored. 

Yet dear to memory. 

But still the old empassioned ways 

And habits of my mind remain, i" 

And stiU unhappy light displays 

Thine image chambered in my brain; 
And still it looks as when the hours 

Went by like flights of living birds. 
Or that soft chain of spoken flowers ^^ 

And airy gems, thy words. 


A Health. A convivial lyric. What is the 
Thyme scheme? Lines one and seven in each stanza 
have an internal rhyme. 

17. Is the rhyme perfect? 

Song. Is this of the foregoing type? ■V\'hat is 
its metre ? Its rhyme order ? 5. " And thus I 
broke," etc. : is this the conclusion of a simile ? 


William Gilmore Simms 


Mr. Simms early manifested a love for letters. 
His scholastic training was received in his native city, 
Charleston, S. C. He first thought of taking Tip 
medicine as a life work, but turned his attention to 
the law. This he never practiced, however. 

Simms is better known as a novelist than as a poet. 
He wrote voluminously, — ^poems, novels, dramas, his- 
tories, book reviews, editorials, etc. His best known 
poem is "Atalantis"; "Yemassee" is one of his 
best novels. He published "Lyrical and Other 
Poems" in 1836; and twenty years later another 
book of verse, " Areytos, or Songs and Ballads of the 
South." He edited various journals, and did much 
to foster a literary spirit in his section of the Union. 
Other books of verse by him are : " Southern Pas- 
sages and Pictures," " Grouped Thoughts and Scat- 
tered Fancies," " Lays of the Palmetto," etc. Hayne, 
Timrod and others found in him a sympathetic 
friend. His last years were spent in a heroic fight 
against want, — a common experience throughout the 
Southland in his day. A fine bust of him adorns the 
Battery, in his native city. 


Upon the Poet's soul they flash forever. 
In evening shades, these glimpses strange and sweet; 
They fill his heart betimes, — ^they leave him never. 
And haunt his steps with sounds of falling feet; 


He walks beside a mystery night and day; ^ 

Still wanders where the sacred spring is hidden; 
Yet, would he take the seal from the forbidden. 
Then must he work and watch as well as pray ! 
How work? How watch? Beside him — ^in his 

Springs without check the flower by whose choice 

spell,— 10 

More potent than " herb moly," — ^he can tell 
Where the stream rises, and the waters play! — 
Ah ! spirits call'd avail not ! On his eyes. 
Sealed up with stubborn clay, the darkness lies. 

"The Swamp Fox" 

{From the Partisan) 

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides. 

His friends and merry men are we; 
And when the troop of Tarleton rides. 

We burrow in the cypress tree. 
The turfy hammock is our bed, ^ 

Our home is in the red deer's den. 
Our roof, the tree-top overhead. 

For we are wild and hunted men. 

We fly by day, and shun its light. 

But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, i" 
We mount and start with early night. 

And through the forest track our foe. 
And soon he hears our chargers leap. 

The flashing sabre blinds his eyes. 
And, ere he drives away his sleep, ^ 

And rushes from his camp, he dies. 


Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, 

That will not ask a kind caress. 
To swim the Santee at our need. 

When on his heels the foemen press, — ^o 
The true heart and the ready hand. 

The spirit stubborn to be free. 
The twisted bore, the smiting brand, — 

And we are Marion's men, you see. 

Kow light the fire, and cook the meal, 25 

The last perhaps that we shall taste; 
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal. 

And that's a sign we move in haste. 
He whistles to the scouts, and hark ! 

You hear his order calm and low — ^^ 

Come, wave your torch across the dark. 

And let us see the boys that go. 

We may not see their forms again, 

God help 'em, should they find the strife ! 
For they are strong and fearless men, ^^ 

And make no coward terms for life; 
They'll fight as long as Marion bids. 

And when he speaks the word to shy. 
Then — ^not till then — ^they turn their steeds. 

Through thickening shade and swamp to 

fly. "> 

Now- stir the fire, and lie at ease. 

The scouts are gone, and on the brush 
I see the colonel bend his knees. 

To take his slimibers too — ^but hush ! 
He's praying, comrades ; 'tis not strange ; *^ 

The man that's fighting day by day. 
May well, when night comes, take a change. 

And down upon his knees to pray. 



Break up that hoe-eake, boys, and hand 

The sly and silent jug that's there; 
I love not it should idly stand. 

When Marion's men have need of cheer. 
'Tig seldom that our luck affords 

A stuS like this we just have quaffed, 
And dry potatoes on our boards ^^ 

May always call for such a draught. 

!N"ow pile the brush and roll the log; 

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head 
That's half the time in brake and bog 

Must never think of softer bed. ®" 

The owl is hooting to the night. 

The cooter crawling o'er the bank. 
And in that pond the flashing light 

Tells where the alligator sank. 

What! 'tis the signal! start so soon, ^^ 

And through the Santee swamp so deep. 
Without the aid of friendly moon. 

And we. Heaven help us ! half asleep ! 
But courage, comrades! Marion leads. 

The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night ; '''* 
So clear your swords, and spur your steeds. 

There's goodly chance, I think, of fight. 

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides. 

We leave the swamp and cypress tree. 
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, ''^ 

And ready for the strife are we, — 
The Tory camp is now in sight. 

And there he cowers within his den, — 
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight. 

He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 8" 



N'ot in the sky. 

Where it was seen 

So long in eminence of light serene, — 

Nor on the white tops of the glistening wave, 

ISTor down in mansions of the hidden deep, ^ 

Though beautiful in green 

And crystal, its great eaves of mystery, — 

Shall the bright watcher have 

Her place, and, as of old, high station keep ! 

Gone! gone! ^^ 

Oh ! nevermore, to cheer 
The mariner, who holds his course alone 
On the Atlantic, through the weary night. 
When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep,. 
Shall it again appear, is 

With the sweet-loving certainty of light, 
Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep ! 

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills 

Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks. 

He wonders why her beauty doth not blaze, ^o 

Gladding his gaze, — 

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks. 

Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways ! 

How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze. 

Much wondering, while the drowsy silence Alls ^5 

The sorrowful vault! — ^how lingers, in the hope that 

May yet renew the expected and sweet light. 
So natural to his sight ! 
And lone. 

Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, ^o 


Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: 

How should they dream, until her fate was known. 

That they were ever confiscate to death? 

That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars. 

And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, ^^ 

That they should fall from high; 

Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die. 

All their concerted springs of harmony 

Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone! 

Ah ! still the strain *<> 

Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; 
The sister stars, lamenting in their pain 
That one of the selected ones must die, — 
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! 
Alas ! 'tis ever thus the destiny. *^ 

Even Eapture's song hath evermore a tone 
Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. 
The hope most precious is the soonest lost. 
The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost. 
Are not all short-lived things the loveliest? "• 

And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky. 
Look they not ever brightest, as they fly 
From the lone sphere they blest! 

The Poet's Vision. This is a sonnet; study its 
structure. 11. "Herb moly": a fabulous plant of 
magic potency, said by Homer to have been given to 
Ulysses by Mercury that he might break with it the 
speU of Circe. 

Marion. Of what class is this? , Francis Marion 
was called the "Swamp Fox": why appropriately? 

3. Who was Tarleton ? 19. Why is this particular 
river named ? 33. " Twisted bore " : the grooves in 


the rifle barrel; "brand": sword. 59. "Brake and 
bog": explain. 

The Lost Pleiad : an ode. Note the irregularity 
of its form. 

14. Meaning? 16, 18, 19. Does his fondness for 
compounds lead to a bold use? 30. The remaining 
six " brood " over the fate of their sister. Give the 
thought from this line down to 36. 36. Mythology 
accounts for the disappearance of the star in several 
ways: the one that it was destroyed by lightning is 
here accepted. 37. Justify "concerted springs of 
harmony snapt," This and the succeeding line are 
especially fine. 44 to the close: does the applica- 
tion add to the art of the poem ? Does the figure at 
the close redeem the moralizing? 

The Pleiades, seven in number, were the daugh- 
ters of Atlas and Pleione. They hunted with 
Diana. On one of these hunting occasions Orion 
met them ; and, being enamored, pursued them. They 
prayed the gods to change their forms, and Jupiter 
turned them first into pigeons, afterward into a con- 

It requires a very keen sight to discern in this con- 
stellation more than six stars. Hence, as seven were 
mentioned, the ancients naturally concluded that 
one of the cluster was lost. One explanation was 
that noted above. Another was that the lost Pleiad 
was Electra, who withdrew in sorrow at the fall of 
Ilium and the misfortunes of her descendants, Dar- 
danus having been her son. Another story was that 
the missing sister was Merope, who veiled her light 
because of shame that she alone had married a 


Edgar Allan Poe 


Nothing more can be given here than a condensed 
statement of some of the main facts regarding the 
life and works of this, in some respects, most not- 
' able American writer. It would require a volume to 
treat the subject with any measure of completeness. 
Such volumes have been prepared, that by Professor 
Woodberry about as impartial and satisfactory as 

The great-grandfather of Edgar, John Poe, was a 
descendant from one of the oflBcers of Cromwell. He 
came from Ireland to Pennsylvania about 1745. A 
son of his, David, was a Eevolutionary patriot, and 
his son of the same name was the father of the poet. 
This David Poe was educated for the law, but went 
upon the stage, and in 1845 married an actress, 
Elizabeth Arnold. While the parents were filling an 
engagement at the Federal Street Theatre, Boston, 
Edgar, their second son, was bom, January 19, 1809. 

Being left an orphan at two years of age, he was 
adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Allan, of Richmond ; hence 
Poe's middle name. The Allans took him abroad in 
1815 and placed him in school near London. Five 
years later he was brought back to Eichmond and 
was sent to a private school there. He showed 
marked precocity in those years. In 1826 he entered 
the University of Virginia, but was withdrawn in a 
year and placed in his foster-father's eoimting-room. 
Eestless in this position, he left Eichmond to seek 
his fortune. 



Going first to Boston, he put forth his earliest 
venture, " Tamerlane, and Other Poems," which met 
with no response. Next he enlisted as Edgar A. 
Perry in the United States army. Presumably tiring 
of this service, he made his whereabouts known to 
Mr. Allan, through whose efforts he was released and 
appointed to a cadetship in the United States Mili- 
tary Academy. He stood well at West Point for 
a while, but on Mr. Allan's refusing to sanction his 
resignation he purposely brought about his own dis- 
missal. Meantime he had published a second col- 
lection, " Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems," 
which, like the first, created no impression. ISTow, 
as he left West Point, his third book appeared. It 
bore the title "Poems" and was issued mainly 
through the subscriptions of his fellow-students. At 
this the silence was broken — it did elicit ridicule. 

About this time Poe was cut entirely adrift from 
his benefactors, Mrs. Allan having died and her hus- 
band having remarried. Poe went to Baltimore and 
became an inmate of the home of his aunt, Mrs. 
Clemm. Soon after he received his first pronounced 
encouragement, in the way of one hundred dollars 
from the Saturday Visitor for his story, "A MS. 
Pound in a Bottle." He worked, later, on the 
Southern Literary Messenger, and gained high dis- 
tinction for that periodical. In 1836 he married his 
cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of thirteen; and the 
next year went to New York, invited, as some say, 
by Dr. Francis L. Hawkes to become a contributor to 
the recently established New York Review. He 
furnished only one article for this Journal; but dur- 
ing this period in New York he finished his " Narra- 
tive of Arthur Gordon Pym," which had been par- 
tially published in the Messenger. He moved to 


and fro, — ^to Philadelphia, back to New York, — con- 
tributing to periodicals and publishing eoUections of 
his tales — always with the hope that one day he should 
have a magazine of his own. 

When "The Eaven and Other Poems" appeared 
in 1845, Poe was the most prominent writer of the 
time; but his wife's health was fast failing, and his 
own constitution, whipped to over-work, was speedily 
becoming exhausted. The family was reduced to 
poverty and moved to the little cottage at Fordham, 
near !N"ew York, where Mrs. Poe died. Shattered 
in health, Poe entered upon a lecturing tour to repair 
his broken fortune, and in a short while was found 
dying in a polling-place in Baltimore. 

A marble monument stands to his memory in Bal- 
timore ; a memorial was erected to him in the Metro- 
politan Museum, 'New York; and within the last few 
years a bronze bust of him was unveiled, with appro- 
priate ceremonies, at the University of Virginia, and 
he has been enrolled among the notables to be repre- 
sented in the Hall of Pame, New York City. 

Without doubt he was the greatest poet, essayist, 
critic, and romancer the South has brought forth, — 
if, indeed, he has been equalled in America. His 
writings have been translated into French, German, 
Italian, and other languages; and many editions in 
English have appeared. 


Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicean barks of yore. 

That, gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. ' 



On desperate seas long wont to roam. 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 

And the grandeur that was Eome. 


Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand ! 
The agate lamp within thy hand. 

Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which 

Are Holy Land ! ^^ 


And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, 
and who has the sweetest voice of all Oodts creatures. — 


In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
" Whose heart-strings are a lute ; " 
None sing so wildly weU 
As the angel Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell) ^ 

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon. 

The enamored moon ^' 

Blushes with love. 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiades, even. 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven. ^^ 


And they say (the starry choir 

And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings — ^^ 

The trembling living wire 

Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 

Where deep thoughts are a duty — 

Where Love's grown-up God — ^5 

Where the Houri glances are 

Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore, thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest ^o 

An unimpassioned song; 

To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest! 

Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above ss 

With thy burning measures suit — 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute — 
Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, heaven is thine ; but this *" 

Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers. 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 


If I could dwell « 

Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 

He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody. 
While a bolder note than this might swell ^* 
From my lyre within the sky. 


Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit flown for- 
Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on the Stygian 

And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — weep now 

or nevermore! 
See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, 

Lenore ! 
Come, let the burial rite be read — the funeral song 

be sung: ^ 

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so 

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so 


" Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated 
her for her pride. 

And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — 
that she died ! 

How sJiall the ritual, then, be read ? the requiem how 
be sung ^'^ 

By you — ^by yours, the evil eye, — ^by yours, the slan- 
derous tongue 

That did to death the innocence that died, and died 
so young? " 



Peccavirrms; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath 

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong. 
The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that 

flew beside. 
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have 

been thy bride: 
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies. 
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes ; 
The life still there, upon her hair — ^the death upon 

her eyes. 

" Avaunt ! avaunt ! from fiends below, the indignant 
ghost is riven — 20 

From Hell unto a high estate far up within the 
Heaven — 

From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the 
King of Heaven! 

Let no bell toll, then, — ^lest her soul, amid its hal- 
lowed mirth. 

Should catch the note as it doth float up from the 
damned Earth! 

And I! — ^to-night my heart is light! — no dirge will 
I upraise, 25 

But waft the angel on her flight vsdth a Paean of old 


In the greenest of our valleys 
By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace — 
Radiant palace — ^reared its head. 


In the monarch Thought's dominion, ^ 

It stood there; 
N'ever seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow ^° 

(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago), 
And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day. 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, ^^ 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically. 

To a lute's well-tuned law, ^^ 

Eound about a throne where, sitting, 

In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing ^^ 

Was the fair palace door. 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing. 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, s" 

In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
Assailed the monarch's high estate; 

(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow ^^ 

Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 


And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed. 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. ■** 

And travellers now within that valley 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody; 
While, like a ghastly rapid river, *^ 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 

And laugh — but smile no more. 


Lo ! 'tis a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years. 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 

In veils, and drowned in tears. 
Sit in a theatre to see 5 

A play of hopes and fears. 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high. 

Mutter and mumble low, i" 

And hither and thither fly; 

Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro, 
Flapping from out their condor wings ^^ 

Invisible Woe. 



That motley drama — oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot ! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore 

By a crowd that seize it not, ^^ 

Through a circle that ever returneth in 

To the self -same spot; 
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude : ^^ 

A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude ! 
It writhes — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs 

The mimes become its food, ^^ 

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out — out are the lights — out all ! 

And over each quivering form 
The curtain, a funeral pall, ^^ 

Comes down with the rush of a storm. 
While the angels, all pallid and wan. 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 

And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. ^° 


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak 

and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 

lore, — • 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 

a tapping, 



As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my cham- 
ber door. 

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my 

chamber door: ^ 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Decem- 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 
upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought 
to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the 
lost Lenore, ^^ 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
name Lenore: 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never 

felt before; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 

repeating is 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 


This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore; 20 



But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you " — ^here I opened 

wide the door : — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peeriag, long I stood there 

wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 

dream before; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 

no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, "Lenore?" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word, "Lenore": 

Merely this and nothing more. *" 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within 

me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my 

window lattice; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 

explore ; 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery 

explore : ^^ 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 

flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Eaven of the saintly days 

of yore. 



N^ot the least obeisance made he; not a minute 

stopped or stayed he; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door, *" 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 


Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
wore, — 

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I 
said, " art sure no craven, *^ 

Ghastly grim and ancient Eaven wandering from the 
Nightly shore: 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the ISTighf s Plu- 
tonian shore ! " 

Quoth the Eaven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear dis- 
course so plainly. 

Though his answer little meaning — Httle relevancy 
bore; bo 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his cham- 
ber door. 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber door. 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Eaven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 
spoke only bs 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 



Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then 

he fluttered, 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, — " Other friends 

have flown before : 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 

flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Kevermore." *" 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 

" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock 

and store. 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one 

burden bore: 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 

bore ^^ 

Of ' Never — ^nevermore.' " 

But the Eaven stUl beguiling all my fancy into smil- 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
and bust and door; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 
yore, ''<' 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi- 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core; 



This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining ''^ 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
gloated o'er. 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 
gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 

an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the 

tufted floor. 8» 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee— by 

these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 

lost Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if 
bird or devil! ^^ 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore. 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I 
implore : 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — ^tell me — ^tell 
me, I implore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." ^o 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if 

bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we 

both adore, 



Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore : 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore ! " ^^ 

Quoth the Eaven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 

shrieked, upstarting: 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's 

Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 

hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above 

my door ! ^'"' 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 

from off my door ! " 

Quoth the Eaven, " Nevermore." 

And the Eaven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that 

is dreaming, ^"^ 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his 

shadow on the floor : 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 

on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 




Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne 
In a strange city lying alone 
Far down within the dim West, 
Where the good and the bad and the 

worst and the best 
Have gone to their eternal rest. ^ 

There shrines and palaces and towers 
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not) 
Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot. 
Resignedly beneath the sky lo 

The melancholy waters lie. 

ISTo rays from the holy heaven come down 

On the long night-time of that town; 

But light from out the lurid sea 

Streams up the turrets silently, i5 

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free : 

Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls, 

Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls. 

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, 20 

Up many and many a marvellous shrine 

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 

The viol, the violet, and the vine. 

Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 25 

So blend the turrets and the shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air. 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks gigantically down. 


There open fanes and gaping graves ^^ 

Yawn level with the luminous waves; . 

But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol's diamond eye, — 

Not the gay ly. jewelled dead. 

Tempt the waters from their bed; *^ 

For no ripples curl, alas. 

Along that wilderness of glass; 

No swellings tell that winds may be 

Upon some far-o£E happier sea; 

No heavings hint that winds have been *" 

On seas less hideously serene ! 

But lo, a stir is in the air ! 

The wave — there is a movement there ! 

As if the towers had thrust aside. 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide ; *6 

As if their tops had feebly given 

A void within the filmy Heaven ! 

The waves have now a redder glow. 

The hours are breathing faint and low; 

And when, amid no earthly moans, 

Down, down that town shall settle hence. 

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones. 

Shall do it reverence. 



The skies they were ashen and sober ; 
The leaves they were crisped and sere. 
The leaves they were withering and sere ; 

It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year; ^ 



It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
In the misty mid region of Weir : 

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an aUey Titanic i" 

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was volcanic 
As the scoriae rivers that roll. 
As the lavas that restlessly roll ^^ 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
In the ultimate climes of the pole. 

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 20 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere. 
Our memories were treacherous and sere. 

For we knew not the month was October, 
And we marked not the night of the year, 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 25 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down here) 

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber 
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent ^o 

And star-dials pointed to morn. 

As the star dials hinted of morn, 
At the end of our path a liquescent 

And nebulous lustre was born. 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 35 

Arose with a duplicate horn, 
Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 


And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 

She rolls through an ether of sighs, *" 

She revels in a region of sighs : 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 

These cheeks, where the worm never dies. 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 

To point us the path to the skies, *^ 

To the Lethean peace of the skies : 
Come up in spite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes: 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 

With love in her luminous eyes." ^^ 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger. 
Said — ■" Sadly this star I mistrust. 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: 

Oh, hasten! — oh, let us not linger! 

Oh, fly! — ^let us fly! — for we must." ^^ 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
"Wings till they trailed in the dust; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Plumes till they trailed in the dust. 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. *° 

I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming : 
Let us on by this tremulous light! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 

Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 
With hope and in beauty to-night: 
See, it flickers up the sky through the 
night ! 

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
And be sure it will lead us aright : 

We safely may trust to a gleaming 



That cannot but guide us aright, ''*' 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her. 
And tempted her out of her gloom. 
And conquered her scruples and gloom; 

And we passed ■to the end of the vista, '^^ 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb. 
By the door of a legended tomb ; 

And I said — " What isi written, sweet sister. 
On the door of this legended tomb? " 
She replied — •"Ulalume — Ulalume — ^^ 

'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and sere. 
As the leaves that were withering and sere. 

And I cried — " It was surely October ^^ 

On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed— I journeyed down here, 
That I brought a dread burden down here: 
On this night of all nights in the year. 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here? ^^ 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
This misty mid region of Weir : 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 


It was many and many a year ago. 

In a kingdom by the sea. 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought ^ 

Than to love and be loved by me. 



I was a child and she was a cliild. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago. 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling ^^ 

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me. 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. ^^ 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me ; 
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know. 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, ^^ 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we. 

Of many far wiser than we; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, ^^ 

Nor the demons under the sea. 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams, without bringing mo 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; ^^ 

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 


And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side. 
Of my darling — ^my darling — ^my life and my bride, 
In her sepulchre there by the sea ** 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 


Hear the sledges with the bells. 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! ^ 

While the stars, that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Eunic rhyme, ^' 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 


Hear the mellow wedding bells, ^^ 

^Iden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 

From the molten-golden notes, 20 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 


On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, ^^ 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 

Of the rapture that impels ^' 

To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! ^^ 


Hear the loud alarum bells. 
Brazen bells! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! *" 

Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic 
fire « 

Leaping higher, higher, higher 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
N"ow — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. ^^ 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 

Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 



What a horror they outpour ^^ 

On the bosom of the palpitating air 1 
Yet the ear it fully knows 
By the twanging 
And the clanging 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; ^" 

Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells, — 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
bells, «5 

Of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 


Hear the tolling of the bells, ""^ 

Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody com- 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver \nth affright 
At the melancholy raenace of their tone ! "^^ 
For every sound that floats 
Prom the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people. 
They that dwell up in the steeple, ^^ 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling 
In that mufiled monotone, 


Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman. 
They are neither brute nor human. 
They are Ghouls: 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, ^^ 

A paean from the bells ; 

And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells, 

And he dances, and he yells : ^^ 

Keeping time, time, time. 

In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 

To the paean of the bells. 

Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time, ^•"' 

In a sort of Euuic rhyme. 
To the throbbing of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time, ^"^ 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Eunic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells : 

To the tolling of the bells, "o 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 




Thou wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine : 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, ^ 

And all the flowers were mine. 

Ah ! dream too bright to last ! 

Ah ! starry hope that didst arise 
But to be overcast! 

A voice from out the future cries, ^^ 

" On ! on ! "—but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast. 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of life is o'er ! ^^ 

No more — ^no more — ^no more — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree. 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 20 

And all my days are trances. 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy gray eye glances. 

And where thy footstep gleams, 
In what ethereal dances, ^5 

By what eternal streams. 

To Helen. Classify this graceful lyric. 2. Al- 
lusion seems to be confused: possibly Phseacian 
is meant, — or more likely the poet chose the word 


for its sound. 4. What poetic touch? 7. "Hya- 
cinth " : becoming Hyacinthns, the youth beloved of 
Apollo. 8. " Naiad " ; a rural nymph. 9, 10. Bold 
metaphors. 14. " Psyche " : read the beautiful story 
of Psyche and Cupid, and see note under " Ulalume." 

ISKAFEL. There is a thrill of joy in this lyric ; the 
poem, therefore, is unique. The singer rises for 
once like the lark, above the mists, and carols in the 
morning light. 13. "Levin": lightning. What 
kind of epithet is " red " ? 13. Why the adjective 
with " Pleiades " ? 26. " Houri " : a nymph of Para- 
dise; — so called by Mohammedans. 32. "The 
laurels": symbolical of highest lyrical attainments. 
36. " Suit " : are in perfect accord. 43, 44. Explain. 

Lenore. 1. What Biblical allusion ? 2. " Stygian 
river " : the Styx, a fabled stream, flows around the 
regions of the dead. 9. Any criticism of " in feeble 
health"? 12. Criticise a phrase in this line. 13. 
" Peecavimus " : a Latin verb meaning " We have 
sinned." Does the foreign word add to the beauty 
of the poem? 26. " Paean " : a song of triumph. 

The Haunted Palace. This extended metaphor 
is drawn out with powerful effect. Stedman has 
truthfully said : " The conception of a lost mind 
never has been so imaginatively treated, whether by 
poet or by painter." 

1. Under the happiest conditions. 2. "Good 
angels " : beautiful fancies. 3. " Palace " : the body. 
7, 8. Meaning? 9-16. Of these lines Myers has writ- 
ten with this keen appreciation : " What inward im- 
pulse struck the strong note of Banners; and mar- 
shalled those long vowels in deepening choir; and 
interjected the intensifying pause, all this; and led 
on through air to the melancholy olden; and hung 
in the void of an unknown eternity the diapason of 



Time long ago?" What are the "banners," the 
" roof " and " the ramparts plumed and pallid " ? 
17. "Wanderers": kindred spirits that communed 
with the one described. 18. " Luminous windows " : 
the eyes. 19, 20. Poetic dreams. 22. Born to the 
purple. 25. "The ruler": the mind. 26, 27. Ex- 
plain pearl, ruby and palace door. 29. "Echoes": 
words. Aptly characterized, for words fail to express 
fully the poet's thoughts. 33. "Evil things": ex- 
plain. 35, 36. The parenthesis indicates a subordi- 
nate, but this is pregnant with thought — give it. 43. 
"Eed-litten windows": a masterful stroke and in 
strong contrast to the " luminous windows " above. 
What further antitheses below to foregoing descrip- 
tions ? 46. " The pale door " : this is pathos indeed. 
48. In the laugh of the maniac — the laugh without 
the smiLe — ^the gloom is absolute. 

The Conqueror Worm. This is the most unre- 
lievedly hopeless of all Poe's lyrics. It is a cry of 
abject despair. 1. The " /jala light " heightens the 
effect of the entire poem. 8. Music supposed to be 
produced by the harmonious movement of the heav- 
enly bodies. 9 " Mimes " : actors in a farce. Mor- 
tal beings are meant — a man in the image of God : — 
a fearful state in the poet's life. 13. " Vast formless 
things " : Eate, Chance, etc. 19. " Phantom " : Hap- 
piness. Though she lead the chasing crowd far, she 
circles with them about the sepulchre. 35-32. There 
is sheer madness in these lines. 36. A fine corre- 
spondence between sound and sense : wherein lies the 
secret ? 

The Eaven. This is the most notable of all Poe's 

work, whether prose or poetry. In it he reached his 

highest excellence. He wrought into its composition 

all his wealth of love, gloom, glamour, symbolism, 



imagery, harmony, mystery, despair. The critics 
differ as to its relative value, however. 

Various sources have been suggested from which 
Poe drew his inspiration: Pike's "Isadore," (in- 
cluded in this book) with its refrain, — 

"Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore"; 

and Mrs. Browning's " Lady Geraldine's Courtship," 

with certain points of resemblance, — ^the line, for 

instance, — 

" With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the pur- 
ple curtain." 

which is strongly like Poe's, — 

" And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 

But the intricate metre, the conjuring melody, the 
fantastic imagery, the ethereal visitants, the croak- 
ing raven, the lurid setting — these are Poe's, no 
matter whence his materials. 

Despite its unique tone-color and well-nigh in- 
surmountable intricacies of rhyme, it has been re- 
peatedly translated into French, German, Hungarian, 
Latin, etc., so strengthening Mr. Ingram's estimate 
of it as the most popular lyric in the world. 

3. Correspondence between sound and sense : what 
figure? 4. Notice the repetition. 7-13. Introduced 
for suspense. What point of difference between this 
stanza and all others? 25, 26. Striking alliteration. 
28, 29. It is hard to understand how the author of 
these magical lines could be content with the prosaic 
refrain, — 

"Merely this and nothing more." 

37. " Flirt and flutter " : figure ? This is graphic. 41. 
The bust of Pallas is in keeping with the lover's 
scholarship — ^but one suspects it was intended also 



to bring out in the strongest possible relief the ebony 
plumage of the bird. 42-48. What dramatic effect 
has the stanza, introduced, as it is, after the grave 
reflections and intimations that precede? 45. Ex- 
plain this line. 47. " Pluto," the god of darkness, 
ruled over the infernal regions. 48. How does the 
raven's answer to his playful question affect the man ? 
60. Wotice the soliloquizing that elicited this reply, 
and the effect on the lover in the next stanza. The 
third reply, also, was an answer to spoken reflections ; 
but afterwards the " ISTevermcre " was a reply to a 
direct question so framed that the word stabbed the 
lover to the heart. 83. "Nepenthe": a drug that 
relieves pain and sorrow. 89. " Balm in Gilead " : 
what allusion? 93. " Aidenn ": Eden ; suggested by 
the Arabic form of the word, Adan. 101. What 
powerful metaphor? 

"It will be observed," says Poe, "that the words 
'from out my heart' involve the first metaphorical 
expression in the poem. They, with the answer 
' Nevermore,' dispose the mind to seek a moral in all 
that has been previously narrated. The reader begins 
now to regard the Eaven as emblematical — but it is 
not until the very last line of the very last stanza 
that the intention of making him emblematical of 
Mournful and Never-ending Bememhrance is per- 
mitted distinctly to be seen." 

106. In answer to the criticism on this line, that 
the lamp could not throw the shadow of the bird on 
the floor, Poe says: "My conception was that of 
the bracket candelabrum afiixed against the wall, 
high above the door and bust, as is often seen in the 
English palaces, and even in some of the better houses 
of New York." 

The City in the Sea. 3. Why place the city in 


the west? 7. "Tremble not": why this statement? 
9. "By lifting winds forgot": complete stagnation. 
14-23. The city of the dead is pictured more dis- 
tinctly here, though " kingly halls " is a little con- 
fusing. Explain the figures. " No rays from holy 
heaven come down " : no positive voice of those that 
leave us speaks back to us across the gloom, but 
death itself diffuses a lurid light. 34, 25. Any 
criticism on the repetition? 26, 37. A marvellous 
touch! 33. Eich memorials to the dead. 40, 41. 
Nothing there suggestive of the past of those silent 
voyagers. 42-53. A vision of the Eesurrection ; read 
this meaning into the lines. 

Ulalume. 2, 3. Repetition. What figure in each 
of these lines? 5. Figure? 6. "Auber," "Weir," 
and "Yaanek," are coinages by the poet. 10. 
" Titanic " : the Titans were mythological giants who 
made war on Zeus. 13. "Psyche": the word is 
Greek and first meant soul, later, butterfly, since 
both leave the body or chrysalis and escape into an- 
other sphere. 14. "Scoriae": explained in next 
line. 21. Eepeated with a variation. 30. "Senes- 
cent": derivation? 37. "Astarte": the Phoenician 
Venus, called also Astoreth, the queen of the 
heaven, and here identified with Diana, the goddess 
of the moon. She is represented as clad in a long 
robe and veil, with a crescent moon above her head. 
44. "The Lion": the constellation, Leo. 46. 
"Lethean": the Lethe, a river of Hades, brought 
forgetfuhiess to those who drank of its waters. 64. 
Sibyllic " : the Sibyls, mythological women, had pro- 
phetic powers. 

It is impossible to trace a definite thought 
through this poem. One should yield to its spell 
just as one would to the fantasies of some old master. 



Annabel Lee. Stedman considers this superior 
to "The Eaven/' while Stoddard averred that it has 
no merit beyond that of a melodious jingle. It is 
one of the poet's simplest and tenderest poems. 
There is a charm in its spontaneity. The lines are 
a tribute to the memory of his lost wife, the only 
woman, thinks Mrs. Osgood, that he ever truly 
loved. Of her personality Captain Mayne Eeid 
says, "A lady angelically beautiful in person, and 
not less beautiful in spirit." 

2. " Kingdom by the sea " : the kingdom is Time ; 
the sea. Eternity. 17. "Highborn kinsmen": an- 
gels. 38. Professor Painter thinks this line may 
be taken literally, but one would prefer to read it 
figuratively, — the poet's heart lies buried with his 
loved one. 

The Bells. The story of " The Bells," as given 
by Mr. Stoddard, is as follows: "In the autumn of 
this year [1847] Poe visited Mrs. Shew at her resi- 
dence in New York and said that he had a poem to 
write, but that he had no feeling, no sentiment, no 
inspiration. She persuaded him to have tea, which 
was served in the conservatory, the windows of which 
were open and admitted the sound of neighboring 
church-bells. After tea she produced pens and 
paper, but he declined them, saying that he disliked 
the sound of bells so much that night that he could 
not write; he had no subject, and was exhausted. 
She took the pen and wrote the head-line, 'The 
Bells, by E. A. Poe,' and for the first line of the 
projected poem, ' The bells, the little silver bells.' 
He finished the stanza. She then suggested for the 
first line of the second stanza, ' The heavy iron bells,' 
and he finished that stanza also. Then he copied the 


composite poem, and heading it, 'By Mrs. M. L. 
Shew,' handed it to her, saying it was hers." 

The poem was three times rewritten and enlarged, 
and was published in 1849, soon after Poe's death, 
in Sartain's Magazine. The following is the first 
form of the poem: 

"The bells!— hear the bells! 
The merry wedding bells ! 
The little silver bells ! 
How fairy-like a melody there swells 
From the silver tinkling cells 
Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells! 

The bells !— ah, the bells ! 

The heavy iron bells! 

Hear the tolling of the 6ells! 
Hear the knells! 
How horrible a melody there floats 

From their throats — 

From their deep-toned throats! 
How I shudder at the notes 

From the melancholy throats 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells! 

Notice how the words and the rhythm in the poem 
as we now have it correspond to the sense; "tintin- 
nabulation," "jingling," "tinkling," expressive of 
the chime of sleigh bells; and "bells, bells, bells, 
bells," etc., of the monotony of their sound. What 
figure is this? Observe the "molten-golden notes" 
of the wedding bells ; the " jangling," " wrangling," 



of the fire bells; and the "throbbing," "sobbing," 
"moaning," "groaning," of the death bells. Trace 
the figure throughout. 

To One in Paradise. What is the metre? The 
rhyme order ? The stanza form ? What is the mood 
that prompted the poem? What is the central 
theme ? The lyric note is especially clear in the first 
and the last stanza. What difference as to structure 
in the second and the third? 10. What "voice"? 
16. The long-drawn roar of the sea is heard in 
this line. 19, 30. "Thunder-blasted tree — stricken 
eagle": figures? 25, 26. "What— what": what- 


Albert Pike 


Though Pike was bom in Boston, the fact that he 
organized bodies of Indians and, as a brigadier-gen- 
eral, led them in the Confederate Army, identifies 
him with the South. 

After an incomplete course at Harvard he engaged 
in teaching at Newburyport for a while ; then he set 
out for the Southwest: and, after wandering for a 
time through that vast region, settled at Tort Smith, 
Ark. There he resumed his teaching, but soon after- 
ward became editor of the Arkansas Advocate. This 
position he held only a short while, turning his at- 
tention to the law, in which profession he distin- 
guished himself. Meanwhile he kept up his literary 
pursuits, contributing to Blackwood's, for one thing, 
his notable "Hymns to the Gods." In 1866 he 
moved to Memphis, where he engaged in the practice 
of law, and a year later took editorial control of the 
Memphis Appeal. Within a twelvemonth he sold 
out and went to Washington; there he spent the re- 
mainder of his life. 

In his latter years he followed his literary bent, 
at the same time keeping up his law practice. He 
published four volumes of verse, " Nugae," including 
" Hymns to the Gods," being his most notable. He 
was prominent as a Freemason, and left some twenty 
volumes on that subject. 




Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear 
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms 

Of these green solitudes; and all the clear, 

Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear. 

And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs ^ 

Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide; 
No light from History's starlit page illumes 

The memory of these nations; they have died: 
None care for them but thou ; and thou mayst sing 
O'er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring i" 

Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. 

Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave 
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din, 

Wliere none in others' honesty believe. 

Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve, ^^ 
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within: 

Thou fleest far into the dark green woods. 
Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win 

Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes 
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where, ^o 

Among the sweet musicians of the air. 

Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes ? 

Ha ! what a burst was that ! The ^olian strain 
Goes floating through the tangled passages 

Of the still woods, and now it comes again, 25 

A multitudinous melody, — like a rain 
Of glassy music under echoing trees. 

Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul 
With a bright harmony of happiness, 


Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll ^* 

Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become 
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb, 

And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. 

I cannot love the man who doth not love, 

As men love light, the song of happy birds; ^^ 

For the first visions that my boy-heart wove 

To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove 

Through the fresh wood, what time the snowy herds 

Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun 
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words *" 

Prom the Poet's lips float gently, one by one, 
And vanish in the human heart; and then 
I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed when. 

With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was 

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, *^ 
Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades. 

Alone with nature, — ^but it may not be ; 

I have to struggle with the stormy sea 
Of human life until existence fades 

Into death's darlcness. Thou wilt sing and soar ^" 
Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered 

While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er 
The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear. 
As now, my garments of regret and care, — 

As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. ^^ 

Yet why complain? What though fond hopes de- 
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom ? 
Content's soft music is not all unheard; 
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird. 


To welcome me within my humble home ; ^'^ 

There is an eye, with love's devotion bright. 

The darkness of existence to illume. 
Then why complain? When Death shall cast his 
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest 
Beneath these trees; and, from thy swelling 
breast, ^^ 

Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light. 


The spring has less of brightness. 

Every year; 
And the snow a ghastlier whiteness. 

Every year; 
Nor do summer flowers quicken, ^ 

Not does autumn fruitage thicken. 
As they once did, for they sicken. 
Every year. 

Life is a count of losses. 

Every year; lo 

For the weak are heavier crosses. 

Every year; 
Lost springs with sobs replying. 
Unto weary autumn's sighing. 
While those we love are dying, ^^ 

Every year. 

It is growing darker, colder. 

Every year; 
As the heart and soul grow older. 

Every year; ^o 



I care not now for dancing, 
Or for eyes with passion glancing, 
Love is less and less entrancing, 
Every year. 

The days have less of gladness, ^^ 

Every year; 
The nights have more of sadness. 

Every year; 
Fair springs no longer charm ns. 
The wind and weather harm us, ^^ 

The threats of death alarm us. 

Every year. 

There come new cares and sorrows. 

Every year; 
Dark days and darker morrows, ^^ 

Every year; 
The ghosts of dead loves haunt us. 
The ghosts of changed friends taunt us. 
And disappointments daunt us. 

Every year. *" 

Of the loves and sorrows blended. 

Every year; 
Of the charms of friendship ended. 

Every year; 
Of the ties that still might bind me, *^ 

Until time and death resigned me. 
My infirmities remind me, 

Every year. 

Our life is less worth living. 

Every year; ^** 

And briefer our thanksgiving. 

Every year; 


And love, grown faint and fretful, 
With lips but half regretful, 
Averts its eyes, forgetful. 
Every year. 



Ah! ho-w sad to look before us. 

Every year; 
While the clouds grow darker o'er us. 

Every year; 
When we see the blossoms faded, 
That to bloom we might have aided. 
And immortal garlands braided. 

Every year. 

To the past go more dead faces, ^^ 

Every year; 
And the loved leave vacant places. 

Every year; 
Everywhere the sad eyes meet us. 
In the evening's dusk they greet us, ^" 

And to come to them entreat us. 

Every year. 

" You are growing old," they tell us, 

"Every year." 
" You are more alone," they tell us, '^^ 

"Every year." 
" You can win no new affection. 
You have only recollection. 
Deeper sorrow and dejection, 

Every year." ^o 

Too true! Life's shores are shifting, 

Every year; 
And we are seaward drifting. 
Every year; 


Old places, changing, fret us, ^^ 

The living more forget us, 
There are fewer to regret us. 
Every year. 

But the truer life draws nigher. 

Every year; ^^ 

And its morning-star climbs higher. 

Every year; 
Earth's hold on us grows slighter, 
And the heavy burdens lighter. 
And the dawn immortal brighter, ^^ 

Every year. 

Thank God ! no clouds are shifting. 

Every year. 
O'er the land to which we're drifting, 

Every year; ^"^ 

No losses there will grieve us, 
Nor loving faces leave us, 
Not death of friends bereave us. 

Every year. 


Thou art lost to me forever ! — I have lost thee, Isa- 

Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more ; 
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into 

Not thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly 
entwine, — 

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! ^ 



Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, thy heart 
is still and cold, 

And mine, benumbed with wretchedness, is prema- 
turely old: 

Of our whole world of love and joy thou wast the 
only light,— 

A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark 
a night! — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore! ^'^ 

The vines and flowers we planted. Love, I tend with 

anxious care. 
And yet they droop and fade away, as though they 

wanted air: 
They cannot live without thine eyes to feed them 

with their light; 
Since thy hands ceased to train them. Love, they 
cannot grow aright; — 

Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore! ^ 

Our little ones inquire of me where is their mother 

gone : — 
What answer can I make to them, except with tears 

For if I say " To Heaven," then the poor things wish 

to learn 
How far it is, and where, and when their mother will 
return ; — 

Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore ! 20 

Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent 

place ; 
Like heaven without its stars it is, without thy 

blessed face; 



Our little ones are still and sad; — none love them 

now but I, 
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always 

Thou lovest us in heaven, Isadore ! ^^ 

Their merry laugh is heard no more, they neither run 

nor play. 
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long 

summer day: 
The spider weaves his web across the windows at his 

The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel 

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! ^^ 

Eestless I pace our lonely rooms, I play our songs 

no more. 
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept 

The mocking-bird still sits and sings, melancholy 

strain ! 
For my heart is like an autumn cloud that overflows 
with rain; 

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! ^^ 

Alas ! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet 

eve in spring. 
When first my love for thee was told, and thou to 

me didst cling. 
Thy sweet eyes radiant, through their tears, pressing 

thy lips to mine, 
In our old arbor, Dear, beneath the overarching 
vine; — 

Thy lips are cold forever, Isadore! *•* 



The moonlight struggled through the leaves, and fell 

upon thy face. 
So lovingly upturning there, with pure and trustful 

The southern hreezes murmured through the dark 

cloud of thy hair. 
As like a happy child thou didst in my arms nestle 
there ; — 

Death holds thee now forever, Isadore! *^ 

Thy love and faith so plighted then, with mingled 

smile and tear. 
Was never broken. Darling, while we dwelt together 

Nor bitter word, nor dark, cold look thou ever gavest 

me — 
Loving and trusting always, as I loved and wor- 
shipped thee; — 

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! ^^ 

Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter 

in health. 
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our 

wealth : 
The voice of music cheered me. Love, in each de- 
spondent hour. 
As Heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised 
and broken flower — 
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! ^^ 

Thou art gone from me forever; — I have lost thee, 

Isadore ! 
And desolate and lonely I shall be forever more : 


Our children hold me, Darling, or I to God should 

To let me east the burthen of this long, dark life 

And see thy face in Heaven, Isadore ! ^^ 

To THE MocEiNG-BiED. Ecad Keats's " Ode to a 
Nightingale," and trace its influence in this poem. 
5. "The sphered tomb": of the Mound-Builders. 
20. Effect of the short syllables? 56. "Hopes de- 
ferred": is this original? 

Every Year. Criticise the sentiment of this 
poem. To what is its merit mainly due? Criticise 
the unity; for instance, in 11 and 94. 49-56. Com- 
pare with these the following lines from Swinburne's 
" Garden of Proserpine " : 

"And love, grown faint and fretful, 
With, lips but half regretful. 
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful — 
Weeps that no loves endure." 

As to these lines, a son of Mr. Pike, now living in 
Washington, D. C, writes, April 5, 1904, to Dr. C. 
A. Smith, now of the University of Virginia: 
" The lines you quote were not written by my father. 
While he made changes in the poem at different times, 
these lines never appeared in any publication of the 
poem by his sanction. ' Every Year ' was first writ- 
ten by my father soon after the Civil War. I am 
unable to give you the esact date." 

Dr. Smith may be correct in the following solu- 
tion : " Some irresponsible editor evidently inter- 
polated the lines in question. This has long been a 
conjecture of mine, inasmuch as what seem to be the 
authorized editions of the poem do not contain the 
Swinburnean lines." 



Only seven stanzas make the complete poem as 
given in Stedman and Hutchinson's "Library of 
American Literature": 2, 4, 5, 9, 10, 11 and 13'. 

Eead Swinburne's marvellously musical poem, re- 
ferred to, and compare it with this at other points. 

The Widotfed Heart. Compare this poem care- 
fully with Poe's " Eaven," and decide whether or not 
the latter was inspired by it. What is the theme in 
both? Is the feeling feigned or sincere? Is the 
refrain ever forced in? If so, where? 


Philip Pendleton Cooke 

This author was a Virginian, an elder hrother of 
John Esten Cooke, the novelist. He was an alumnus 
of Princeton, 1834, and prepared himself for the 
law; literature, however, lured him away from this 

His poems and stories were published chiefly in 
the Southern Literary Messenger while Thompson 
was its editor; but, at an earlier period, he had con- 
tributed to the Knickerhocker Magazine. 

His lyric given here, together with others, as 
" Eosa Lee " and " To My Daughter Lily," became 
very popular. The first has been translated into 
different languages, and has been set to music by 
distinguished composers. His only volume was 
" Froissart Ballads, and Other Poems," Philadelphia, 


I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane; 
My life's bright dream, and early. 

Hath come again; 
I renew, in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain. 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 


The ruin lone and hoary. 

The ruin old, i» 

Where thou didst hark my story. 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, ^^ 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime: 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme; 20 

Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But fairest, coldest wonder! 25 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 30 

To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep. 
The pansies love to dally 35 

Where maidens sleep; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

ISTever wane. 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 
Florence Vane. 40 



Is there any resemblance between this and 
Pike's "Every Year"? 6. "Dear pain": mean- 
ing? Figure? 14. "Elysian": blissful abodes of 
the dead. 19, "Closes": cadences. 21, 32. Fig- 
ure ? 22. " Without a main " : in what respect ? 


Amelia B. Welby 


Mrs. Welby was a Miss Coppuck, of St. Michael's, 
Md., but when she was a child her parents removed 
to Kentucky. In 1837 she began writing verses for 
the Louisville Journal, under the name, "Amelia," 
her work receiving high praise from Poe, Prentice, 
Griswold, and others. 

A small collection of her verses, "Poems by 
Amelia," Boston, 1844, has gone through more than 
twenty editions. A larger one, with illustrations, 
was published in Ifew York, 1850, by Eobert W. 


I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours. 
That lie on my heart like dew on the flowers. 
Of a ramble I took one bright 'afternoon 
When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; 
The green earth was moist with the late fallen 
showers, 5 

The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers. 
While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest 
On the white wing of peace, floated off in the west. 

As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze. 
That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, ^^ 
Par up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 



'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth. 
It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth. 
And, fair as an angel, it floated as free, ^^ 

With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 

How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its swell ! 
Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fellj 
While its light, sparkling waves, stealing laughingly 

When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the 

No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer. 
Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, 
And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 
'Neath the form of the angel, that floated above. 


How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! ^^ 
How boundless its circle ! how radiant its rings ! 
If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; 
If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there ; 
Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole 
As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my 
soul. 30 

Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled. 
It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. 

There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, 
When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose ^^ 
Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. 
And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky. 
The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; 
It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove. 
All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with 
love. *» 



I know that each moment of rapture or pain 
But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; 
I know that my form, like that bow from the wave. 
Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave ; 
Yet oh ! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, *^ 
When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, 
May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold 
In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold. 


The twilight hours, like birds, flew by. 

As lightly and as free; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 

Ten thousand in the sea: 
For every wave, with dimpled face, ^ 

That leaped into the air. 
Had caught a star in its embrace 

And held it trembling there. 

The Rainbow. 18. Is this a figure? 30. What 
figure here? 33. Is there a change of treatment at 
this point ? What, if so ? 43, 44. Is this figure ac- 
curately applied ? 

Twilight at Sea. A delicate bit of fancy. 


Theodore O'Hara 


Theodore O'Hara, the author of a few stirring 
lyrics, was the son of Kane O'Hara, a political exile 
from Ireland. He was born in Danville, Ky., and 
was educated at St. Joseph's Academy, where he 
taught Greek while he was finishing his studies. 
After graduation he read law and was admitted to 
the bar. Later he was employed in the Treasury 
Department at Washington. 

He took part in the Mexican War, first as a cap- 
taia of volunteers, but afterwards was advanced to 
major, for gallantry on the field, and to yet higher 
honors in the service. At the close of this war he 
returned to Washington and resumed the practice 
of his profession. Turning his face southward again, 
he became editorially connected at different times 
with the Mobile Register, the Louisville Times, and 
the Frankfort Yeoman. Moreover, the government 
sent him on several diplomatic missions. 

He became a colonel in the Civil War, and served 
on the staffs of Generals A. S. Johnston and J. C. 
Breckinridge. After the war he settled in Columbus, 
Ga., where he engaged in the cotton business. Losing 
everything by fire, he removed to a plantation in Ala- 
bama, where he died. He was buried in Columbus, 
but by an act of the Kentucky legislature his remains 
were reinterred in Frankfort amid those whom his 
noble stanzas commemorate. 




The mufiQed drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground ^ 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round. 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; i" 

No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife ^^ 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust. 

Their plumed heads are bowed; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 

Is now their martial shroud. 20 

And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow. 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, ^^ 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 

The din and shout, are past; 


Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight ^0 

Those breasts that never more may feel 
The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps this great plateau, 
Flushed with triumph yet to gain. 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath. 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or death." 



Long has the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain. 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain; 
And still the storm of battle blew, *^ 

Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew. 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'Twas in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave ^^ 

The fiower of his beloved band 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His flrst-born laurels grew. 
And well he deemed the sons would pour ^^ 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its mouldering slain. 8" 



The raven's scream, or eagle's flight. 

Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, ^^ 

Ye must not slumber there. 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; ''^ 

She claims from War his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest. 

Far from the gory field; 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast '^^ 

On many a bloody shield; 
The simlight of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here. 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. so 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead. 

Dear as the blood ye gave. 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave. 
Kor shall your glory be forgot 85 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell so 

When many a vanished age hath flown. 
The story how ye fell; 


Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Kor Time's remorseless doom. 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light ^^ 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 

When the remains of the Kentucky soldiers who 
fell at Buena Vista were brought back to Frankfort 
this lyric was written for the occasion. It bums 
with a living fire. Lines from it are engraved on 
tablets in many of the National cemeteries. 1. 
" Eound " : the beat of a sentry. 8. " Bivouac " : de- 
fine. 16. "Braying — screaming": felicitous epi- 
thets. 36. " The serried foe " : the Mexicans under 
Santa Anna. 37. "Who": he who. 47. "Stout 
old chieftain": Taylor, the American commander. 
58. " Angostura's plain " : a pass held by the Ameri- 
cans in the battle of Buena Vista. 65. Kentucky, 
an Indian name, means "the Dark and Bloody 
Ground." 75. The Spartan mother bade her son 
return with his shield or on it. 


Henry Rootes Jackson 


Mr. Jackson, a native of Georgia, was a graduate 
of Yale, 1839, and the next year was admitted to the 
bar of his State. He was appointed United States 
District Attorney three years later. After serving as 
colonel of a Georgia regiment in the Mexican War, 
he was for a year editor of the Savannah Georgian. 

He arose in his profession to be judge of the supe- 
rior court, and was appointed consul at the court of 
Austria, the next year becoming resident minister 
there. Resigning this post, he returned to Savannah, 
and for a brief period was chancellor of the Univer- 
sity of Georgia. 

In the Civil War he became a brigadier-general 
in the Confederate Army, and was captured, with all 
his forces, in the fight at Nashville. Upon his lib- 
eration at the close of the war he returned to Savan- 
nah and took up anew his practice of law. He was 
sent on one more diplomatic mission, — as minister 
to Mexico, — but he resigned in a few months. 

He was a prominent figure in the literature, art, 
science, and education of his State. " Tallulah and 
Other Poems," printed in Savannah, 1851, repre- 
sents his contribution to poesy. 


The red old hills of Georgia ! 

So bold and bare and bleak. 
Their memory fills my spirit 

With thoughts I cannot speak. 


They have no robe of verdure, ^ 

Stript naked to the blast; 
And yet of all the varied earth 

I love them best at last. 

The red old hills of Georgia! 

My heart is on them now; i" 

Where, fed from golden streamlets, 

Oconee's waters flow! 
I love them with devotion. 

Though washed so bleak and bare; — 
How can my spirit e'er forget ^^ 

The warm hearts dwelling there? 

I love them for the living. 

The generous, kind, and gay; 
And for the dead who slumber 

Within their breast of clay. ^o 

I love them for the bounty 

Which cheers the social hearth; 
I love them for their rosy girls. 

The fairest on the earth. 

The red old hills of Georgia! ^6 

Where, where, upon the face 
Of earth is freedom's spirit 

More bright in any race? — 
In Switzerland and Scotland 

Each patriot breast it fills, 
But sure it blazes brighter yet 

Among our Georgia hills! 

And where, upon their surface. 

Is heart to feeling dead ? — 
And when has needy stranger 

Gone from those hills unfed ? 



There bravery and kindness 

For aye go hand in hand. 
Upon your washed and naked hills, 

" My own, my native land ! " *' 

The red old hills of Georgia! 

I never can forget; 
Amid life's joys and sorrows. 

My heart is on them yet; — 
And when my course is ended, *^ 

When life her web has wove. 
Oh! may I then, beneath those hills. 

Lie close to them I love! 


The tattoo beats, the lights are gone. 
The camp around in slumber lies. 

The night with solemn pace moves on. 
The shadows thicken o'er the skies; 

But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, ^ 

And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 

I think of thee, oh, darling one. 

Whose love my early life hath blest, — 

Of thee and him — our baby son — 
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. i" 

God of the tender, frail, and lone. 
Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest ! 

And hover gently, hover near 

To her whose watchful eye is wet, — 

To mother, wife — the doubly dear, is 

In whose young heart have freshly met 

Two streams of love so deep and clear. 

And cheer her drooping spirit? yet. 



Now while she kneels before Thy throne, 
Oh, teach her, Euler of the skies, ^'^ 

That, while by Thy behest alone 
Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise. 

No tear is wept to Thee unknown. 
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies ! 

That Thou canst stay the ruthless hand ^^ 
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; 

That only by Thy stern command 
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; 

That from the distant sea or land 

Thou bring'st the wanderer home again, 


And when upon her pillow lone 
Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed. 

May happier visions beam upon 

The brightening current of her breast. 

No frowning look or angry tone ^^ 

Disturb the Sabbath of her rest ! 

The Red Old Hills of Georgia. A patriotic 
lyric. Is the feeling sincere? Scan the first stanza 
and analyze it. 8. " At last " : does this phrase fall 
naturally to its place? 13. "Oconee": one of the 
tributaries of the Altamaha. 23. " Social hearth " : 
figure ? 40. A quotation from Scotf s " Lay of the 
Last Minstrel." 46. Criticise this. 

Mt Wife and Child. What is the theme in this ? 
The stanza structure and measure? 1. "Tattoo": 
a beat of drum at night, signalling the soldiers to 
their tents. 11,13. This is fervent. 34. Allusion? 
25-30. The grammatical relation of this? 


Francis Orray Ticknor 


Ticknor, too, belongs to Georgia, and does honor 
to the State. After studying medicine in New York 
and Philadelphia he took up his lifework at his 
country residence, " Torch Hill," near Columbus. 
He wrote because he could not but write; and from 
the character of the bits he left one wishes he had 
devoted more time to poetry. In 1879 some of his 
fugitives were collected and published under the title, 
" Poems," edited by Paul H. Hayne. 


The Knightliest of the Knightly race, 

That since the days of old. 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold. 
The kiadliest of the kindly band ^ 

That rarely hating ease! 
Yet rode with Ealeigh round the land. 

With Smith around the seas. 

Who climbed the blue embattled hills 

Against uncounted foes, i* 

And planted there, in valleys fair. 

The Lily and the Eose! 
Whose fragrance lives in many lands. 

Whose beauty stars the earth; 
And lights the hearths of happy homes ^' 

With loveliness and worth! 



We thought they slept! the men who kept 

The names of noble sires, 
And slumbered while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil fires! 2" 

But aye! the golden horseshoe Knights 

Their Old Dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground 

But not a knight asleep. 


Out of the focal and foremost fire — 
Out of the hospital walls as dire — 
Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene — ' 
Eighteenth battle and he, sixteen — 
Spectre, such as you seldom see, ^ 

Little Giffen of Tennessee. 

" Take him and welcome," the surgeon said, 
" N^ot the doctor can help the dead ! " 
So we took him and brought him where 
The balm was sweet in our Summer air; i" 
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed; 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 

And we watched the war with abated breath. 
Skeleton boy against skeleton death ! — 
Months of torture, how many such ! ^^ 

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch, — 
And still a glint in the steel-blue eye 
Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. 

And didn't ! — Nay ! more ! in death's despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write — ^^ 


" Dear Mother ! " at first, of course, and 

" Dear Captain ! " enquiring about the men. 
— Captain's answer : " Of eighty and five 
Giffen and I are left alive." 

"Johnston pressed at the front," they say; — 25 
Little Giffen was up and away! 
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye 
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye; — 
" I'll write, if spared ! " There was news of 

But none of Giffen ! he did not write ! *•* 

I sometimes fancy that were I King 

Of the courtly Knights of Arthur's ring, 

With the voice of the minstrel in mine ear 

And the tender legend that trembles here — 

I'd give the best on his bended knee — '^ 

The whitest soul of my chivalry — 

For Little Giffen of Tennessee. 


The Douglas — in the days of old — 
The gentle minstrels sing. 

Wore at his heart, encased in gold. 
The heart of Bruce, his King. 

Through Paynim lands to Palestine, 

BefaU what peril might, 
To lay that heart on Christ his shrine 

His Knightly word he plight. 


A weary way, by night and day. 

Of vigil and of fight, ^^ 

Where never rescue came by day 

Nor ever rest by night. 

And one by one the valiant spears. 

They faltered from his side; 
And one by one his heavy tears ^^ 

Fell for the Brave who died. 

Till fierce and black, around his track. 

He saw the combat close. 
And eoimted but a single sword 

Against uncounted foes. ^o 

He drew the casket from his breast. 

He bared his solemn brow. 
Oh, Kingliest and Knightliest, 

Go first in battle, now! 

Where leads my Lord of Bruce, the Sword ^^ 

Of Douglas shall not stay ! 
Forward ! and to the feet of Christ 

I follow thee, to-day. 

The casket flashed ! The Battle clashed. 
Thundered and roUed away. ^^ 

And dead above the Heart of Bruce 
The heart of Douglas lay. 

" Loyal ! " Methinks the antique mould 

Is lost! — or Theirs alone. 
Who sheltered Freedom's heart of gold. 

Like Douglas with their own! 


Virginians op the Valley. 6. Explain. 7. 
Sir Walter Raleigh, the first projector of colonies in 
the New World. He did not attend the expedition; 
so what figure in "rode with Ealeigh"? 9. "Em- 
battled": in what sense? 13. "Lily and Rose": 
symbolical. To whom do they refer? 13-16. Give 
the meaning. 31. " The golden horseshoe Knights " : 
followers of Spotswood, a Virginia pioneer, each 
having been given a golden horseshoe. 

Little Giffen. There is intense energy in this 
poem, written in honor of a little Tennessee lad who 
was wounded probably at the battle of Murfrees- 
boro. Dr. Ticknor nursed him back to life at " Torch 
Hill." 13. Explain. 25. "Johnston": Joseph E., 
a Confederate general. 29. Giffen was killed, but 
in what battle it is not known, — in some fight near 
Atlanta, in 1864. 31-37. What reference here? 

Loyal. These ringing lines were written in 
memory of General Cleburne, who at the battle of 
Franklin was ordered to storm some difiBcult posi- 
tion. Against his better judgment he obeyed the 
command and lost his life. It will be noticed that 
the only direct reference to the hero is made in the 
last stanza, but he was all that Douglas was. 4. 
" Bruce " : the Scottish king had planned to go upon 
a crusade to the Holy Land, but never carried out 
his wish. At his death, legend has it, he entrusted 
his heart to Douglas, with the request that he take it 
to Jerusalem. 5. " Paynim " : heathen. 7. " Christ 
his shrine": an early way of expressing possession. 
13. "Valiant spears": what figure? 29, 30. Fig- 
ures in these lines? 


John Reuben Thompson 


As editor of the Southern Literary Messenger 
Thompson did much toward creating and nurturing a 
love of letters in the South. Through the pages of 
that journal many whose names are now household 
words first found voice. 

He was a Virginian; a graduate of the University 
of that State. The law was his chosen field, but was 
abandoned for literature. Failing health compelled 
him to give up the Messenger and leave Eichmond 
in search of a more genial climate. He first went to 
Augusta, and undertook the editorship of the South- 
ern Field and Fireside, but, finding no restoration, 
he went to London, where he resided for several 
years. Afterwards he returned to America and be- 
came literary editor of the New York Evening Post, 
a position he filled with great acceptability. Forced 
to give this up, he wandered again, sojourning a while 
in Colorado and elsewhere, yet receiving no perma- 
nent benefit. In 1873 he died in New York, and 
was buried in Eichmond. 

Within the past few years Dr. Kent, of the Uni- 
versity of Virginia, has planned a collection of his 


Two armies covered hill and plain, 
Where Eappahannock's waters 

Ban deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 


The summer clouds lay pitched like tents ^ 

In meads of heavenly azure; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver, ^° 

And the smoke of the random cannonade 

EoUed slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted. 
O'er listless camp and silent town ^ 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 

A strain — now rich, now tender; 
The music seemed itself aflame 

With day's departing splendor. ^o 

A Federal band, which, eve and morn. 
Played measures brave and nimble. 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal, 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, ^5 

Till, margined by its pebbles. 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Eebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band. 
With movement light and tricksy, 2" 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Eeverberate with "Dixie." 


The conscious stream with hurnished glow- 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow ^^ 

With yelling of the Eebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 

The trumpets pealed sonorous. 
And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. *" 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew. 

To kiss the shining pebbles; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Eebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang *^ 

Above the stormy riot; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; ^^ 

All silent now the Yankees stood. 
And silent stood the Eebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 
So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred ^^ 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees 

As by the wand of fairy. 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees. 

The cabin by the prairie. ^'' 



Or cold, or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him; 
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes. 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain *^ 

In April's tearful weather. 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art. 

Expressed in simplest numbers, ™ 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart. 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of music shines. 

That bright celestial creature. 
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, ''^ 

©ave this one touch of Nature. 


To the brave all homage render. 

Weep, ye skies of June! 
With a radiance pure and tender. 

Shine, oh saddened moon ! 
" Dead upon the field of glory," 5 

Hero fit for song and story, 

Lies our bold dragoon. 

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, 

Braver, knightlier foe 
Never fought with Moor nor Paynim, i" 

Rode at Templestowe; 


With a mien how high and joyous, 
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us 
Went he forth we know. 

Never more, alas ! shall sabre ^^ 

Gleam around his crest; 
Fought his fight; fulfilled his labour; 

Stilled his manly breast. 
All unheard sweet Nature cadence. 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens, ^* 

Now he takes his rest. 

Earth that all too soon hath bound him. 

Gently wrap his clay; 
Linger lovingly around him. 

Light of dying day ; ^^ 

Softly fall the summer showers. 
Birds and bees among the flowers 

Make the gloom seem gay. 

There, throughout the coming ages. 

When his sword is rust, 2" 

And his deeds in classic pages. 
Mindful of her trust. 

Shall Virginia, bending lowly. 

Still a ceaseless vigil holy 
Keep above his dust ! ^^ 

Music is Camp. This narrates a true incident at 
the battle of Fredericksburg. 8. " Embrasure " : an 
aperture in a fort through which a cannon is dis- 
charged. 13. The Eappahannock. The influence of 
both Shakespeare and Tennyson is seen in this poem : 

AsHBT. In memory of Turner Ashby, a gallant 



officer in the Confederate Army who lost his life in 
battle near Harrisonburg, June 6, 1863. 7. "Dra- 
goon": a soldier trained to serve either on horse 
or on foot. 11. " Templestowe " : The Castle of 
Templestowe was one of the " preceptories," or for- 
tified lodges, of the Knights Templars," described in 
Sir Walter Scotf s novel " Ivanhoe." It was in the 
tilt-yard of this preceptory that the mortal combat 
took place between Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe and one 
of the Knights of the Temple, Sir Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert. 33. Read Collins' "How Sleep the 


James Matthews Legare 


Legare was a native of Charleston, S. C. He was 
an inventor and writer, contributing both verse and 
prose to various magazines. " Orta-Undis, and Other 
Poems," published in 1847, contains his best work. 
I have been able to collect very few facts about his 


Go bow thy head in gentle spite. 

Thou lily white. 

For she who spies thee waving here. 

With thee in beauty can compare 

As day with night. ^ 

Soft are thy leaves and white : her arms 

Boast whiter charms. 

Thy stem prone bent with loveliness 

Of maiden grace possesseth less: 

Therein she charms. ^^ 

Thou in thy lake dost see 

Thyself: so she 

Beholds her image in her eyes 

Eeflected. Thus did Venus rise 

From out the sea. ^^ 

Inconsolate, bloom not again. 

Thou rival vain 

Of her whose charms have thine outdone. 

Whose purity might spot the sun. 

And make thy leaf a stain. 2" 




A peasant stood before a king and said, 

" My children starve, I come to thee for bread." 

On cushions soft and silken sat enthroned 

The king, and looked on him that prayed and 

Who cried again, — " For bread I come to thee." ^ 
For grief, like wine, the tongue will render free. 
Then said the prince with simple truth, " Behold 
T sit on cushions silken-soft, of gold 
And wrought with skill the vessels which they bring 
To fitly grace the banquet of a king. i' 

But at my gate the Made triumphant beats. 
And die for food my people in the streets. 
Yet no good father hears his child complain 
And gives him stones for bread, for alms disdain. 
Come, thou and I will sup together — come." ^^ 

The wondering courtiers saw — saw and were dumb ; 
Then followed with their eyes where Ahab led 
With grace the humble guest, amazed, to share his 

Him half abashed the royal host withdrew 
Into a room, the curtained doorway through. 20 

Silent behind the folds of purple closed. 
In marble life the statues stood disposed; 
From the high ceiling, perfume breathing, hung 
Lamps rich, pomegranate-shaped, and golden-swung. 
Gorgeous the board with massive metal shone, ^^ 

Gorgeous with gems arose in front a throne : 
These through the Orient lattice saw the sun. 
If gold there was, of meat and bread was none 
Save one small loaf ; this stretched his hand and took 
Ahab Mohammed, prayed to God, and broke : ^^ 

One half his yearning nature bid him crave, 



The other gladly to his guest he gave. 
" I have no more to give," he cheerily said : 
" With thee I share my only loaf of hread." 
Humbly the stranger took the offered crumb ^^ 

Yet ate not of it, standing meek and dumb; 
Then lifts his eyes, — ^the wondering Ahab saw 
His rags fall from him as the snow in thaw. 
Eesplendent, blue, those orbs upon him turned; 
All Ahab's soul within him throbbed and burned. *" 

" Ahab Mohammed," spoke the vision then, 
" From this thou shalt be blessed among men. 
Go forth — ^thy gates the Mede bewildered flees, 
And Allah thank thy people on their knees. 
He who gives somewhat does a worthy deed. 
Of him the recording angel shall take heed. 
But he that halves all that his house doth hold. 
His deeds are more to God, yea, more than finest gold." 


This is the pathway where she walked, 
The tender grass pressed by her feet. 

The laurel boughs laced overhead, 
Shut out the noonday heat. 

The sunshine gladly stole between 

The softly undulating limbs. 
From every blade and leaf arose 

The myriad insect hymns. 

A brook ran murmuring beneath 
The grateful twilight of the trees. 

Where from the dripping pebbles swelled 
A beach's mossy knees. 



And there her robe of spotless white, 
(Pure white such purity beseemed!) 

Her angel face, and tresses bright ^ 

Within the basin gleamed. 

The coy sweetbriers half detained 
Her light hem as we moved along! 

To hear the music of her voice 

The mockbird hushed his song. ^o 

But now her little feet are still. 
Her lips the Everlasting seal; 

The hideous secrets of the grave 
The weeping eyes reveal. 

The path still winds, the brook descends. ^5 
The skies are bright as then they were. 

My Amy is the only leaf 
In all that forest sere. 

To A Lilt. A piquant love lyric. What tone per- 
vades it? 11. Any criticism on the measure? 14. 
Venus, the goddess of love, was born of sea-foam. 

Ahab Mohammed. What poem by another 
American writer works to the same conclusion as 
this? Read also "Abou Ben Adhem," by Leigh 
Hunt. 14. What allusion? 18. Does it differ in 
measure? 38. A very inapt figure: why? 43. 
" The Mede " : what figure and why ? 

Amy. a touching lyric of grief. 33-38. Give 
the thought. 


John William Palmer 


'Though a physician by profession. Palmer is known 
better as an author. He was a native of Baltimore, 
and a graduate of the University of Maryland. He 
practiced medicine in San Francisco, going later as 
a surgeon on the Bast India Company's war steamer, 
Phlegethon, in the Burmese War. In the Civil 
War he was correspondent for the New York Tribune, 
and up till his death was an occasional contributor 
to periodicals. He translated and compiled many 
volumes, wrote a novel, "After His Kind," under the 
pen name, " John Coventry," and left several ballads 
of native strength. "Stonewall Jackson's Way," 
given below, was written at Oakland, Md., September 
17, while the battle of Antietam was in progress. 


" Now for a brisk and cheerful fight ! " 

Said Harman big and droll. 
As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light. 

And puffed at his cold clay bowl; 
"For we are a skulking lot," says he, ^ 

" Of land-thieves hereabout. 
And these bold senores, two to one, 

Have come to smoke us out." 

Santa Anna and Castillon, 

Almonte brave and gay, ^' 

PortUla red from Goliad, 

And Cos with his smart array. 


Dulces and cigarritos, 

And the light guitar, ting-tmn! 
Sant' Anna courts siesta, 18 

And Sam Houston taps his drum. 

The buck stands still in the timber — 

"Is it patter of nuts that fall?" 
The foal of the wild mare whinnies — 

Did he hear the Comanche call? 20 

In the brake by the crawling bayou 

The slinking she-wolves howl; 
And the mustang's snort in the river sedge 

Has startled the paddling fowl. 

A soft, low tap, and a muffled tap, 25 

And a roll not loud nor long — 
We would not break Sant' Anna's nap, 

Wor spoil Almonte's song. 
Saddles and knives and rifles ! 

Lord ! but the men were glad ^o 

When Deaf Smith muttered " Alamo ! " 

And Karnes hissed " Goliad ! " 

The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt. 

And the fifer gripped his gun. 
Oh, for one free, wild, Texan yell, S5 

As we took the slope in a run ! 
But never a shout nor a shot we spent. 

Nor an oath nor a prayer, that day, 
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye, 

And then we blazed away. <" 

Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, 
And the glory that Travis made. 

With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot. 
And Fannin's dancing blade; 


And the heart of the fighter, bounding free *^ 

In his joy so hot and mad — 
When Millard charged for Alamo, 

Lamar for Goliad. 

Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur. 

Into the shock and rout : ^ 

" I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge 

There's no sneak's back-way out!" 
Muzzle or butt for Goliad, 

Pistol and blade and fist 
Oh, for the knife that never glanced, ^^ 

And the gun that never missed ! 

Dulees and cigarritos. 

Song and the mandolin ! 
That gory swamp is a gruesome grove 

To dance fandangoes in. ^^ 

We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd 

That fell in that frantic rout; 
We slew and slew till the sun set red. 

And the Texas star flashed out. 


Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails. 
Stir up the camp-fire bright; 

No matter if the canteen fails. 

We'll make a roaring night. 

Here Shenandoah brawls along. 

There burly Blue Eidge echoes strong. 

To swell the brigade's rousing song 
Of " Stonewall Jackson's way." 



We see him now, — ^the old slouched hat 
Cocked o'er his eye askew; i" 

The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, 
So calm, so blunt, so true. 

The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; 

Says he, " That's Banks, — he's fond of shell; 

Lord save his soul! we'll give him ;" 

well, 15 

That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off ! 

Old Blue-Light's going to pray. 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff ! 

Attention ! it's his way. 20 

Appealing from his native sod. 
In forma pauperis to God, 
" Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod ! 
Amen ! " That's " Stonewall's way." 

He's in the saddle now. Pall in ! ^^ 

Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win 

His way out, ball and blade ! 
What matter if our shoes are worn? 
What matter if our feet are torn? 20 

" Quick-step ! we're with him before mom ! " 

That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." 

The sun's bright lances rout the mists 

Of morning, and, by George! 
Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists, ^^ 

Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
Pope and his Yankees, whipped before, 
" Ba/nets and grape I " hear Stonewall roar ; 
" Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashb/s score ! " 

In " Stonewall Jackson's way." *<• 



Ah ! maiden, wait and watch and yearn 

For news of Stonewall's band ! 
Ah ! widow, read with eyes that burn 

That ring upon thy hand. 
Ah ! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on, *^ 

Thy life shall not be all forlorn; 
The foe had better ne'er been born 

That gets in " Stonewall's way." 

The Fight at Sak Jacinto. A battle of the 
Mexican War. Classify the poem. Point out pas- 
sages of notable grace ; as 9-16 ; of sound correspond- 
ing to sense, as 14 ; of animated description, as 17-34 ; 
of powerful energy, as 49-56. Characterize other 
lines. ITote the Spanish names used, thus giving 
local color to the work. 10. " Almonte " : one of the 
aides of Santa Anna, captured in this fight. 11. 
" Goliad " : county seat of Goliad county in southern 
Texas, and the scene of a most perfidious act on the 
part of the Mexicans, where Colonel James W. Fan- 
nin and over three hundred Texans, after having 
surrendered and been disarmed on the understand- 
ing that they were to be treated as prisoners of war, 
were marched out and shot down. 43-44. " Travis, 
Crockett, Bowie": Texan leaders who, at the head 
of 140 men, were besieged in the old mission sta- 
tion of San Antonio de Valerio (otherwise known 
as the Alamo) by 4000 Mexicans, February 33, 
1836. For ten days the fort was defended stub- 
bornly against frequent assaidt-s, and appeals for 
reinforcements were repeatedly sent out, but only 
thirty-two men could get through the Mexican lines. 
On the sixth of March three attacks were made, and 
the handful of Texans were cut down until only six 
were left : Joseph Travis, David Crockett, and James 


Bowie, with three others. They fought desperately 
in a hand-to-hand struggle, and surrendered only 
under promise of protection, but Santa Anna again 
was faithless to his promise, and ordered them to be 
hacked to pieces. Hence, " Eemember the Alamo ! " 
was the battle cry at San Jacinto. Discuss other 
characters and places named. 

This lyric has all the dash and fire of a cavalry 

Stonewall Jackson's Way. A lyric of praise. 
Characterize its style. Is it graphic, strong, ani- 
mated, elliptical? 13. "Blue-Light Elder." Jack- 
son was a Presbyterian elder. Blue-light is a compo- 
sition used in war to give signals ; so called from the 
color of its flame. 14. "Banks": the Federal com- 
mander that Jackson pounced upon in the Valley of 
Virginia. 22. "Forma pauperis": posture of a 
beggar. 27. "HUl": a Confederate general. Lo- 
cate other leaders mentioned. 


Augustus Julian Requier 


Judge Eequier, a South Carolinian, was of French 
descent. He was educated in his native city, Charles- 
ton, and was admitted to the bar at nineteen. His 
first contributions to letters began to appear earlier 
than this, even. In 1850 he removed to Mobile, 
where he was appointed United States District At- 
torney. During the Civil War he was Attorney for 
Alabama, and at the close of hostilities he went to 
ITew York City and established a practice. 

As an author he is known in several departments : 
fiction, drama, law, essay, poetry. He won success 
in all, but distinction in his lyrics. They deserve 
more careful study than they have yet received, for 
they are chaste, logical, vigorous, symmetrical. His 
"Crystalline," "Legend of Tremaine," "Ode to 
Shakespeare," and " Ode to Victory," while too long 
to use here, are worthy of close analysis. His 
" Poems " appeared in Philadelphia in 1859, and he 
purposed to prepare another volume embodying his 
later songs, but this has never been published. 


Fold up the gorgeous silken sun. 

By bleeding martyrs blest. 
And heap the laurels it has won 

Above its place of rest. 



No trumpet note need harshly blare, — ^ 

Kg dnim funereal roll, — 
E"o trailing sables drape the bier 

That frees a dauntless soul. 

It lived with Lee, and decked his brow 
With fate's empyreal palm ; ^^ 

It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, — 
As spotless and as cabn. 

It was outnumbered — not outdone; 

And they shall shuddering tell. 
Who struck the blow, its latest gun ^ 

Flashed ruin as it fell. 

Sleep, shrouded ensign ! 'Not the breeze 

That smote the victor tar 
With death across the heaving seas 

Of fiery Trafalgar; 20 

Not Arthur's knights amid the gloom 
Their knightly deeds have starred; 

Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume. 
Nor peerless-born Bayard; 

Not all that antique fables feign, 25 

And orient dreams disgorge; 
Nor yet the silver cross of Spain, 

And Lion of St. George, 

Can bid thee pale ! Proud emblem, still 
Thy crimson glory shines 20 , 

'Beyond the lengthened shades that fill 
Their proudest kingly lines. 


Sleep ! in thine own historic night, — 

And be thy blazoned scroll ; 
A warrior's lanner takes its flight ^^ 

To greet the warrior's soul. 


I met — ^when was it ? Oh ! between 

The sunset and the morn 
Of one indelible day as green 

As Memory's eldest born. 
I met her where the grasses grow — ^ 

Away from tower and town — 
iWhose gypsy bonnet dipt the glow 

Of chestnut isles of brown I 

I asked the rose to breathe her name; 

She pouted and she said, ^^ 

She could not speak of her who came 

To pale her richest red. 
I asked the lily, ripple-rimmed, — ■ 

A flake-like curve of snow — 
She sighed her glory had been dimmed ^^ 

By one she did not know. 

I stooped beside a tufted bed 

• Of leaflets moist with dew. 

Where one sweet posy hung its head 

Of deep, divinest blue ; 
And asked the violet if her power 

Could reach that spell of flame : — 
She smiled, " I am her favorite flower. 

And — Lizzie! — ^is her name." 





By the lake beyond the meadow. 

Where the lilies blow — 
As the young moon dipt and lifted 

Her reflected bow — 
Lived and died a dream of beauty ^ 

Many years ago. 

Something made the milk-white blossoms 

Even whiter grow; 
Something gave the dying sunset 

An intenser glow, i' 

'And enriched the cup of rapture. 

Filled to overflow. 

Hope was frail and Passion fleeting — 

It is often so ^ 
Visions born of golden sunsets 15 

With the sunsets go: 
To have loved is to have suffered 

Martyrdom below. 

By the lake beyond the meadow. 

Where the lilies blow — 20 

Oh, the glory there that perished, 
None shall ever know — 

When a human heart was broken. 
Many years ago ! 

Ashes of Glory. Type of poem? Its measure? 
7. "Trailing sables": meaning? 18. "Victor 
tar": explain. 20. "Trafalgar": historical allu- 


sion? 31-29. Discuss the proper names. 36. "Dis- 
gorge": criticise the use of the word here. 

Who Was It? Contrast this with the following, 
and show their difference in mood and structure. 
Do they both fall in the same class of lyric ? 

Only a Deeam. Is there a suggestion of Poe in 
this? 15, 16. These lines are worthy of being re- 


Margaret Junkin Preston 


The father of Mrs. Preston, Eev. Dr. Junkin, of 
Philadelphia, was chosen president of Washington 
and Lee University, at Lexington, Va. There the 
daughter became the wife of Prof. John T. L. Pres- 
ton, of the Virginia Military Institute, and a sister 
of hers. Miss Eleanor Junkin, was married to the 
great Confederate general, T. J. Jackson. 

Prior to her marriage Mrs. Preston contributed to 
Sartain's Magazine, and throughout a long life her 
poems appeared from time to time in some of our 
best periodicals. She wrote one novel, " Silver- 
wood," and several volumes of verse, the most noted 
of which, " Beechenbrook, a Ehyme of the War," 
contains the familiar " Stonewall Jackson's Grave " 
and "Slain in Battle." Her final collection of 
verses is entitled " Colonial Ballads, Sonnets, and 
other Verse." Her poems are thoughtful, strong, 
and full of religious fervor. 



J. R. T. 

I read the marble-lettered name, 

And half in bitterness I said : 
"As Dante from Eavenna came. 

Our poet came from exile — dead." 


And yet, had it been asked of him ^ 

Where he would rather lay his head, 

This spot he would have chosen. Dim 
The cit/s hum' drifts o'er his grave, 
And green above the hollies wave 

Their jagged leaves, as when a boy, ^^ 

On blissful summer afternoons. 
He came to sing the birds his runes, 

And tell the river of his joy. 

Who drejims that in his wanderings wide. 

By stern misfortunes tossed and driven ^^ 
His soul's electric strands were riven 
From home and country? Let betide 
What might, what would, his boast, his pride, 
Was in his stricken mother-land. 

That could but bless and bid him go, ^^ 

Because no crust was in her hand 

To stay her children's need. We know 
The mystic cable sank too deep 

For surface storm or stress to strain. 
Or from his answering heart to keep ^^ 

The spark from flashing back again ! 

Think of the thousand mellow rhymes. 

The pure idyllic passion-flowers. 
Wherewith, in far gone, happier times. 

He garlanded this South of ours. ^° 

Provengal-like, he wandered long, 

And sang at many a stranger's board. 
Yet 'twas Virginia's name that poured 
The tenderest pathos through his song. 
We owe the Poet praise and tears, ^^ 

Whose ringing ballad sends the brave. 
Bold Stuart riding down the years — 

What have we given him? Just a grave! 



A simple, sodded mound of earth, 

With not a line above it — 
With only daily votive flowers 

To prove that any love it; 
The token flag that, silently, 8 

Each breeze's visit numbers. 
Alone keeps martial ward above 

The hero's dreamless slumbers. 

No name ? no record ? Ask the world — 

The world has heard his story — i" 

If all its annals can unfold 

A prouder tale of glory? 
If ever merely human life 

Hath taught diviner moral — 
If ever round a worthier brow ^ 

Was twined a purer laurel? 

Humanity's responsive heart 

Concedes his wond'rous powers. 
And pulses with a tenderness 

Almost akin to ours ; 20 

Nay, not to ours — for us he poured 

His life — a rich oblation; 
And on adoring souls we bear 

His blood of consecration. 

A twelvemonth only since his sword 25 

Went flashing through the battle; 

A twelvemonth only since his ear 
Heard war's last deadly rattle. 


And yet have countless pilgrim feet 

The pilgrim's guerdon paid him; 2" 

And weeping women come to see 
The place where they have laid him. 

Contending armies bring, in turn. 

Their meed of praise or honor; 
And Pallas here has paused to biad "" 

The cypress wreath upon her. 
It seems a holy sepulchre 

Whose sanctities can waken 
Alike the love of friend or foe — • 

Of Christian or of Pagan. *" 

They come to own his high emprise 

Who fled in frantic masses 
Before the glittering bayonet 

That triumphed at Manassas; 
Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds, *^ 

As on their ranks he thundered. 
Defiant as the storied Greek 

Amid his brave three hundred. 

They well recall the tiger spring. 

The wise retreat, the rally; ^^ 

The tireless march, the fierce pursuit 

Through many a mountain valley. 
Cross Keys unlocks new paths to fame. 

And Port Republic's story 
Wrests from his ever-vanquished foes ^* 

Strange tributes to his glory! 

Cold Harbor rises to their view. 
The Cedar's gloom is o'er them, 

Antietam's rough and rugged heights 
Stretch mockingly before them. *" 



The lurid flames of Fredericksburg 

Eight grimly they remember. 
That lit the frozen night's retreat 

That wintry, wild December. 

The largesse of their praise is flung *5 

With bounty rare and regal ; 
Is it because the vulture fears 

No longer the dead eagle? 
N"ay, rather far accept it thus; 

A homage true and tender, 7" 

As soldier unto soldier's worth — 

As brave to brave will render! 

But who shall weigh the wordless grief 

That leaves in tears its traces, 
As 'round their leader crowd again '^^ 

Those bronzed and veteran faces? 
The " old brigade " he loved so well, — 

The mountain men who bound him 
With bays of their own winning, ere 

A tardier fame had crowned him. ** 

The legions who had seen his glance 

Across the carnage flashing. 
And thrilled to catch his ringing " Charge ! " 

Above the volley crashing; 
Who oft had watched the lifted hand ^5 

The inward trust betraying, 
And felt their courage grow sublime 

While they beheld him praying. 

Good knights, and true as ever drew 

Their swords with knightly Roland, so 

Or died at Sobieski's side 
For love of martyred Poland; 


Or knelt -with Cromwell's " Ironsides," 

Or sung with brave Gustavus, 
Or on the field of Austerlitz ^^ 

Breathed out their dying " aves." 

Rare fame ! rare name ! if chanted praise. 

With all the world to listen; 
If pride that swells a nation's soul ; 

If foeman's tears that glisten ; ^'"' 

If pilgrim's shrining love ; if grief 

Which naught can soothe or sever, — 
If these can consecrate, this spot 

Is sacred ground forever. 


How much would I care for it, could I know. 

That when I am under the grass or snow. 

The ravelled garment of life's brief day 

Folded, and quietly laid away; 

The spirit let loose from mortal bars, ' 

And somewhere away among the stars: 

How much do you think it would matter then 

What praise was lavished upon me, when. 

Whatever might be its stint or store. 

It neither could help nor harm me more ? i' 


If midst of my toil they had but thought 
To stretch a finger, I would have caught 
Gladly such aid, to bear me through 
Some bitter duty I had to do : 


And when it was done, had I but heard ^^ 

One breath of applause, one cheering word. 
One cry of " Courage ! " amid the strife, 
So weighted for me, with death or life. 
How would it have nerved my soul to strain 
Through the whirl of the coming surge again ! 

Ill 20 

What use for the rope, if it be not flung 
Till the swimmer's grasp to the rock has clung ? 
What help in a comrade's bugle-blast 
When the peril of Alpine heights is past? 
What need that the spurring paean roll ^5 

When the runner is safe beyond the goal? 
What worth is eulogy's blandest breath 
When whispered in ears that are hushed in 

death ? 
Ko ! no ! if you have but a word of cheer. 
Speak it, while I am alive to hear ! ^ 


Within the church I knelt, where many a year 
Wordsworth had worshipped, while his musing eye 
Wandered o'er mountain, fell, and scaur, and slrjr. 

That rimmed the silver circle of Grasmere, 

Whose crystal held an under-world as clear ^ 

As that which girt it round; and questioned why 
The place was sacred for his lifted sigh. 

More than the humble dalesman's kneeling near. 

Strange spell of Genius ! — that can melt the soul 
To reverence tenderer than o'er it falls ^^ 

Beneath the marvellous heavens which God hath 



And sway it with such htunan-sweet control 

That holier henceforth seem these simple walls. 
Because within them once a poet prayed ! 


To every artist, howsoe'er his thought 
Unfolds itself before the eyes of men — 
Whether through sculptor's chisel, poet's pen, 

Or painter's wondrous brush, — there comes, full 

"With instant revelation, lightning-wrought, ® 

A moment of supremest heart-swell, when 
The mind leaps to the tidal crest, and then 

Sweeps on triumphant to the harbor sought. 

"Wait, eager spirit, till the topping waves 

Shall roll their gathering strength in one, and 

lift " 

From out the swamping trough thy galleon free ; 

Mount with the whirl, command the rush that raves 

A maelstrom round ; then proudly shoreward drift, 

Eich-freighted as an Indian argosy. 

A Grave in Hollywood. This is a tribute to the 
memory of John R. Thompson. 3. Dante, the great 
Italian poet, was driven into exile by his political 
enemies and died at Ravenna. 31. " Provengal-like " : 
like one of the wandering lyric poets of Provence, 
France. 36. "Ringing ballad": Thompson's fine 
poem, " The Death of Stuart." 

Stonewall Jackson's Grave. 1, 2. This was 

true when written, but not now; an appropriate 

monument stands at his grave, and memorials have 

been erected to him in various places — notably the 



bronze statue at Eichmond, in 1875, paid for by 
English admirers. 33. In June, 1864, two hostile 
armies reverently visited Jackson's grave. 35. " Pal- 
las": explain. 48. The Spartans at Thermopylae. 
Explain other proper names. 

Before Death. Scan this. Characterize its dic- 
tion. What is its tone? What references in the 
third division? 

The two sonnets reveal no little deftness in this 
difScult form of composition. Both obey the rigid 
rules as to rhyme and treatment. This is the Petrar- 
chan, or Italian, scheme. The octave must rhyme 
abbaaba; and the sestet, cdecde, — ^though there is 
great license in the latter division, even in the son- 
nets of Petrarch. These poems, too, change the 
phase of the thought at the close of the first divi- 
sion — another requisite in this type of lyric. 


Rosa Vertner Jeffrey 


Mrs. Jeffrey was the daughter of Mr. John T. 
Griffith, a writer of some distinction. She was a 
native of Mississippi, was educated in Lexington, 
Ky., and was married at seventeen to Mr. Claude M. 
Johnson. After his death she became the wife of 
Mr. Alexander Jeffrey, of Edinburgh, Scotland. 

She was a favorite contributor to the Louisville 
Journal, under the pen name, " Eosa." Some of her 
volumes of verse are : " Poems, by Eosa," " Daisy 
Dare and Baby Power," " The Crimson Hand, and 
Other Poems." Besides these she wrote several 
stories, of which her two novels, "Marsh" and 
"Woodburn," stand first. 


Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my 

And upon the winds of midnight shining pinions 
round me sweep; 

Floating downward on the starlight two bright in- 
fant forms I see. 

They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from 
Heaven to visit me. 

Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones 
above ^ 

Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's 
deathless love; 



And, as now they watcli my slumber, while their soft 

eyes on me shine, 
God forgive a mortal yearning still to call His angels 


Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice 

can seem 
Sweet as those that whisper " Mother ! " 'mid the 

glories of my dream : ^° 

Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance 

to lisp my name, 
But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the 


And the bright band now around me from their home 

perchance will rove. 
In their strength no more depending on my constant 

care and love 
But my first-born still shall wander from the sky, in 

dreams to rest ^^ 

Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly 

mother's breast. 

Time may steal away the freshness, or some whelm- 
ing grief destroy 

All the hopes that erst had blossomed in my simimer- 
. time of joy 

Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends per- 
haps betray, 

Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass 
away, 20 

But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their 

blest immortal home. 
Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened 

dreams shall come, 


And I cannot feel forsaten, for, though 'reft of 

earthly love. 
Angel children call me " Mother ! " and my soul will 

look above. 

A lyric of grief, the theme of which is a mother's 
love for her lost children. It is the expression of 
tender feeling and keen pathos. 


Henry Timrod 


This young South Carolinian must be rated as 
among the first poets of the South. What he has 
left us is marked by a tender sentiment, a fine im- 
agination, and a delicate sweetness. 

He prepared himself for the law, but never pur- 
sued it. His first work was that of teacher — a work 
he followed ten years, writing poems the while, a 
number being published iu the Literary Messenger. 

He moved from his native city, Charleston, to 
Columbia, where he edited the South Carolinian. 
Soon afterward his first collection appeared in Boston, 
1860. It met with a generous reception North and 
South. His brilliant war lyrics added to his reputa- 
tion, and for a time life opened a beautiful vista for 
him, but ill health and the tempest of war ruined 
all his prospects. Eeduced almost to actual starva- 
tion, he bitterly wrote in 1865, "I would consign 
every line I have written to eternal oblivion for one 
hundred doUars in hand." 

His works were republished in New York in 1873, 
with a sympathetic introduction by his brother-poet 
and life-long friend, Paul Hayne. A revised edition 
appeared in 1879. 


While I recline 
At ease beneath 
This immemorial pine. 
Small sphere! 

(By dusky fingers brought this morning here ^ 


And shown with boastful smiles), 

I turn thy cloven sheath. 

Through which the soft white fibres peer. 

That, with- their gossamer bands. 

Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, ^^ 

And slowly, thread by thread, 

Draw forth the folded strands. 

Than which the trembling line, 

By whose frail help yon startled spider fled 

Down the tall spear-grass from his swinging-bed, ^^ 

Is scarce more fine ; 

And as the tangled skein 

Unravels in my hands. 

Betwixt me and the noonday light, 

A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles ^'^ 

The landscape broadens on my sight. 

As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 

Like that which, in the ocean shell, 

With mystic sound. 

Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, ^^ 

And turns some city lane 

Into the restless main, 

With all his capes and isles ! 

Yonder bird. 

Which floats, as if at rest, ^^ 

In those blue tracts above the thunder, where 
No vapors cloud the stainless air. 
And never a sound is heard. 
Unless at such rare time 

When, from the City of the Blest, ^6 

Eings down some golden chime. 
Sees not from his high place 
So vast a cirque of summer space 


As widens round me in one mighty field. 
Which, rimmed hy seas and sands, *" 

Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 
Of gray Atlantic dawns; 
And, broad as realms made np of many lands. 
Is lost afar 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns *^ 

Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams 
Against the Evening Star ! 

To the remotest point of sight, 
Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, ^ 

The endless field is white; 
And the whole landscape glows. 
For many a shining league away. 
With such accumulated light 

As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day ! ^^ 
Nor lack there (for the vision grows. 
And the small charm within my hands — 
More potent even than the fabled one. 
Which oped whatever golden mystery 
Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, ^o 

The curious ointment of the Arabian tale — 
Beyond all mortal sense 
Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see. 
Beneath its simple influence. 

As if with Uriel's crown, 66 

I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 
And looked, as Uriel, down!) 
'Sot lack there pastures rich and fields all green 
With all the common gifts of God, 
For temperate airs< and torrid sheen 7" 

Weave Edens of the sod ; 

Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold 
Broad rivers wind their devious ways; 


A hundred isles in their emBraees fold 
A hundred Ivtminous bays; '* 

And through yon purple haze 

Vast mountains lift their plumSd peaks cloud- 
And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps. 
An unhewn forest girds them grandly round. 
In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps ! *" 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze 
Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth! 
Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays 
Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 
Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the West ^^ 

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers I 
And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast 
Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers ! 
Bear witness with me in my song of praise. 
And tell the world that, since the world' began, '* 
No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays. 
Or given a home to man ! 

But these are charms already widely blown ! 
His be the meed whose pencU's trace 
Hath touched our very swamps with grace, ^^ 

And round whose tuneful way 
All Southern laurels bloom; 
The Poet of " The Woodlands," unto whom 
Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, "•> 
And the soft west wind's sighs ; 
But who shall utter all the debt, 
land wherein all powers are met 
That bind a people's heart. 

The world doth owe thee at this day, ^"^ 

And which it never can repay, 


Yet scarcely deigns to own! 
Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 
The source wherefrom doth spring 
That mighty commerce which, confined ^^^ 

To the mean channels of no selfish mart. 
Goes ont to every shore 

Of this hroad earth, and throngs the sea with ships 
That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips ^^^ 

In alien lands; 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; 
And gladdening rich and poor. 
Doth gild Parisian domes. 
Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes. 
And only bounds its blessings by mankind! i^* 

In ofiBces like these, thy mission lies, 
My Country! and it shall not end 
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 
In blue above thee ; though thy foes be hard 
And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard ^^5 

Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark; make thee great 
In white and bloodless state; 
And haply, as the years increase — 
Still working through its humbler reach 
With that large wisdom which the ages teach ^^^ 
Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace ! 
As men who labor in that mine 
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 
Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead. 
Hear the dull booming of the world of brine ^^^ 

Above them, and a mighty mufHed roar 
Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on, 
And split the rock, and pile the massive ore. 
Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof; 
So I, as calmly, weave my woof i**' 

Of song, chanting the days to come, 


Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 
Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn 
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 
Of many gathering armies. Still, ^*^ 

In that we sometimes hear. 
Upon the Worthern winds, the voice of woe 
N'ot wholly drowned in triumph, though I Imow 
The end must crown us, and a few brief years 
Dry all our tears, ^^^ 

I may not sing too gladly. To thy will 
Eesigned, Lord! we cannot all forget 
That there is much even Victory must regret. 
Arid, therefore, not too long 

From the great burthen of our country's wrong ^^^ 
Delay our just release ! 
And, if it may be, save 
These sacred fields of peace 
Prom stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 
Oh, help us. Lord ! to roll the crimson flood i^" 

Back on its course, and while our banners wing 
Northward, strike with us ! till the Goth shall cling 
To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave 
Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate 
The lenient future of his fate ^^^ 

There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays 
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western 


Sung at the consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, 
Charleston, S. C. 

Whose was the hand that painted thee, Death ! 

In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, 
Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath, — 

gentle Power ! who could have wronged thee so ? 


Thou rather should'st be crowned with fadeless 
flowers, ^ 

Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue ; 
Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers. 

But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through. 

So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed 
And beautified, Death! thy mansion here, ^^ 

Where gloom and gladness — grave and garden — 
Make it a place to love, and not to fear. 

Heaven ! shed thy most propitious dews around I 
Ye holy stars ! look down with tender eyes. 

And gild and guard and consecrate the ground ^ 
Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise. 


Sleep sweetly in your humble graves. 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 


In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown. 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth. 
The shaft is in the stone ! 



Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
Which keep in trust your storied tombs, i" 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears 
And these memorial blooms. 


Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day. 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile ^^ 

Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies. 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 2" 


Hark to the shouting Wind! 

Hark to the flying Eain! 
And I care not though I never see 

A bright blue sky again. 

There are thoughts in my breast to-day ^ 
That are not for human speech ; 

But I hear them in the driving storm. 
And the roar upon the beach. 

And oh, to be with that ship 

That I watch through the blinding brine ! " 
Wind ! for thy sweep of land and sea ! 

Sea ! for a voice like thine ! 


Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, 
To the frightened and flying Rain ! 

I care not though I never see ^^ 

A calm blue sky again. 


I scarcely grieve, Nature ! at the lot 

That pent my life within a. city's bounds. 

And shut me from thy sweetest sights and sounds. 

Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone cot 

Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the mart 

Taught me amid its turmoil ; so my youth 

Had missed full many a stern but wholesome truth. 

Here, too, Nature ! in this haunt of Art, 

Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall. 

There is no unimpressive spot on earth! ^o 

The beauty of the stars is over all. 

And Day and Darkness visit every hearth. 

Clouds do not scorn us : yonder factory's smoke 

Looked like a golden mist when morning broke. 


Life ever seems as from its present site 
It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past 
It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast. 
Into a purple cloud ! Across the night 
Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light ^ 

All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn. 
Not the near daisies, but yon distant height 
Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn. 
And always, be the landscape what it may — * 
Blue, misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain — ^' 


It is the eye's endeavor still to gain 
The fine, faint limit of the bounding day. 
God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain 
Hint of a happier home, far, far away ! 

The Cotton Boll. "Uriel": one of the seven 
Archangels nearest the throne of God. The name 
means God's light. 95. Allusion to Simms' "The 
Edge of the Swamp." 98. Simms spent half his 
time on his plantation, "Woodlands," near Midway, 
S. C. 100, 101. "Flute, trumpet, west wind": 
symbolize what types of Simms' poetry? 143. 
" Bruit " : report. 153. This is a rememberable line. 
163. "Goth": the Federal invaders of the South. 
166. "Quays": wharfs. 167. .What port is the 
doom pronounced against? 

" The Cotton Boll " is held to be the author's best 
work. It is imaginative, patriotic, melodious, but 
discursive. The poet's fancy led him far away from 
his theme. 

Hymn. To my mind this grave, exalted poem is 
superior to the foregoing. There is not an aimless, 
irrelevant thought in it. 

Ode. Whittier said of this song, sung at the deco- 
ration of graves in Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, 
" In its simple grandeur it is the noblest poem ever 
written by a Southern poet." 3. A monument has 
since been erected. 15. " Cannon-moulded pile " : 

Haek to the Shouting Wind. What mood in- 
spired this? Type of lyric? Eead Tennyson's 
" Break, Break, Break," and trace its influence here. 

Sonnets. These are introduced to illustrate the 
poet's range. They are good, but not notably so. 
Hayne surpassed him far in this form. 

James Barron Hope 


Mr. Hope was born in Norfolk, Va., and was edu- 
cated at William and Mary. He took up the law, 
and became Commonwealtli Attorney ; but he inclined 
toward letters, and received his first recognition by 
a series of poems contributed under the pen-name, 
" The late Henry Ellen, Esq.," to a Baltimore pub- 

He served through the Civil War, first as quarter- 
master, then as captain; settling afterwards in his 
native town, where he became superintendent of 
schools, and afterwards editor of the Landmark. 

He was invited by the United State Senate to read 
a poem on October 19, 1881, the one himdredth anni- 
versary of the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown. 
A metrical address, " Arms and the Man," was the 
result, and this, with other poems, was published in 
Norfolk, 1883. He published two other volumes of 
poems and a novel. His daughter, Mrs. J. B. Hope- 
Marr, has collected his poems into one volume, pub- 
lished in Eichmond. 


The cock hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd ; 

Down to the moss-grown porch my way I take. 
And hear, beside the well within the yard. 

Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake. 
And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen — all ^ 

Eesponding to yon strutting gobbler's call. 


The dew is thick upon the velvet grass — 
The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops. 

And as the cattle from th' enclosure pass. 

Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops ^^ 

The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load. 

Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road. 

A lustrous polish is on all the leaves — 
The birds flit in and out with varied notes— 

The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves — ^ 

A partridge-whistle thro' the garden floats, 

While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries. 

As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. 

Up comes the sun : thro' the dense leaves a spot 
Of splendid light drinks up the dew ; the breeze ^o 

Which late made leafy music dies ; the day grows hot, 
And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees : 

The burnish'd river like a sword-blade shines. 

Save where 'tis shadowed by the solemn pines. 


Over the farm is brooding silence now — ^^ 

No reaper's song — no raven's clangor harsh — 

No bleat of sheep — no distant low of cow — 
No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh — 

No bragging cock from litter'd farm-yard crows. 

The scene is steep'd in silence and repose. ^^ 

A trembling haze hangs over all the fields — 
The panting cattle in the river stand, 

Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields. 
It seems a Sabbath thro' the drowsy land : 

So hush'd is all beneath the Summer's spell, ^^ 

I pause and listen for some faint church bell. 


The leaves are motionless — the song-bird's mute — 
The very air seems somnolent and sick: 

The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit 
Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, *" 

WhUe now and then a mellow apple falls 

With a dull sound within the orchard's walls. 

The sky has but one solitary cloud, 

Like a dark island in a sea of light; 
The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows plough'd ^^ 

Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight. 
While over yonder road a dusty haze 
Grows reddish purple in the sultry blaze. 


That solitary cloud grows dark and wide. 
While distant thunder rumbles in the air, 5" 

A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide — 
The lazy cattle are no longer there. 

But homeward come in long procession slow. 

With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. 

Darker and wider-spreading o'er the west ^^ 

Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form. 

And mirror'd turrets on the river's breast 
Tell in advance the coming of a storm — 

Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash 

And louder, nearer, sounds the thunder's crash. 6o 

The air of evening is intensely hot. 

The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows — 
Now sullen rain-drops patter down like shot — 

Strike in the grass, or rattle 'mid the boughs. 
A sultry lull : and then a gust again, 65 

And now I see the thick-advancing rain. 


It fairly hisses as it comes along, 

And where it strikes bounds up again in spray 
As if 'twere dancing to the fitful song 

Made by the trees, which twist themselves and 
In contest with the wind which rises fast. 
Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. 


And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled. 
The clouds lie pil'd up in the splendid west. 

In massive shadow tipp'd with purplish red, ™ 

Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest; 

And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 

I see the crescent of the pallid moon. 


Good is the Saxon speech! clear, short, and strong. 

Its clean-cut words, fit both for prayer and song; 

Good is this tongue for all the needs of life ; 

Good for sweet words with friend, or child, or wife. 

Seax — short sword — and like a sword its sway 
Hews out a path 'mid all the forms of speech. 
For in itself it hath the power to teach 

Itself, while many tongues slow fade away. 

'Tis good for laws; for vows of youth and maid; 
Good for the preacher; or shrewd folk in trade; 
• Good for sea-calls when loud the rush of spray; 
Good for war-cries where men meet hilt to hilt. 
And man's best blood like new-trod wine is spilt, — 
Good for all times, and good for what thou wilt ! 

Theeb Summee Studies. This is a descriptive 
poem ; it deals with objects instead of events. Point 


out extracts especially vivid. What is the setting? 
Are the descriptions true? 3-5. Means of descrip- 
tion here ? 50. What means here ? 63. Is the figure 
vivid? 65. The movement of the line serves forci- 
bly in the sketching; how? Extend the study on this 
as indicated. 

Cue Anglo-Saxon Tongue. Wherein lies the 
chief merit of this poem? What form does it as- 


Paul Hamilton Hayne 


"The Laureate of the South," as Hayne was 
styled, wore his wreath becomingly. He was a poet 
of fine culture and true imagination. He was an in- 
tense lover of Na.ture and entered sympathetically 
into her moods. In a, less degree, she was to him, as 
to Wordsworth, an embodied being. 

Hayne was a native of Charleston, S. C, the son 
of a naval officer and a nephew of Governor Hayne. 
Owing to the death of his father, he was left when an 
infant to the care of his mother, his distinguished 
uncle taking the place of a father to him. The child 
had every advantage of the time and place, and 
when a young man was graduated with honor at the 
College of South Carolina. He chose law as a pro- 
fession, practiced for a while, but gave it up for liter- 
ature. At twenty-three he became first editor of Bus- 
sell's Magazine, and later of the Charleston Literary 
Gazette. During the bombardment of his native city 
his home was burned, together with all his ancestral 
belongings. Thus impoverished, he moved to Au- 
gusta, Ga., and soon afterwards out to a little farm, 
" Copse Hill," where, with his wife and son, he spent 
the remaining years of his life. Through declining 
health he labored untiringly on, singing his bravest 
and best song " in the unveiled face of Death." 

He addressed himself earnestly to poetry through- 
out his life, and attained a high degree of perfection 


in technique. His poems are almost wholly lyrics, 
the sonnet, however, receiving affectionate attention. 
His poems are musical always; and, varying with 
the mood, mournful, passionate, earnest, delicate, ten- 
der, hopeful, religious. While his best work is the 
lyric, some of his narrative poems are of extraordi- 
nary power. It is doubtful whether any other Ameri- 
can poet has produced anything to surpass his 
"Daphles." His life gave an impulse to literature 
in the South — an impulse which is increasingly felt 

He is the author of several books of poems, among 
which are " Poems ; Sonnets and Other Poems," 
"Legends and Lyrics," "The Mountain of the Lov- 
ers, and Other Poems," etc. A complete illus- 
trated edition of his verse-writings appeared in Bos- 
ton, 1882. Besides these, he wrote a " Life of Robert 
Y. Hayne " and a " Life of Hugh S. Legare " ; and 
also edited, with a memoir, the poems of Henry 


At Night 

'A golden pallor of voluptuous light 
Filled the warm southern night: 
The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene 
Moved like a stately queen. 
So rife with conscious beauty all the while ^ 
What could she do but smile 
At her own perfect loveliness b6low. 
Glassed in the tranquil flow 
Of crystal fountains and unrufQed streams? 
Half lost in waking dreams, l' 



As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed, 

Lo! from a neighboring glade. 

Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, 

swiftly came 
A fairy shape of flame. 

It rose in dazzling spirals overhead, ^^ 

Whence to wild sweetness wed. 

Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill on 

The very leaves grew still 
On the charmed trees to hearken; while for 

Heart-thrilled to ecstasy, ^° 

I followed — followed the bright shape that 

Still circling up the blue. 
Till as a fountain that has reached its height. 
Falls back in sprays of light 
Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay, ^5 
Divinely melts away 

Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist. 
Soon by the fitful breeze 

How gently kissed 
Into remote and tender silences. *** 


Listen ! the sombre foliage of the Pine, 
A swart Gitana of the woodland trees, 

Is answering what we may but half divine. 
To those soft whispers of the twilight breeze ! 



Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves. 
Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain. 

Whose monotoije of long, low anguish grieves 
For something lost that shall not live again ! 


This is my world ! within these narrow walls, 

I own a princely service ; the hot care 

And tumult of our frenzied life are here 

But as a ghost, and echo ; what befalls 

In the far mart to me is less than naught; ' 

I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies, 

And wander by the brink of hoary seas. 

Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought: 

Or if a livelier humor should enhance • 

The slow-timed pulse, 'tis not for present strife. 
The sordid zeal with which our age is rife. 
Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or 

But gleamings of the lost, heroic life, 
Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance. 


Wild, rapid, dark, like dreams of threatening doom, 
Low cloud-racks scud before the level wind; 
Beneath them, the bare moorlands, blank and blind. 
Stretch, mournful, through pale lengths of glimmer- 
ing gloom; 



Afar, grand mimic of the sea-waves' boom, ^ 

Hollow, yet sweet as if a Titan pined 
O'er deathless woes, yon mighty wood, consigned 
To autumn's blight, bemoans its perished bloom; 
The dim air creeps with a vague shuddering thrill 
Down from those monstrous mists the sea-gale 

brings i" 

Half-formless, inland, poisoning earth and sky; 
Most from yon black cloud, shaped like vampire 

Or a lost angel's visage, deathly-still. 
Uplifted toward some dread eternity. 


Day follows day ; years perish ; still mine eyes 
Are opened on the self -same round of space; 
Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace. 
And the large splendors of those opulent skies. 
I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes ^ 

Of dawn or sunset; the soft boughs which lace 
Eound some coy dryad in a lonely place. 
Thrilled with low whispering and strange sylvan 

sighs : 
Weary? The poet's mind is fresh as dew. 
And oft refilled as fountains of the light. ^^ 

His clear child's soul finds something sweet and new 
Even in a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn, 
The spear-like grass, the silvery rim of morn, 
A cloud rose-edged, and fleeting stars at night ! 




I think, ofttimes, that lives of men may be 
Likened to wandering winds that come and go, 
Wot knowing whence they rise, whither they blow 
O'er the vast globe, voiceful of grief or glee. 
Some lives are buoyant zephyrs sporting free ^ 

In tropic sunshine ; some, long winds of woe 
That shun the day, wailing with murmurs low. 
Through haunted twilights, by the unresting sea; 
Others are ruthless, stormful, drunk with might. 
Born with deep passion or malign desire: ^° 

They rave 'mid thunder-peals and clouds of fire. 
Wild, reckless all, save that some power unknown 
Guides each blind force till life be overblown. 
Lost in vague hollows of the fathomless night. 


To have the will to soar, but not -the wings. 
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height. 

Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings 
Flash down the splendors of imperial light; 

And yet to lack the charm that makes them ours, ^ 
The obedient vassals of that conquering spell. 

Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers 
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell; 

This is the doom of Tantalus — the thirst 

For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires ^^ 

Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst 
In hopeless promptings — unfulfilled desires. 


Yet would I rather in the outward state 
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, 

A beggar basking by that radiant gate, ^^ 

Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown ! 

For sometimes, through the bars, my raTished eyes 
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine. 

And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise 
Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine. ^^ 


Sad mortal, couldst thou but know 

What truly it means to die. 
The wings of thy soul would glow. 

And the hopes of thy heart beat high; 
Thou wouldst turn from the Pyrrhonist 

schools, 5 

And laugh their jargon to scorn. 
As the babble of midnight fools 

Ere the morning of Truth be bom: 
But I, earth's madness above. 

In a kingdom of stormless breath, — i" 
I gaze on the glory of love 

In the unveiled face of Death, 

I tell thee his face is fair 

As the moon-bow's amber rings. 
And the gleam in his unbound hair 

Like the flush of a thousand springs: 
His face is the fathomless beam 

Of the star-shine's sacred light. 
When the summers of Southland dream 



In the lap of the holy night; *• 

For I, earth's blindness above. 

In a kingdom of halcyon breath, — 
I gaze on the marvel of love 

In the unveiled face of Death. 

In his eyes a heaven there dwells, 25 

But they hold few mysteries now. 
And his pity, for earth's farewells 

Half furrows that shining brow; 
Souls taken from Time's cold tide 

He folds to his fostering breast, 3" 

And the tears of their grief are dried 

Ere they enter the courts of rest; 
And still, earth's madness above, 

In a kingdom of stormless breath, 
I gaze on a light that is love ^ 

In the unveiled face of Death. 

Through the splendor of stars impearled 

In the glow of their far-off grace. 
He is soaring world by world 

With souls in his strong embrace ; *•> 
Lone ethers unstirred by a wind 

At the passage of Death grow sweet, 
With the fragrance that floats behind 

The flash of his winged retreat; 
And I, earth's madness above, 46 

'Mid a kingdom of tranquil breath. 
Have gazed on a lustre of love 

In the unveiled face of Death. 

But beyond the stars and the sun 

I can follow him still on his way, ^o 
Till the pearl-white gates are won 

In the calm of the central day. 


Far voices of fond acclaim 

Thrill down from the place of soTols, 
As Death, with a touch like flame, ^^ 

Uncloses the goal of goals; 
And from heaven of heavens above, 

God speaketh with bateless breath : — 
My angel of perfect love 

Is the angel men call Death. 8" 

The Mocking-Bied. What is the metrical 
scheme in this ? Show how the diction is in keeping 
with the theme. Is the figure of the fountain apt? 
The cadence of the poem is worthy that of the 
bird's song. 

The Pine's Mystery. 3. "Gitana": a gypsy 
dancer. The poet loved the pine, and his interpreta- 
tion of its mysterious voices here is artistic. 

My Study. Hayne excelled in the sonnet; these 
introduced here will prove the assertion. 6. "Area- 
dies": demesnes of happiness, referring to Arcadia, 
a mountainous district of Greece renowned for its 
picturesqueness and for the simplicity and content- 
ment of its people. Eead Wordsworth's " The 
World Is Too Much With Fs." In it there is the 
same protest against the sordid zeal and mammon 
conflicts of to-day and the same yearning for the 
heroic life. 

Cloud Fantasies. What mood pervades this? 
6. " Titan " : a mythological giant. The same word 
is used in the next sonnet. 

A Comparison. This is full of suggestion and is 
worked out masterfully. To my mind the poet 
never surpassed it. Study the different lives rep- 

The Will and the Wing. Give the thought in 



the poem ? 9. " Tantalus " : a character in Greek 
mythology who, as penalty for divulging the secrets 
of Zeus, was visited with an insatiable thirst. 
Ulysses, when relating to the Phaeacians what he had 
beheld in the lower world, describes him as standing 
up to his chin in water, which eludes his lips as often 
as he attempts to quench his tormenting thirst. 
Above his head grow luscious fruit which, whenever 
he would take them, the wind dissipates to clouds. 
15. "Beggar": what allusion? 20. Explain. 

Face to Face. This is a noble, triumphant song, 
— one of the last, if not the very last, of his poems. 
The stanzas close with almost identical lines; this is 
known as repetition. What is the measure? 5. 
" Pyrrhonist " : one who doubts everything. Point 
out passages of exquisite grace ; as, for instance, lines 
11 and 18. In imaginative strength the poem sug- 
gests Shelley^s "Cloud." The poem was printed in 
Harper's Magazine, through the courtesy of whose 
publishers it is here used. 


John Esten Cooke 


As has been said, John Esten Cooke was a younger 
brother of Philip Pendleton Cooke. He left school at 
sixteen, and worked in his father's law office four 
years. Afterwards he devoted his time to literature. 
He was a voluminous writer along four lines — fic- 
tion, biography, history, and poetry. He succeeded 
in all, but achieved distinction in the first. " Surry 
of Eagle's Nest," " The Life of Stonewall Jackson," 
"Virginia, a History of the People," and the sub- 
joined selection from his poems represent him in 
these departments. 


The flush of sunset dies 
Far on ancestral trees; 
On the bright-booted bees. 
On cattle-dotted leas ! 

And a mist is in my eyes, ^ 

For in a stranger land 
Halts the quick-running sand. 
Shaken by no dear hand ! 

How plain the flowering grass. 
The sunset-flooded door ! ■^° 

I hear the river^s roar 
Say clearly, "Kevermore." 

I see cloud-shadows pass 
Over my mountain meres; 
Gone are the rose-bright years. 
Drowned in a flood of tears. 




After Pelham died 

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 

Cease with your splendid call; 
The living are brave and noble. 

But the dead are bravest of aU! 

They throng to the martial summons, ^ 

To the loud triumphant strain. 

And the dear bright eyes of long-dead 
Come to the heart again. 

They come with the ringing bugle. 

And the deep drum's mellow roar; i" 

Till the sold is faint with longing 
For the hands we clasp no more ! 

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 

Or the heart will break with tears. 
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,^^ 

And the voices of old years. 

Memories. The second line is notable; but the 
poem, as a whole, is inferior to the other given. 

The Band in the Pines. John Pelham, the 
gallant young Confederate cannoneer, fell at Freder- 
icksburg. Read Randall's splendid tribute to his 
memory, included in this book, p. 209. The influence 
of Tennyson is plainly seen in this poem; indicate 
where. But it is a conjuring lyric of native music, 
and is vibrant with emotion. 


Will Wallace Harney 


Mr. Harney is of Kentucky parentage and educa- 
tion, though a native of Indiana. After graduation 
in law at the Louisville University, he first turned to 
teaching, ultimately occupying the chair of belles- 
lettres at Transylvania University, Lexington. 
Then he entered journalism, — first as associate editor 
of the Louisville Democrat, later as editor-in-chief. 
Leaving this position, he removed to Florida and 
took up orange culture, at the same time directing a 
paper at Kissimee and acting as correspondent for 
Cincinnati, Boston, and N'ew Orleans dailies. He 
is now a resident of Miami, Fla. 

His poems, contributed to various periodicals, have 
never been collected, but a volume made up of such 
as the two below would deserve an honorable place in 
American literature. 


Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of 
the sheaves. 
In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, 
When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of 

fallen leaves. 
And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds 
blow! s 



Love met me in the orchard, ere the corn had gath- 
ered plume, — • 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds 
Sweet as summer days that die when the months are 

in the bloom. 
And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels 
of the broom. 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. ^° 

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each 
to each, — 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened 

into speech, 
Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. ^^ 

Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the 
corn, — 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids 

When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow 
Over happy harvest-fields when the sun sinks 
low. 20 

Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn 

eves, — 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds 

When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of 

the leaves, 



And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. ^^ 

Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and 

misty meres; — 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds 

Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon 

their spears. 
One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among 

the spheres. 
With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks 

low. ^ 

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the 
reapers sung; — 
0, happy are the apples when the south winds 
Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe 

and young, 
Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. ^^ 


On the road, the lonely road, 

Fnder the cold, white moon. 
Under the ragged trees, he strode ; 
He whistled and shifted his heavy load, — 

Whistled a foolish tune. ^ 



There was a step, timed with his own, 

A figure that stooped and bowed; 
A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone. 
Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown; 
And the moon went behind a cloud. ^" 

But the moon came out so broad and good. 
The barn-cock woke and crowed; 

Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood ; 

And the brown owl called to his mate in the 
That a dead man lay on the road. ^^ 

Adonais. a poetical name given by Shelley to 
Keats, on whose untimely death he wrote a monody 
bearing this name as title. Shelley coined the name, 
probably from Adonis, a character in mythology. 

The chief merit of " Adonais," like many of Swin- 
burne's poems, lies in its melody. Is there a thread 
of thought traceable through it, as, for instance, in 
lines 1, 6, 13, 16, 31, 29, 34? 19. "Musty". As to 
the use of this word the aged poet writes, " If you 
will go into an orchard when the fruit is ripe or cider 
making, and inhale the must of the bruised and rot- 
ting apples, you will imder stand the sense of the line." 
26. "Meres": meaning? 28, 29. Does the poet sac- 
rifice sense to rhyme? The latter of these lines is 
surpassingly fine. Point out any confusion of ima- 

The Stab. This is a masterful piece of word 
painting. What brilliant figure in the heart of the 
poem? Accessories to its vividness are, epithet, — 
" cold, white moon," " ragged trees " ; verbs, — 
"gleamed and shone"; suggestion, — ^lines 3, 4; fig- 
ure, — line 9. 


Henry Lynden Flash 


The parents of Mr. Flash came from the West In- 
dies and settled in New Orleans. The son was edu- 
cated at the Western Military Institute of Kentucky. 
He volunteered in the Confederate army, served as 
aide under General Joseph Wheeler, and with his pen 
as well as with his sword was an ardent supporter 
of the South. After the war he edited the Confed- 
erate at Macon, Ga., and subsequently, for twenty 
years, engaged in business in New Orleans. He now 
lives in Los Angeles, California, where he is treas- 
urer of two lighting and electric companies of that 
city. Although over seventy, he writes, February 
10, 1904, " I take as much interest in current events 
as ever, and feel no older than I did twenty years 

Under the pen names, "Lynden Eclair" and 
"Harry Flash," he wrote at will lyrics of startling 
energy and native pathos. As illustrative of his 
readiness, this story is recorded: When Flash was 
editor of the Confederate the foreman came to him 
for a bit of copy to fill out his form. Flash asked 
him what kind he needed. On being told there was 
no poetry in the issue, and reminded that he had 
written on the death of Zollicoffer and Jackson re- 
cently, he determined to write on. General Polk, who 
had just fallen in battle. In five minutes the poem 
was written; and in twenty, being printed. 

A volume of his poems, now out of print, appeared 
in 1860 from the presses of Eudd and Carleton, 


N'ew York. He has ready for publication another 
collection, which, since the above was written, has 
been published (1906) by the Neale Publishing 
Company of New York. 


We loved each other long and true. 

And at last in April weather. 
When the crocus-buds were breaking through, 
And the dying moon hung faint in the blue 

We put to sea together. ^ 

For years we sailed a sunny main 
And then came stormy weather; 
Our vessel groaned with the tug and strain, 
And out in the shrieking wind and rain 

We faced the gale together. i" 

At times we caught a glimpse of sky 

That promised clearing weather. 
And light and swift our bark would fly. 
Till the clouds resumed their murky dye 

And we sat in the gloom together. ^^ 

But whether the sky was dark or bright. 

Or fair or foul the weather. 
Our love was ever the beacon light 
That cheered our souls in the darkest night. 

And held our hearts together. ^o 

And now we sail in our battered boat 

Unmindful of the weather, 
The winds may rave and the clouds may gloat, 
But little we care if we sink or float, 

So we sink or float together. ^5 




Lilies and roses! 

Lilies and roses! 

Man in his youth — 

The season of Truth, 

When Heaven uncloses, ^ 

With his eyes on the skies 

Dreamily lies 

On his lilies and roses. 

N'ettles and thorns ! 

Nettles and thorns! l" 

Man in his manhood 

Sorrows and mourns. 

Girt with regrets 

He rages and storms — < 

Tosses and frets ^^ 

On his nettles and thorns. 

In the dark earth at last — 
The Book of the Past 
Time silently closes — 
■No longer he mourns — ■ ^o 

No longer he frets — 
Nothing he scorns — 
Nothing regrets — 
But calmly reposes 

lUnder nettles and thorns, ^5 

itJnder lilies and roses. 




As even a tiny shell recalls 

The presence of the sea. 
So gazing on this cross of bronze. 

The Past recurs to me. 

I see the Stars and Bars unfurled, ^ 

And like a meteor rise 
To flash upon a startled world, 

A wonder in the skies. 

I see the gathering of the hosts. 
As like a flood they come — ^^ 

I hear the shrieking of the fife — 
The growling of the drum. 

I see the tattered Flag afloat 

Above the flaming line — 
Its ragged folds, to dying eyes, ^ 

A token and a sign. 

I see the charging hosts advance — 

I see the slow retreat — 
I hear the shouts of victory — 

The curses of defeat. 20 

I see the grass of many fields 
With crimson life-blood wet — 

I see the dauntless eyes ablaze 
Above the bayonet. 

I hear the crashing of the shells 25 

In Chickamauga's pines — 
I hear the fierce, defiant yells, 

Eing down the waiting lines. 


I hear the voices of the dead — 

Of comrades tried and true — '" 

I see the pallid lips of those 

Who died for me and you. 

With back to earth, wherever raged 

The battle's deadliest brunt, 
I see the men I loved — thank God, ^^ 

With all their wounds in front. 

The many varied scenes of war 

Upon my vision rise — 
I hear the widow's piteous wail, 

I hear the orphan's cries. 

I see the Stars and Bars refurled. 

Unstained, in Glory's hand. 
And Peace once more her wings unfold 

Above a stricken land. 



All this and more, this little Cross *^ 

Recalls to heart and brain — 
Beneath its mystic influence 

The dead Past lives again. 

And friends who take a parting look 

When I am laid to rest, 
Will see beside the cross of Christ, 

This cross upon my breast. 


A flash from the edge of a hostile trench, 

A puff of smoke, — a roar. 
Whose echo shall roll from Kennesaw hills, — 

To the farthermost Christian shore, — 
Proclaims to the world that the warrior-priest 

Will battle for right no more. ® 



And that for a cause which is sanctified 

By the blood of martyrs unknown, — 

A cause for which they gave their lives. 

And for which he gave his own ; ^^ 

He kneels, a meek ambassador. 

At the foot of the Father's throne. 

And up in the courts of another world 
That angels alone have trod. 

He lives, away from the din and strife " 

Of this blood-bespriukled sod, 

Crowned with the amaranthine wreath 
That is worn by the blest of God. 


Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight. 
Not in the rush upon the vandal foe. 

Did kindly Death, with his resistless might. 
Lay the great leader low. 

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke ^ 

In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; 

When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak 
That propped our cause went down. 

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, 
Recalling all his grand heroic deeds, i" 

Freedom herself is writhing in the wound. 
And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land 
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth, ^* 

But broke the House of Bondage with his hand— 
The Moses of the South ! 



gracious God, not gainless is the loss: 
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; 

And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross, 
He rises with the Crown ! 20 

Together. What is the figure running through 
this: trace it. 

That's All. What spirit pervades these lines? 
What type of lyric is it? Its measure and scheme 
of rhymes? Interpret it throughout. 

The Cross op Honor. Type of poem? 5. 
'" Stars and Bars " : the standard of the Confederacy. 
11, 13. Forceful epithets. See, also, in lines 15, 23, 
25, 34, etc. 

Polk. See introductory sketch of the author for 
history of this poem. How many different kinds 
of feet in the poem? What is the movement? 5. 
''Warrior-priest": Leonidas Polk, born in Ealeigh, 
N". C, a graduate of the University of that State and 
of the United States Military Academy at West 
Point, became a bishop in the Protestant Episcopal 
church. He took up arms in the Southern cause and 
as a lieutenant-general exhibited remarkable strat- 
egy in the field. 17. "Amaranthine": fadeless. 

Stonewall Jackson. Another ringing war lyric, 
and one of the author's best poems. 13-16. Explain 
the allusions. 


Theophilus Hunter Hill 

Mr. Hill was a North Carolinian, born in Wake 
Connty, October 31, 1836. Though admitted to the 
bar, he never practiced his profession. His leanings 
were toward literature, and he gave his life to the 
pursuit of it. At one time he was editor of the 
Spirit of the Age, published in Ealeigh. At another 
he held the place of State Librarian, a position that 
was especially congenial to one of his tendencies. 

His earliest book, " Hesper, and Other Poems," 
published in Ealeigh, 1861, was the first volume of 
verse under copyright of the Confederacy. " Poems," 
his second collection, appeared in New York, 1869; 
and his third, and last, " Passion Flower, and Other 
Poems," bears the imprint of P. W. Wiley, Ealeigh, 
1883. The closing days of his life were spent in a 
final revision of such of his work as he desired to 
have survive. This task he left unfinished. 

Hill's lines are carefully wrought. He had the 
poet's true feeling for beauty. Tennyson and Poe 
were his masters, yet his songs are a faithful expres- 
sion of his own pure life. 


Freighted vrith fruits, aflush with flowers,— 
Oblations to ofEended powers, — 
What fairy-like flotillas gleam. 
At night, on Brahma's sacred stream; 


The while, ashore, on bended knees * 

Benighted Hindoo devotees 
Sue for their silvery, silken sails 
The advent of auspicious gales! 

Such gorgeous pageant I have seen 

Drift down the Ganges, while I stood, i" 
Within the banian's bosky screen. 

And gazed on his transfigured flood: 
Around each consecrated bark, 
That sailed into the outer dark, 
What lambent lights those lanterns gave ! ^^ 

What opalescent mazes played, 
Ee-duplicated on the wave. 

While, to and fro, like censers swayed. 
They made it luminous to glass 
Their fleeting splendors ere they pass! 


O'er each, as shimmering it swung, 
A haze of crimson halo hung, 
Begirt by folds of billowy mist. 
Suffused with purpling amethyst: 
From these, still fainter halos flung, ^5 

Lent each to some refracted zone 
Hues of a lustre not its own, 
Till, satellite of satellite. 
Eluding my bewildered sight. 
In gloomier eddies of the stream, ^^ 

Eetained no more a borrowed beam: 
Thus, one by one, their sparkling sails. 
Distended by Sabean gales, 
I saw those votive vessels glide, 
Resplendent, o'er the swelling tide, ^^ 

While each, with its attendant shade. 
Or dusk, or radiant ripples made ; 


These flashing into fiery hloom ; 

Those smouldering into garnet-gloom! 

All this I saw, or else, at night, *" 

Pursuing Fancy in her flight, 

I paused beneath what seemed to be 

The umbrage of a banian-tree. 

And down the Ganges of a dream 

Beheld that gay flotilla gleam. *^ 

It seems to me but yesterday. 

Since off the beach of Promise lay 

The brilliant barges Hope had wrought. 

And young Desire had richly fraught, 

(Alas! how soon such tissues fade!) ^^ 

With fragile stuff, whence dreams are made ! 

Proud owner of that fleet, I stood. 

Gazing on the transfigured flood. 

And saw its constellated sails. 

Expanded by propitious gales, ^5 

Till shallop after shallop flew, — 

As fresher yet the breezes blew, — 

In joyous quest of full fruition. 

To swift and terrible perdition ! 

Some, in life's vernal equinox, 6o 

O'er desperate seas to wreck were 
driven ; 

And others struck on sunken rocks, 
'Or, in the night, by lightning riven. 
Burned to the water's edge ; while they ** 
That, not unscathed, but still unshattered, 
Survived the storm, were widely scattered; 

One only kept its destined way, 



To sink — ^no friendly consort near — 
In sight of port, at close of day, 
When seas were calm, and skies were 

clear! " 

' While I nodded, nearly napping." — The Raven. 

The drowsy hum of the- murmuring hees. 

Hovering over the lavender trees. 

Steals through half-shut lattices, — ■ 

As awake or asleep, I scarce know which, 

I lazily loll near a window-niche, ^ 

Whose gossamer curtains are softly stirred 

By the gauzy wings of a humming-bird. 

From airy heights, the feathery down. 
Blown from the nettle's nodding crown. 
Weary with wandering everywhere, i"* 

Sails slowly to earth through the sultry air; 
While indolent zephyrs, oppressed with 

Stolen from many a balmy bloom. 
Are falling asleep within the room. 

Now floating afar, now hovering near, ^ 

Dull to the eye and dumb to the ear. 
Grow the shapes that I see, the sounds that 

I hear; 
Every murmur around dies into my dream. 
Save only the song of a sylvan stream. 
Whose burden, set to a somnolent tune, ^o 

Has lulled the whispering leaves of June, 


All things are hazy, and dreamy, and dim ; 

The flies in lazier circles swim; 

On slumberous wings, on muffled feet. 

Imaginary sounds retreat; 26 

And the clouds — Elysian isles that lie 

In the bright blue sea of Summer sky — 

Fade out, before my closing eye. 

"It is no friendly environment, — this of thine." — Cabltle. 

By no grim gaoler am I held in thrall; 

I bear about no galling ball and chain; 
No sentries guard a castellated wall. 

Lest I attempt my freedom to regain; 
Yet here are fetters others may not see, ^ 

That chafe and fret and, like a canker, eat; — 
While, out of call, — though visible to me, — 

What ghostly warders glide on stealthy feet! 
So long have I within this dungeon dwelt, 

I were too weak, had I the will to fly ; i" 

For, chilled by frost no sun may ever melt, 

My palsied pinions dream not of the sky : 
They once were nerved by hope and high intent. 
But how could these survive this drear environment ? 

A Ganges Dream. The diction in this is worthy 
of study. 4. "Brahma's sacred stream": the 
Ganges. 6. "Hindoo devotees": Hindoo worship- 
pers. 11. "Banian's bosky screen"; the banian is a 
tree of India whose branches project limbs to the 
ground. These take root and form new trunks and 
in time cover hundreds of feet in area. 33. " Sa- 
bean " : Saba, in Arabia, celebrated for the production 


of aromatic plants. 67-70. What is the poet's prob- 
able meaning? 

An Ideal Siesta. This picture is well-nigh per- 
fect. One of the lines characterizes it — 

" All things are hazy and dreamy and dim." 

By what means chieily is this effect reached? 

In Vinoulis. This sonnet appears here for the 
first time. The title is Latin and means "in 
chains." The author rarely used this poetical form, 
but once he has made it the vehicle for the vigorous 
expression of intense feeling. 


Sarah M. B. Piatt 


Mrs. Piatt's maiden name was Sarah Morgan 
Bryan. She is a native of Kentucky, — a grand- 
daughter of Morgan Bryan, one of the early settlers 
of the Middle West who went out with Daniel Boone 
from North Carolina. Miss Bryan was educated at 
New Castle, Ky., and in 1861 was married to John 
J. Piatt, the poet and diplomat. The couple have 
been called the wedded poets. 

Mrs. Piatt has published numerous works, and she 
still contributes to the press. Some of her books 
are "A Woman's Poems," "A Voyage to the For- 
tunate Isles," " That New World, and Other Poems," 
" Poems in Company with Children," " An Irish 
Garland," « Child-World Ballads," « An Enchanted 
Castle," etc. Her work has been well received both 
in America and in England. 


Sweet World, if you will hear me now : 
I may not own a sounding Lyre 

And wear my name upon my brow 
Like some great jewel quick with fire. 

But let me, singing, sit apart, ' 

In tender quiet with a few, 
And keep my fame upon my heart, 

A little blush-rose wet with dew. 



"My mother says I must not pass 
Too near that glass; 
She is afraid that I will see 
A little witch that looks like me. 
With red, red mouth to whisper low ^ 

The very thing I should not know ! " 

" Alack for all your mother's care ! 

A bird of air, 

A wistful wind, or (I suppose 

Sent by some hapless boy) a rose, ^° 

With breath too sweet, will .whisper low 

The very thing you should not know ! " 


I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, 
Than any story painted in your books. 

You are so glad ? It wiU not make you gladder ; 
Yet listen, with your pretty, restless looks. 

"Is it a fairy story?" Well, half fairy, — ^ 

At least it dates far back as fairies do. 

And seems to me as beautiful and airy ; 
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. 

You had a baby sister and a brother 

(Two very dainty people, rosy white, ^'' 

Each sweeter than all things except the other!) 

Older yet younger, gone from human sight ! 

And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever. 
And think with yearning tears how each light hand 

Crept towards bright bloom or berries, I shall never 
Know how I lost them. Do you understand ? ^* 



Poor sightly golden heads ! I think I missed them 
First, in some dreamy, piteous, douhtM way; 

But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them, 
My gradual parting, I can never say. ^*> 

Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished 
In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss, 

Near paths whose very pehbles I have cherished. 
For their small sakes, since my most lovely loss. 

I fancy, too, that they were softly covered ^^ 

By robins, out of apple-flowers they knew, 

Whose nursing wings in far home sunshine hovered. 
Before the timid world had dropped the dew. 

Their names were — ^what yours are! At this you 

Their pictures are — ^your own, as you have seen; ^^ 
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under 

Lost leaves — ^why it is your dead selves I mean ! 

Envoy. What is the exact thought? 2. " Lyre " : 
what figure? 4. A fine figure here; what? 7. 

The Witch in the Glass. The author here and 
in the next selection proves sheTias not forgotten the 
path back into childhood. 

My Babies in the Wood. What allusion in the 
title? What kind of poem is this? Scheme and 
kind of rhymes? Scan one stanza. Is the story 
brightened at the close? What impression does it 
leave as a whole? It is informed with love and 
tenderness. It is one of the poems that should be 
read more than once. 


Mary Ashley Townsend 


Mrs. Townsend's maiden name was Van Voorhis. 
Though born in Lyons, N. Y., she was married to 
Mr. Gideon Townsend, of New Orleans, and had 
made that city her home. 

Her first contributions, a series of humorous papers 
entitled " Quillotypes," in the New Orleans Delta, 
appeared under the pen name, "Xariffa." Other 
works of hers are "Poems," published in Philadel- 
phia, 1870; and "Down the Bayou, and Other 
Poems," Boston, 1884. She was officially appointed 
to deliver the poem at the opening of the New 
Orleans Exposition, 1884 ; and that one at the unveil- 
ing of the statue of Albert Sidney Johnston, 1887. 


I believe if I should die. 

And you should kiss my eyelids while I lie 

Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains, 
The folded orbs would open at thy breath. 
And from its exile in the isles of death ^ 

Life would come gladly back along my veins. 

I believe if I were dead. 

And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, 

Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be. 
It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch ^^ 

Of thee it ever loved in life so much. 

And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee. 


I believe if on my grave. 

Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave, ^* 

Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret, 
From every salty seed of thy dear grief 
Some fair sweet blossom wovdd leap into leaf, 

To prove death could not make my love forget. 

I believe if I shotild fade 

Into those mystic realms where light is made, 2" 

And you should long once more my face to see, 
I would come forth upon the hills of night 
And gather stars like fagots, till thy sight. 

Led by the beacon blaze, fell full on me. 

I believe my faith in thee 25 

Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be, 

I would as soon expect to see the sun 
Fall like a dead king from his height sublime. 
His glory stricken from the throne of time. 

As thee unworth the worship thou hast won. '" 

I believe who hath not loved 

Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved. 

Like the one who with the grape within his grasp 
Drops it with all its crimson juice nnpressed. 
And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed, '^ 

Out from his careless and unheeding dasp. 

I believe love, pure and true. 

Is to the soul a sweet immortal dew 

That gems life's petals in its hours of dusk, — 
The waiting angels see and recognize *" 

The rich crown jewel, Love, of Paradise, 

When life falls from us like a withered husk. 



■Par up the lonely mountain-side 

My wandering footsteps led ; 
The moss lay thick heneath my feet. 

The pine sighed overhead. 
The trace of a dismantled fort ^ 

Lay in the forest nave, 
And in the shadow near my path 

I saw a soldier's grave. 

The bramble wrestled with the weed 

Upon the lowly mound, ^^ 

The simple headboard, rudely writ. 

Had rotted to the ground; 
I raised it with a reverent hand, 

From dust its words to clear. 
But time had blotted all but these — ^^ 

"A Georgia Volunteer!" 

I saw the toad and scaly snake 

From tangled covert start. 
And hide themselves among the weeds 

Above the dead man's heart; ^o 

But undisturbed, in sleep profound. 

Unheeding, there he lay; 
His coffin but the mountain soil. 

His shroud Confederate Gray. 

I heard the Shenandoah roll 
Along the vale below, 

I saw the Alleghanies rise 
Towards the realms of snow. 



The " Valley Campaign " rose to mind, — 
Its leader's name, — and then ^^ 

I knew the sleeper had been one 
Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say? 

Whose tongue will ever tell 
iWhat desolated hearths and hearts ^^ 

Have been because he fell? 
What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair. 

Her hair which he held dear? — 
One lock of which, perchance, lies with 

The Georgia Volunteer ! ** 

What mother, with long watching eyes 

And white lips cold and dumb. 
Waits with appalling patience for 

Her darling boy to come? 
Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells up *5 

But one of many ^ scar 
Cut on the face of our fair land 

By gory-handed war. 

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore. 

Are all unknown to fame; ^o 

Remember, on his lonely grave 

There is not e'en a name ! 
That he fought weU and bravely, too. 

And held his country dear. 
We know, else he had never been bb 

A ©eorgia Volimteer. 

He sleeps — ^what need to question now 

If he were wrong or right? 
He knows ere this whose cause was just 

In God the Father's sight. so 



He wields no warlike weapons now, 
Eeturns no foeman's thrust, — 

Who but a coward would revile 
An honest soldier's dust? 

Eoll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, ^ 

Adown thy rocky glen. 
Above thee lies the grave of one 

Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 
Beneath the cedar and the pine. 

In solitude austere, ^o 

Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 

A Georgia Volunteer. 

Creed. There is some sincerity in these lines; 
yet do they lack it anywhere? Examine them with 
these points in mind. What is the metrical scheme ? 

A Georgia Volunteer. Classify this poem. 6. 
"ISTave": meaning? 9. Figure? 29. "Valley 
Campaign": Jackson's memorable campaign in the 
Valley of Virginia. 65-73'. Two echoes of Byron 
here ; point them out. The poem is a noble tribute 
to the brave unknown dead. 


Abram J. Ryan 


This writer is known both as " Father Eyan " and 
as "the Poet-Priest." He was born of Irish parent- 
age, in Norfolk, Va., but the family removed 'to St. 
Louis, where the boy received the training prepara- 
tory to entrance at the Catholic Seminary, of 
Niagara, N. Y. 

Through a deep spiritual" conviction he was or- 
dained into the priesthood, and at the opening of 
the Civil War was chosen a chaplain, though his fiery 
enthusiasm for the cause of the South often led him 
into the ranks. This intense devotion is vividly 
shown in his fierce lyrics, " The Sword of Lee " and 
" The Conquered Banner." For a long time he re- 
fused to accept the results of the struggle, and used 
much of his time in lecturing for the aid of the 
widows, orphans, and maimed soldiers of the South. 

His last years were spent in the faithful pursuit 
of his ministerial duties, — in Mississippi, Tennessee, 
Georgia — editing at one time The Banner of the 
South, and venting in it his indignation upon the 
iniquitous Eeconstructionists. He died in a Francis- 
can monastery, at Louisville. 

There is a prevailing note of melancholy in many 
of Eyan's poems, — attributable, very likely, to the 
loss of an early love. One of his longer pieces, 
"Their Story Eunneth Thus," leads one to this con- 
clusion. Still, his songs are wholesome. They deal 
with the serious experiences of life — its disappoint- 


ments, changes, defeats, end ; but there is an abiding 
faith through all. From a technical point his work is 
defective. He recognized this himself, for he tells us 
in his preface: "They were written at random — • 
off and on, here, there and everywhere, just as the 
mood came ; with little study and less of art, and al- 
ways in a hurry." 


Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary ; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
For there's not a man to wave it. 
And there's not a sword to save it, ^ 

And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 

Furl it, hide it — ^let it rest ! 

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; ^^ 
Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it ; 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; ^^ 

Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 
Once ten thousand hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousand wildly, madly, ^^ 

Swore it should forever wave; 



Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever. 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave! ^^ 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it. 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it. 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner — it is trailing! 
While around it sounds the wailing *•* 

Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it ! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! ^ 

But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, 
Now who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory. 

Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 

And 'twill live in song and story, *" 

Though its folds are in the dust: 
For its fame on brightest pages. 
Penned by poets and by sages. 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must. *^ 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — ^unfold it never. 
Let it droop there, furled forever, 5" 

For its people's hopes are dead ! 



(Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright. 

Plashed the sword of Lee! 
Par in the front of the deadly fight. 

High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, ^ 

Led us to victory. 

Out of its scabbard, where full long 

It slumbered peacefully. 
Roused from its rest by the battle's song. 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, i' 

Guarding the right, avenging the wrong. 

Gleamed the sword of Lee. 

Porth from its scabbard, high in air 

Beneath Virginia's sky — 
And they who saw it gleaming there. 
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
That where that sword led they would dare 
To follow — and to die. 


Out of its scabbard ! Never hand 
Waved sword from stain as free ; 
Nor purer sword led braver band, 
Nor braver bled for a brighter land, 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 
Nor cause a chief like Lee ! 



Porth from its scabbard ! How we prayed 

That sword might victor be; 
And when our triumph was delayed. 
And many a heart grew sore afraid. 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 

Of noble Robert Lee. *" 



Forth from its scabbard all in vain 
Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, 
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain. 
Defeated, yet without a stain, ss 

Proudly and peacefully. 


Out of the shadows of sadness. 
Into the sunshine of gladness. 

Into the light of the blest ; 
Out of a land very dreary. 
Out of the world very weary, 5 

Into the rapture of rest. 

Out of to-day's sin and sorrow. 
Into a blissful to-morrow, 

Into a day without gloom; 
Out of a land filled with sighing, i" 

Land of the dead and the dying. 

Into a land without tomb. 

Out of a life of commotion. 
Tempest-swept oft as the ocean. 

Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er, ^^ 
Into a, land calm and quiet; 
Ifever a storm cometh nigh it, 

Never a wreck on its shore. 

Out of a land in whose bowers 

Perish and fade all the flowers; 20 

Out of the land of decay. 
Into the Eden where fairest 
Of flowerets, and sweetest and rarest. 

Never shall wither away. 


Out of the world of the wailing ^5 

Thronged with the anguished and aUing; 

Out of the world of the sad. 
Into the world that rejoices — 
World of bright visions and voices — 

Into the world of the glad. ^^ 

Out of a life ever mournful. 
Out of a land very lornful. 

Where in bleak exile we roam. 
Into a joy-land above us, 
Where there's a Father to love us — ^^ 

Into our home — " Sweet Home." 


Cometh a voice from a far-land. 

Beautiful, sad, and low; 
Shineth a light from the star-land 

Down on the night of my woe ; 
And a white hand, with a garland, ^ 

Biddeth my spirit to go. 

Away and afar from the night-land. 
Where sorrow o'ershadows my way. 

To the splendors and skies of the light-land. 
Where reigneth eternity's day, — ^° 

To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land. 
Whose sun never passeth away. 

And I knew the voice ; not a sweeter 

On earth or in Heaven can be ; 
And never did shadow pass fleeter 

Than it, and its strange melody; 
And I know I must hasten to meet her, 

" Yea, Sister! Thou callest to me ! " 



And I saw the light ; 'twas not seeming, 
It flashed from the crown that she wore, 2® 

And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming. 
My lips had kissed often of yore ! 

And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming. 
Had smiled on me sweetly before. 

And I saw the hand with the garland, "^ 

Ethel's hand — holy and fair; 
Who went long ago to the far-land 

To weave me the wreath I shall wear; 
And to-night I look up to the star-land 

And pray that I soon may be there. '' 

The Conquered Bannek. In its exalted mood 
and complicated metrical structure this assumes the 
nature of an ode. 26, 37. The figurative and the lit- 
eral; a defect. 39. "Banner — it": what figure? 
35. What nature of the author here disclosed? 49- 
51. What spirit toward the Union is evinced? 

The Sword op Lee. A war lyric. Its stanzas 
are regular. 31-34. This climax reveals the author's 
exalted opinion of Lee; how? 

Death. Eyan's spirit was in accord with this 
theme. What is the measure and stanza structure? 
Is the poem strengthening? 

Presentiment. Classify as to type. 1. " A 
voice": that of his lost love. Allusions are made 
elsewhere to this early loss. 30. This yearning for 
death often finds expression in his verses. 


James Ryder Randall 


Eandall was a Baltimorean. He received his scho- 
lastic training at Georgetown College, Washington, 
and when a young man went to Louisiana, where 
he held for some time a professorship in Poydras Col- 
lege, at Point Coupee. There he wrote the poem by 
which he is best known. Afterwards he was con- 
nected with the Sunday Delta, in New Orleans, and 
still later with the Constitutionalist at Augusta, Ga. 
He was an ardent supporter of the Southern cause, 
though his physical condition kept him from the 

"For six years," he writes from Augusta, Ga., 
February 19, 1904, " I was private secretary of Hon. 
Wm. H. Fleming, congressman from this district. I 
have done a great deal of editorial writing on various 
Bubjects. At present I may describe myself as living 
by my wits — turning my hand to whatever honorably 
presents itself." 

His poems have recently been collected, and some 
of them are of surpassing excellence. In addition 
to those included here, the following, are eminently 
worth study, " The Sole Sentry," " The Battle-Cry of 
the South," and " There's Life in the Old Land Yet." 


Eva sits on the ottoman there, 
Sits by a Psyche carved in stone. 

With just such a face and just such an air 
As Esther upon her throne. 


She's sifting lint for the brave who bled, ^ 

And I watch her fingers float and flow 

Over the linen, as thread by thread 
It flakes to her lap like snow. 

A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist. 

Wrought as CeUini's were at Rome, ^" 

Out of the tears of the amethyst 
And the wan Vesuvian foam. 

And full on the bauble-crest alway, 

A cameo image, keen and fine. 
Gleams thy impetuous knife, Corday, ^^ 

And the lava-locks are thine. 

I thought of the war-wolves on our trail. 
Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of 

Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil. 

Drooped with its wizard flood ; 2' 

Till the surly blaze through the iron bars 
Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry. 

While a lank howl plunged from the Champ 
de Mars 
To the Column of July; 

Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, ^5 
And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown; 

For Eva was not on the ottoman there 
By Psyche carved in stone. 

She grew like a Pythoness, flushed with fate, 
. 'Mid the incantation in her gaze, '" 

A lip of scorn, an arm of hate, 
A dirge of the Marseillaise ! 


Eva, the vision was not wild 

When wreaked on the tyrants of the land; 
For you were transfigured to Ifemesis, child. 
With the dagger in your hand ! '® 


The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore ^ 

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland! " 

My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal. 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 


Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland! ^^ 

Remember Carroll's sacred trust; 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 



Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, ^5 

Maryland ! 
Come ! with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
With Watson's blood, at Monterey, ^ 

With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 35 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
"Sic Semper," — 'tis the proud refrain. 
That bafiBes minions back amain, 

Maryland ! *<> 

Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come I for thy dalliance does thee wrong, ^^ 

Maryland ! 
Come! to thine own heroic throng. 
Striding with Liberty along. 
And ring thy dauntless slogan song, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! ^^ 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But, lo ! there surges forth a shriek ^^ 

Prom hill to hill, from creek to creek, — 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Marj'land! My Maryland! 


Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 8" 

Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll. 
Better the shot, the hlade, the bowl. 
Than crucifixion of the soul, ^^ 

Maryland! My Maryland! 

I hear the distant thunder-hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland! ^o 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb — 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes — she burns! she'll come! 
she'll come! 

Maryland! My Maryland! 


Just as the Spring came laughing through the strife. 

With all its gorgeous cheer. 
In the bright April of historic life 

Fell the great cannoneer. 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath ^ 

His bleeding country weeps ; 
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death 

Our young Marcellus sleeps. 

Nobler and grander than the Child of Eome, 

Curbing his chariot steeds; " 

The knightly scion of a Southern home 
Dazzled the land with deeds. 


Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt. 

The champion of the truth. 
He bore his banner to the very front ^ 

Of our immortal youth. 

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow. 

The fiery pang of shells. 
And there's a wail of immemorial woe 

In Alabama dells. 20 

The pennon droops that led the sacred band 

Along the crimson field; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand 

Over the spotless shield. 

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face ^6 

While round the lips and eyes, 
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace 

Of a divine surprise. 

Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high. 

Thy tears may soon be shed; s' 

Think of thy boy with princes of the sky 

Among the Southern dead. 

How must he smile on this dull world beneath. 

Fevered with swift renown; 
He with the martyr's amaranthine wreath '5 

Twiaing the victor's crovni. 


The stately column, reared in air. 

To him who made our country great. 
Can almost cast its shadow where 
The victims of a grand despair, 


In long, long ranks of death await 
The last, loud trump and Judgment Sun, 

Which comes for all, and, soon or late. 
Will come for those at Arlington. 

In that vast sepulchre repose 

The thousands reaped from every fray; 
The Men in Blue who once uprose 
In battle front to smite their foes — 

The Spartan bands who wore the Gray. 
The combat o'er, the death-hug done. 

In Summer blaze or Winter snows. 
They keep the truce at Arlington. 

And almost lost in myriad graves 

Of those who gained th' unequal fight. 

Are mounds that hide Confederate braves 

Who reck not how the ITorth wind raves. 
In dazzling day or dimmest night. 

O'er those who lost and those who won. 
Death holds no. parley which was right — 

Jehovah judges Arlington! 

The dead h^d rest ; the dove of peace 
Brooded o'er both with equal wings. 

To both had come that great surcease. 

The last omnipotent release 
From all the world's delirious stings. 

To bugle deaf and signal gun, 

They slept, like heroes of old Greece, 

Beneath the glebe at Arlington. 

And in the Spring's benignant reign. 

The sweet May woke her harp of pines; 
Teaching her choir a thrilling strain 
Of jubilee to land and main, 


She danced in emerald down the lines. 
Denying largess bright to none. 

She saw no difference in the signs 
That told who slept at Arlington. 

She gave her grasses and her showers 
To all alike who dreamed in dust ; 

Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers 

Amid the Jasmine buds and flowers 
And piped with an impartial trust. 

Waifs of the air and liberal sun ! 
Their guileless glees were kind and just 

To friend and foe at Arlington. 

And 'mid the generous Spring there came 
Some women of the land, who strove 

To make this funeral field of fame 

Glad as the May god's altar flame. 
With rosy wreaths of mutual love 

Unmindful who had lost or won. 

They scorned the jargon of a name — 

No North, no South, at Arlington. 

Between their pious thought and God 
Stood files of men with brutal steel; 

The garlands placed on " Rebel sod " 

Were trampled in the common clod 
To die beneath the hireling's heel. 

Facing this triumph of the Hun, 
Our Smoky Csesar gave no nod 

To keep the peace at Arlington. 

Jehovah judged, abashing man; 
For, in the vigils of the night. 
His mighty storm-avengers ran 
Together in one choral clan 

o^ o 


Rebuking wrong, rewarding right. 
Plucking the wreaths from those who won, 

The tempest heaped them dewy-bright 
On Rebel graves at Arlington 

And, when the morn came, young and fair. 
Brimful of blushes ripe and red. 

Knee-deep in sky-sent roses there, 

Nature began her earliest prayer 
Above triumphant Southern Dead. 

So, in the dark and in the sun. 

Our Cause survives the tyrant's tread 

And sleeps to wake at Arlington ! 

The Cameo Bracelet. 2. "Psyche": explain. 
4. "Esther": what character and what attribute of 
hers are suggested in the preceding line ? 10. " Cel- 
lini": an Italian artist in metal. 15. "De Corday 
d'Armons," a French heroine; the assassinator of 
Marat. 23. "Champ de Mars": one of the parks 
in Paris. 24. " Column of July " : erected in Place 
de la BastUe, Paris, to commemorate the French 
Revolution of 1830. 30. "Pythoness": a female 
supposed to have a spirit of divination. 36. " Neme- 
sis": the goddess of vengeance. What kind of a 
lyric, and what is the central thought ? 

Maryland. It would be difiBcult to find in any 
language a war lyric that bums with a fiercer passion 
than this. It has been called the Marseillaise of the 
Confederacy. It was written one night in 1861 at 
Point Coupee, as has been stated, and was published 
in Baltimore to the air of an old German Burschen- 
lied. In that year it is no wonder such ringing lines, 
set to such stirring music, fired the souls of seven 
millions of people. 31. Charles Carroll, of Carroll- 


ton, one of the signers of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence. 23. John Eager Howard, a Eevolutionary 
leader, who displayed great gallantry, — notably at 
the battle .of Cowpens, where at one time in the day 
he held the swords of seven British ofBcers who had 
surrendered to him. Explain other references to 
persons. Is there any irregidarity in the stanza 

John- Pelham. Compare with John Esten Cooke's 
poem on the same subject, p. 172. 8. " llarcellus " : 
a Roman consul; the conqueror of Syracuse. The 
forceful diction and the striking figures are worthy 
of special notice. 

At Aelington. On the day that the graves of the 
Federal soldiers buried at Arlington were decorated, 
in 1869, a number of ladies entered the cemetery for 
the purpose of placing flowers on the graves of thirty 
Confederates. Their progress was stopped by bayo- 
nets, and they were not allowed to perform their mis- 
sion of love. During the night a high wind arose, 
and in the morning all the floral offerings that had 
been placed the day before upon the Federal graves 
were found piled upon the mounds under which re- 
posed the thirty Confederates. What men had de- 
nied nature had granted; nay, had taken into her 
own hands to perform. 


John Lancaster Spalding 


Bishop Spalding was born in Lebanon, Ky. After 
his preparatory studies were finished at St. Mary's, 
Ky., he went to Mount St. Mary's, Cincinnati, and 
thence to the American College, Louvain, Belgium, 
where he was ordained priest in 1863. A year then 
spent in special studies in Rome found him well 
equipped to begin his lifework. In 1865 he entered 
upon his priestly oareer at the Cathedral of Louis- 
ville. Even at this time he was a scholar of marked 
attainments, and was chosen theologian to Arch- 
bishop Blanchet, of Oregon, at the second Plenary 
Council, Baltimore, in 1866. 

On May 1, 1877, he was consecrated first bishop 
of the diocese of Peoria. His inheritance of talent 
and piety had been so largely increased by his per- 
sonal worth that he at once took high rank in a dis- 
tinguished hierarchy. 

Two books of virile verse, " America, and Other 
Poems " and " The Poet's Praise," gave assurance of 
his gifts. This assurance has been made doubly sure 
by his " God and the Soul," published in 1903. 

He is active in educational and literary move- 
ments, and is a vigorous writer on various subjects. 
His poems are notable for their imaginative range 
and religious fervor, 


Inaudible move day and night. 
And noiseless grows the flower; 

Silent are pulsing wings of light, 
And voiceless fleets the hour. 


The moon utters no word when she ^ 

Walks through the heavens bare; 

The stars forever silent flee. 

And songless gleam through air. 

The deepest love is voiceless too; 

Heart sorrow makes no moan: i* 

How still the zephyrs when they wool 

How calm the rose full blown! 

The bird winging the evening sky 

Flies onward without song; 
The crowding years as they pass by ^ 

Plow on in mutest throng. 

The fishes glide through liquid deep 

And never speak a word; 
The angels round about us sweep. 

And not a whisper's heard. 20 

The highest thoughts no utterance find^ 

The holiest hope is dumb. 
In silence grows the immortal mind. 

And, speechless, deep joys come. 

Eapt adoration has no tongue 25 

No words has holiest prayer; 

The loftiest mountain-peaks among 
Is stillness everywhere. 

With sweetest music silence blends. 

And silent praise is best; ^o 

In silence life begins and ends: 
God cannot be expressed. 



The countless stars, which to our human eye 
Are fixed and steadfast, each in proper place. 
Forever bound to changeless points in space. 

Rush with our sun and planets through the sky, 

And like a flock of birds still onward fly; ^ 

Returning never whence began their race. 
They speed their ceaseless way with gleaming face 

As though God bade them win Infinity. 

Ah, whither, whither is their forward fiight 

Through endless time and limitless expanse ? ^^ 

What Power with unimaginable might 

First hurled them forth to spin in tireless dance? 

What Beauty lures them on through primal night. 
So that for them to be is to advance ? 


The vast abyss of space is without light. 
Forever dark, and like deep hidden mine. 
Where, here and there, rich glomng rubies shine; 

While all else lies clothed in eternal night. 

The watcher on the loftiest mountain height ^ 

In the full noon sees all the starp in line. 
Burning like lamps before a holy shrine, 

As through the dark it breaks on pilgrim's sight. 

So in the boundless world of truth we see 
But little isles that brighten to our' eyes, " 

While all else lies lost in obscurity; 

And we move on amid the dim-lit skies. 

From point to point through the dark mystery. 
Still calling God with our sad, piteous cries. 



Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? 

sadder than the ocean's wailing moan, 

Sadder than homes whence life and joy have flown. 
Than graves where those we love in darkness lie; 
More full of anguish than all agony 

Of broken hearts, forsaken of their own 

And left in hopeless misery alone. 
Is this, sweet and loving Christ, Thy cry I 
For this, this only is infinite pain: 

To feel that God Himself has turned away. 
If He abide all loss may still be gain. 

And darkest night be beautiful as day. 
But lacking Him the universe is vain. 

And man's immortal soul is turned to clay. 

SiLEsrcE. 24. A halting line. 32. The thought 
of the entire poem is gathered up in this one line. 

The Starry Host. The poet is strongest in his 
sonnets. This and the others given are of remem- 
berable excellence. They are found in his last book, 
" God and the Soul," a volume containing this form 
almost exclusively. What theory of the stellar uni- 
verse is referred to in this ? 

At the Ninth Hour. What greater theme was 
ever taken than these tragic, last words of our 
Saviour? One cannot resist the feeling that if the 
poet had worked his thought up to them as his last 
line the efEect would have been more powerful ; but it 
is a great sonnet as it stands. 


William Gordon McCabe 


Mr. McCabe is a Virginian, a graduate of the uni- 
versity of that State, and until recently the director 
of a high school, first established in Petersburg, but 
afterwards removed to Eichmond. In the Civil War 
he was a captain of artillery, and did valiant service 
throughout that conflict. At Appomattox Court- 
house, just before the surrender, and after it was 
known that the Army of Northern Virginia would be 
surrendered, McCabe, Eichard Walke, James Din- 
widdle, John Hampden Chamberlayne, and other dis- 
tinguished yoimg artillery officers, concluding that 
they were not willing to give up the fight, left the 
army before the surrender and gradually made their 
way through the country towards General Johnston's 
division, near Greensboro, N. C, where they intended 
to report for duty — and did; but General Johnston 
surrendered before they had an opportunity to see 
any further service. McCabe was paroled in Eich- 
mond in May, 1865. 

Besides occasional poems, he has written essays, 
reviews, sketches, and translations from the ecclesi- 
astical poetry of the Middle Ages. He is an author- 
ity on Latin. Dr. Gildersleeve speaks of him as " a 
Latinist of exact and penetrating scholarship." He 
enjoyed the friendship of Tennyson, and wrote for 
the Century Magazine, March, 1902, his personal 
recollections of the great poet. 



The wintry blast goes wailing by. 

The snow is falling overhead; 

I hear the lonely sentry's tread. 
And distant watch-fires light the sky. 

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom ; ^ 
The soldiers cluster round the blaze 
To talk of other Christmas days, 

And softly speak of love and home. 

My sabre swinging overhead 
Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, ^* 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow. 

And memory leads me to the dead. 

My thoughts go wandering to and fro. 
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then ; 
I see the low-browed home again, ^^ 

The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. 

And sweetly from the far-off years 

Comes borne the laughter faint and low. 
The voices of the Long Ago ! 

My eyes are wet with tender tears. ^o 

I feel again the mother-kiss, 
I see again the glad surprise 
That lightened up the tranquil eyes 

And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss. 

As, rushing from the old hall door, ^^ 

She fondly clasped her wayward boy — 
Her face all radiant, with the joy 

She felt to see him home once more. 


My sabre swinging on the bough. 

Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, ^^ 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow 

Aslant upon my saddened brow. 

Those cherished faces all are gone I 

Asleep within the quiet graves 
■ Where lies the snow in drifting waves,- ^^ 
And I am sitting here alone. 

There's not a comrade here to-night 
But knows that loved ones far away 
On bended knees this night will pray : 

" God bring our darling from the fight ! " *" 

But there are none to wish me back. 
For me no yearning prayers arise. 
The lips are mute and closed the eyes, — 

My home is in the bivouac. 


I picture her there in the quaint old room. 
When the fading firelight starts and falls. 

Alone in the twilight's tender gloom 

With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. 

Alone, while those faces look silently dovni ^ 

From their antique frames in a grim repose, — 

Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown. 
And stout Sir Alan, who died for Montrose. 

There are gallants gay in crimson and gold. 
There are smiling beauties in powdered hair, ^^ 

But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold. 
Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair. 


And the roseate shadows of fading light. 
Softly clear, steal over the sweet young face. 

Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night ^^ 

With the guileless pride of a haughty race. 

Her hands lie clasped in a listless way 

On the old romance — ^which she holds on her knee — 
Of Tristram, the bravest of knights in the fray. 

And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea. 2" 

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look. 
As she watches the dying embers fall, — 

Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book. 
Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall. 

What fancies, I wonder, are thronging her brain, ^^ 
For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow ! 

Perhaps — Ah ! me, how foolish and vain ! 
But I'd give my life to believe it so. 


Well, whether I ever march home again 
To offer my love and a stainless name. 

Or whether I die at the head of my men, 
I'll be true to the end all the same. 

-oH times, they cling, they cling. — Owen Mebedith. 


Still I can see her before me. 
As in the days of old, 

Her lips of serious sweetness. 
Hair of the richest gold. 



The rings on her dainty fingers, ^ 

Love in her tender eyes. 
And the sweet young bosom heaving 

With low, delicious sighs. 


Is it a wonder I love her ? 

That through long years of pain, ^o 

I still am true to the old love. 

The love alas ! in. vain. 

HowiTZEE Camp, 

YoEKTOWN, Oct. 1861. 

Christmas Night. This is the stanza-type used 
by Tennyson in his great poem, "In Memoriam." 
What mood pervades these verses? 44. "Bivouac": 

Dreaming in the Trenches. What is the meas- 
ure of this? Scan the first stanza. What type of 
lyric? 7, 8. Explain proper names. 19, 30. Sir 
Tristram, the hero of an old Cymric romance in 
which Iseult, the daughter of the king of Ireland, is 
involved, was connected with King Arthur's court. 
His adventures have been related by Thomas the 
Ehymer and many another romancist. Bead Mat- 
thew Arnold's "Tristram and Iseult." 

Only a Memory. There is a peculiar charm 
about this and the foregoing poem. Wherein does 
it lie? 


Sidney Lanier 


Mr. Lanier was born in Macon, Ga., February 3, 
1842, and died in Lynn, N. C, September 7, 1881. 
A love for music and poetry was his by inheritance, 
and was a solace to him through a life of toil, sick- 
ness, poverty, and disappointment. For while he 
lived to see his work appreciated, it was at a time 
when he had risen from many a defeat and was 
waging a losing fight with death. 

He was a graduate of Oglethorpe College, Midway, 
©a., class of 1860; and soon afterwards volunteered 
in the Confederate Army. He became a scout, and 
later a blockade runner, exhibiting courage on many 
an occasion. While in this last-named service he 
was captured near Fort Fisher and taken to Point 

After the war he taught school for a while at Pratt- 
ville, Ala. Then he studied and practiced law with 
his father in his native town. Griving up this work, 
he went to Baltimore, where he was engaged as first 
flute for the Peabody Symphony concerts. Here he 
made his home and addressed himself to music and 
literature. But meantime tuberculosis, contracted 
in camp, had developed, and he was driven from work 
to tent life in the high, pure atmosphere around 
Asheville, N. C, where the end was not long delayed. 

He entertained original ideas of a close relation- 
ship between music and poetry; these he defined and 
illustrated in a course of lectures at Johns Hopkins 
University, later appearing in a volume entitled, 
" The Science of English Verse." These theories are 


generally regarded as vague, but it may be the critics 
of them cannot see so far into the affinity of ethereal 
things as Lanier's fine spirit could see. Other vol- 
umes by him are, " Tiger Lilies : a Novel," " Florida : 
Its Scenery, Climate, and History," " Poems," " The 
English Novel, and the Principles of Its Develop- 
ment," "The Boy's Proissart," etc. "Poems," 
edited by his wife, with an introduction by William 
Hayes Ward, editor of the Independent, appeared 
soon after the poet's death. 

Lanier stands in the forefront of Southern poets, 
and when he has been assigned his true place in liter- 
ature he will be rated among the very first in Amer- 
ica. No other poet on this side of the Atlantic has 
surpassed him either in boldness of imagery or in 
vigor of diction. 


Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands. 
And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea. 

How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. 
Ah! longer wel 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, ^ 

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, 

And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'T is done. 
Love, lay thine hand in mine. 

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart ; 

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands; ^^ 
night ! divorce our sun and sky apart — 

Never our lips, our hands. 



At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time. 

When far within the spirit's hearing rolls 

The great soft rumble of the course of things — 

A bulk of silence in a mask of sound — 

When darkness clears our vision that by day ^ 

Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl 

For truth, and flitteth here and there about 

Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft 

Is minded for to sit upon a bough. 

Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree ^^ 

And muse in that gaunt place, — ^'twas then my heart. 

Deep in the meditative dark, cried out : 

Ye companies of governor-spirits grave. 

Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news 

From steep-walled heavens, holy malcontents, ^^ 

Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all 

That brood about the skies of poesy. 

Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars; 

Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none 

With total lustre blazeth, no, not one ^o 

But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh 

Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks 

His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist 

Of defect ; yea, you masters all must ask 

Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give, ^^ 

We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet 

Your largess so with love, and interplight 

Your geniuses with our mortalities. 

Thus unto thee, sweetest Shakespere sole, 
A hundred hurts a day I do forgive ^^ 



('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee) : 
Small curious quibble; . . . Henry's fustian roar 
Which frights away that sleep he invocates; 
Wronged Valentine's unnatural haste to yield; 
Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men ^^ 

In faint disguises that could ne'er disguise — ^ 
Viola, Julia, Portia, Eosalind; 
Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax 
Of speech obscure that had as lief be plain. 

. . . Father Homer, thee, *" 

Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes 
Of prose and catalogue, thy drear harangues 
That tease the patience of the centuries, 
Thy sleazy scrap of story, — ^but a rogue's 
Eape of a light-o'-love, — too soiled a patch *5 

To broider with the gods. 

Thee, Socrates, 
Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive 
Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies 
That were but dandy upside-down, thy words 
Of truth that, mildlier spoke, had manJier wrought, ^o 

So, Buddha, beautiful ! I pardon thee 
That all the All thou hadst for needy man 
Was Nothing, and thy Best of being was 
But not to be. 

Worn Dante, I forgive 
The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells ^^ 

Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed 
By death, nor time, nor love. 



And I forgive 
Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars 
Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel. 
Immortals smite immortals mortalwise, *" 

And fill all heaven with folly. 

Also thee. 
Brave .iEschylus, thee I forgive, for that 
Thine eye, hy bare bright justice basilisked. 
Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love 
Stands shining. 

So, unto thee, Lucretius mine, *^ 
(For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this 
That's now complaining?) freely I forgive 
Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth 
Whose graves eat souls and aU. 

Yea, all you hearts 
Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large: ''" 

Aurelius fine, oft superfine; mild Saint 
A Kempis, overmUd; Epietetus, 
Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct; 
Rapt Behmen, rapt too far; high Swedenborg, 
O'ertoppling ; Langley, that with but a touch ^^ 

Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top 
Of English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now. 
And most adorable; Csedmon, in the morn 
A-calling angels with the cowherd's call 
That late brought up the cattle; Emerson, ^o 

Most wise, that yet, in finding wisdom, lost 
Thy Self, sometimes ; tense Keats, with angels' nerves 
Where men's were better ; Tennyson, largest voice 
Since Milton, yet some register of wit 
Wanting, — all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked, ^5 



Your more or less, your little mole that marks 

Your brother and your kinship seals to man. 

But Thee, but Thee, sovereign Seer of time, 

But Thee, poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue, 

But Thee, man's best Man, love's best Love, *" 

perfect life in perfect labor writ, 

all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, 

What if or yet, what mole, what flaw, what lapse, 

What least defect or shadow of defect. 

What rumor, tattled by an enemy, ^^ 

Of inference loose, what lack of grace 

Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's — 

Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, 

Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ? 


In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain 

Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. 

The little green leaves would not let me alone in my 

sleep ; 
Up breathed from the marshes, a message of range 

and of sweep. 
Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drift- 
ing, 5 
Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, 

Came to the gates of sleep. 
Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep 
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, 
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling : ^^ 

The gates of sleep fell a-trembling 
Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter yes. 
Shaken with happiness: 
The gates of sleep stood wide. 


I have waked, I have come, my beloved ! I might not 
abide : ^^ 

I have come ere the dawn, beloved, my live-oaks, 
to hide 

In your gospeling glooms — to be 

As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the 
sea my sea. 

Tell me, sweet burly-barked, man-bodied Tree 

That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost 

know 2" 

From what fount are these tears at thy feet which 

They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent 


Reason's not one that weeps. 
What logic of greeting lies 
Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the 

eyes ? 25 

cunning green leaves, little masters ! like as ye 

All the dull-tissued dark with your liuninous darks 

that emboss 
The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan. 

(But would I could know, but would I could 

know,) 30 

With your question embroid'ring the dark of the 

question of man, — 
So, with your silences purfling this silence of man 
While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is 

under the ban, 

Under the ban, — 

So, ye have wrought me 


Designs on the night of our knowledge, — ^yea, ye 
have taught me. 
That haply we know somewhat more than we know. 

Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms. 
Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, *° 
Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, 
Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves. 
Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me 
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, — < 
Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet *^ 

That advise me of more than they bring, — repeat 
Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought 

From the heaven-side bank of the river of death, — 
Teach me the terms of silence, — preach me 
The passion of patience, — sift me, — ^impeach me, — ^* 

And there, oh there 
As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the 

Pray me a myriad prayer. 
My gossip, the owl, — is dt thou 
That out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough, ^» 
As I pass to the beach, art stirred? 
Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird? 

Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea. 
Old chemist, rapt in alchemy. 

Distilling silence, — lo, ^ 

That which our father-age had died to know — • 
The menstruum that dissolves all matter — thou 
Hast found it : for this silence, filling now 
The globed clarity of receiving space. 
This solves us all : man, matter, doubt, disgrace, *^ 
Death, love, sin, sanity, 



Must in yon silence' clear solution lie. 

Too clear! That crystal nothing who'll peruse? 

The blackest night could bring us brighter news. 

Yet precious qualities of silence haunt ''' 

Bound these vast margins, ministrant. 

Oh, if thy soul's at latter gasp for space, 

With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race 

Just to be fellowed, when that thou hast found 

No man with room, or grace enough of bound ''^ 

To entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art, — 

'Tis here, 'tis here, thou canst unhand thy heart 

And breathe it free, and breathe it free. 

By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. 

The tide's at full : the marsh with flooded streams ^' 

Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. 

Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies 

A rhapsody of mormng-stars. The skies 

Shine scant with one forked galaxy, — 

The marsh brags ten : looped on his breast they lie. ^^ 

Oh, what if a sound should be made ! 

Oh, what if a bound should be laid 

To this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence- 

a-spring, — 
To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence 

the string! 
I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam ^"^ 
Will break as a bubble o'erblown in a dream, — 
Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of 

Overweighted with stars, overfreighted with light, 
Oversated with beauty and silence, will seem 

But a bubble that broke in a dream, ^^ 
If a bound of degree to this grace be laid. 
Or a sound or a motion made. 


But no: it is made: list! somewhere, — ^mystery, 
where ? 

In the leaves? in the air? 

In my heart? is a motion made: ^^ 

'Tis a motion of dawn, like a flicker of shade on 

In the leaves 'tis palpable: low multitudinous stir- 
TJpwinds through the woods; the little ones, softly 

Have settled my lord's to be looked for ; so, they are 

But the air and my heart and the earth are 
a-thrill,— los 

And look where the wild duck sails round the bend 
of the river, — 

And look where a passionate shiver 
Expectant is bending the blades 
Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, — 
And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting, ^i" 

Are beating 
The dark overhead as my heart beats, — and steady 

and free 
Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea — 
(Run home, little streams. 
With your lapfuls of stars and dreams) , ^^^ 
And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak. 
For list, down the inshore curve of the creek 

How merrily flutters the sail, — 
And lo, in the East ! Will the East unveil ? 
The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed ^^° 
A flush : 'tis dead ; 'tis alive ; 'tis dead, ere the West 
Was aware of it : nay, 'tis abiding, 'tis withdrawn : 
Have a care, sweet Heaven ! 'Tis Dawn. 


How a dream of a flame through that dream of a 

flush is uprolled: 
To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling 

gold 125 

Is builded, in shape as a beehive, from out of the sea : 

The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee, 

The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, 

Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee 

That shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea. i*" 

Yet now the dewdrop, now the morning gray. 

Shall live their little lucid sober day 

Ere with the sun their souls exhale away. 

Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew 

The summ'd mom shines complete as in the blue ^^^ 

Big dewdrop of all heaven : with these lit shrines 

O'ersilvered to the farthest sea-confines. 

The sacramental marsh one pious plain 

Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign 

Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, i*" 

Minded of nought but peace, and of a child. 

Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a 

Of motion, — ^not faster than dateless Olympian 

Might pace with unblown ample garments from 
pleasure to pleasure, — 

The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreel- 
ing, 145 

Forever revealing, revealing, revealing. 

Edgewise, bladewise, half wise, wholewise, — 'tis done ! 
Good-morrow, lord Sun! 

With several voice, with ascription one. 

The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul i^" 


Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all mor- 
rows doth roll, 

Cry good, and past-good and most heavenly morrow, 
lord Sun. 

Artisan bom in the purple, — Workman Heat, — 
Barter of passionate atoms that travail to meet 
And be mixed in the death-cold oneness, — innermost 

Guest 155 

At the marriage of elements, — fellow of publicans, — 

King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'er 
The idle skies, yet laborest fast evermore, — 
Thou in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat 
Of the heart of a man, thou Motive, — Laborer 

Heat: i^" 

Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea's all news. 
With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues 
Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues. 
Ever shaming the maidens, — lily and rose 
Confess thee, and each mild flame that glows ^^^ 
In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine. 
It is thine, it is thine : 

Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds 

Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirl 
In the magnet earth, — ^yea, thou with a storm for 

a heart, "» 

Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part 
From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light. 
Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright 
Than the eye of a man may avail of: — manifold 


1 must pass from thy face, I must pass from the face 

of the Sun: "^ 



Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle a-frown; 
The worker must pass to his work in the terrible 

But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be 

I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun : 
How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs 

be nin, ^^^ 

I am lit with the Sun. 

Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas 

Of traffic shall hide thee, 
N"ever the hell-colored smoke of the factories 

Hide thee, 185 

Never the reek of the time's fen-politics 

Hide thee, 
And ever my heart through the night shall with 

knowledge abide thee. 
And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that hath 

tried thee. 
Labor, at leisure, in art, — ^till yonder beside thee i^** 
My soul shall float, friend Sun, 
The day being done. 


Swift, through some trap mine eyes have never found, 
Dim-panelled in the painted scene of Sleep, 
Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost leap 
Upon my spirit's stage. Then Sight and Sound, 
Then Space and Time, then Language, Mete and 
Bound, 6 

And all familiar Forms that firmly keep 
Man's reason in the road, change faces, peep 


Betwixt the legs and mock the daily round. 

Yet thou canst more than mack : sometimes my tears 
At midnight break through bounden lids — a sign ^^ 
Thou hast a heart : and oft thy little leaven 

Of dream-taught wisdom works me bettered years. 
In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool divine, 
I think thou 'rt Jester at the Court of Heaven ! 


Into the woods my Master went. 
Clean forspent, forspent. 
Into the woods my Master came. 
Forspent with love and shame. * 

But the olives they were not blind to Him; 
The little gray leaves were kind to Him; 
The thom-tree had a mind to Him 
When into the woods He came. 

Out of the woods my Master went. 

And He was well content. ^^ 

Out of the woods my Master came. 

Content with death and shame. 

When Death and Shame would woo Him 

From under the trees they drew Him last: 
'Twas on a tree they slew Him — ^last, ^^ 
When out of the woods He came. 




To-3ay the woods are trembling through and through 
With shimmering forms that flash before my view. 
Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in blue. 
The leaves that wave against my cheek caress 
Like women's hands; the embracing boughs ex- 
press ^ 
A subtlety of mighty tenderness; 
The copse-depths into little noises start. 
That sound anon like beatings of a heart. 
Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart. 

The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a 
song; 1" 

Through that vague wafture, aspirations strong 
Throb from young hickories breathing deep and 
With stress and urgence bold of prisoned spring 
And ecstasy of burgeoning. 

Now, since the dew-plashed road of morn is dry, ^^ 
Forth venture odors of more quality 
And heavenHer giving. Like Jove's locks awry, 
Long muscadines 

Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of great pines. 
And breathe ambrosial passions from their vines. ^^ 
I pray with mosses, ferns and flowers shy 
That hide like gentle nuns from human eye 
To lift adoring perfumes to the sky. 
I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green 
Dying to silent hints of kisses keen 25 

As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen. 
I start at fiagmentary whispers, blown 
From under-talks of leafy souls unknown. 
Vague purports sweet, of inarticulate tone. 


Dreaming of gods, men, nuns and brides, between ^° 
Old companies of oaks that inward lean 
To join their radiant amplitudes of green 

I slowly move, with ranging looks that pass 

Up from the matted miracles of grass 
Into yon veined and complex space ^^ 

Where sky and leafage interlace 

So close, the heaven of blue is seen 

Inwoven with a heaven of green. 

I wander to the zigzag-cornered fence 

Where sassafras, intrenched in brambles dense, *• 

Contests with stolid vehemence 

The march of culture, setting limb and thorn 
As pikes against the army of the corn. 

There, while I pause, my fieldward-faring eyes 
Take harvests, where the stately corn-ranks rise, *^ 

Of inward dignities 
And large benignities and insights wise, 

Graces and modest majesties. 
Thus, without theft, I reap another's field; 
Thus, without tilth, I house a wondrous yield, ^' 
And heap my heart with quintuple crops concealed. 

Look, out of line one tall corn-captain stands 

Advanced beyond the foremost of his bands. 
And waves his blades upon the very edge 
And hottest thicket of the battling hedge. ^^ 

Thou lustrous stalk, that ne'er mayst walk nor talk. 
Still shalt thou type the poet-soul sublime 
That leads the vanward of his timid time 
And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme — 

Soul calm, like thee, yet fain, like thee, to grow ^* 

By double increment, above, below; 



Soul homely, as thou art, yet rich in grace like 

Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry 
That moves in gentle curves of courtesy; 
Soul filled like thy long veins with sweetness tense, *^ 

By every godlike sense 
Transmuted from the four wild elements. 
Drawn to high plans. 
Thou lift'st more stature than a mortal man's, 
Yet ever piercest downward in the mould ""^ 

And keepest hold 
Upon the reverend and steadfast earth 
That gave thee birth; 
Yea, standest smiling in thy future grave. 

Serene and brave, ''^ 

With unremitting breath 
Inhaling life from death. 
Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage eloquent. 
Thyself thy monument. 

As poets should, so 

Thou hast built up thy hardihood 
With universal food. 

Drawn in select proportion fair 
From honest mould and vagabond air; 
Prom darkness of the dreadful night, ^ 

And joyful light; 
Prom antique ashes, whose departed flame 
In thee has finer life and longer fame; 
Prom wounds and balms. 

Prom storms and calms, so 

Prom potsherds and dry bones 

And ruin-stones. 
Into thy vigorous substance thou hast wrought 
Whate'er tiie hand of Circumstance hath brought; 


Yea, into cool solacing green hast spun ^^ 

White radiance hot from out the sun. 
So thou dost mutually leaven 
Strength of earth with grace of heaven; 
So thou dost marry new and old 
Into a one of higher mould ; !•** 

So thou dost reconcile the hot and cold 
The dark and bright. 
And many a heart-perplexing opposite. 
And so. 
Akin by blood too high and low, ^"^ 

Fitly thou playest out thy poet's part, 
Eichly expanding thy much-bruised heart 
In equal care to nourish lord in hall 

Or beast in staU: 
Thou took'st from all that thou mightst give to 
aU. "0 

steadfast dweller on the selfsame spot 
Where thou wast born, that still repinest not — 
Type of the home-fond heart, the happy lot ! — 

Deeply thy mild content rebukes the land 

Whose flimsy homes, built on the shifting sands ^^^ 
Of trade, for ever rise and fall 
With alternation whimsical. 

Enduring scarce a day, 

Then swept away 

By swift engulfments of incalculable tides ^2* 

Whereon capricious Commerce rides. 
Look, thou substantial spirit of content! 
Across this little vale, thy continent, 

To where, beyond the mouldering mill 

Yon old deserted Georgian hill ^^ 

Bears to the sun his piteous aged crest 
And seamy breast, 



By restless-hearted children left to lie 

Untended there beneath the heedless sky. 

As barbarous folk expose their old to die. ^^^ 

Upon that generous-rounding side. 
With gullies scarified 
Where keen Neglect his lash has plied, 

Dwelt one I knew of old, who played at toil. 

And gave to coquette Cotton soul and soil. ^^^ 

Scorning the slow reward of patient grain. 
He sowed his heart with hopes of swifter gain. 
Then sat him down and waited for the rain. 

He sailed in borrowed ships of usury — 

A foolish Jason on a treacherous sea, i*" 

Seeking the Fleece and finding misery. 
Lulled by smooth-rippling loans, in idle trance 
He lay, content that unthrift Circumstance 
Should plough for him the stony field of Chance. 

Yea, gathering crops whose worth no man might 
tell, 115 

He staked his life on games of Buy-and-Sell, 

And turned each field into a gambler's hell. 
Aye, as each year began. 
My farmer to the neighboring oity ran; 

Passed with a mournful anxious face i^o 

Into the banker's inner place; 

Parleyed, excused, pleaded for longer grace; 

Bailed at the drouth, the worm, the rust, the grass ; 
Protested ne'er again 'twould come to pass; 
With many an oTv and if and hut alas i^s 

Parried or swallowed searching questions rude. 

And kissed the dust to soften Dives's mood. 

At last, small loans by pledges great renewed. 
He issues smiling from the fatal door. 
And buys with lavish hand his yearly store i^" 
Till his small borrowings will yield no more. 


Aye, as each year declined. 

With bitter heart and ever brooding mind 

He mourned his fate unkind. 
In dust, in rain, with might and main, i*^ 

He nursed his cotton, cursed his grain. 
Fretted for news that made him fret again. 

Snatched at each telegram of Future Sale, 

And thrilled with BuUs' or Bears' alternate wail — 

In hope or fear alike for ever pale. ^'^ 

And thus from year to year, through hope and fear. 
With many a curse and many a secret tear. 
Striving in vain his cloud of debt to clear. 
At last 

He woke to find his foolish dreaming past, ^''^ 

And all his best-of-life the easy prey 
Of squandering scamps and quacks that lined his 
With vile array. 

From rascal statesman down to petty knave ; 

Himself, at best, for all his bragging brave, ^^** 

A gamester's catspaw and a banker's slave. 

Then, worn and gray, and sick with deep unrest. 
He fled away into the oblivious West, 
Unmourned, unblest. 

Old hill ! old hill ! thou gashed and hairy Lear ^^^ 
Whom the divine Cordelia of the year. 
E'en pitying Spring, will vainly strive to cheer — 
King, that no subject man or beast may own, 
Discrovraed, undaughtered and alone — 
Yet shall the great God turn thy fate, ^^^ 

And bring thee back into thy monarch state 
And majesty immaculate. 

Lo, through hot waverings of the August morn. 
Thou givest from thy vasty aides forlorn 


Visions of golden treasuries of com — ^^^ 

Eipe largesse lingering for some bolder heart 
That manfully shall take thy part. 

And tend thee. 

And defend thee 200 

With antique sinew and with modern art. 

Evening Song. This beautiful song appeared 
first in LippincoU's Magazine. The publishers of 
this periodical were among the very first to recognize 
the genius of Lanier. Is there any irregularity in 
stanza structure? It is an especially pleasing love- 
lyric, and has been set to music by Dudley Buck. 

The Crystal. This noble poem appeared in the 
New York Independent, as did also " The Ballad of 
Trees " and " Sunrise." The Independent was an- 
other paper that gave the struggling poet earliest 

This selection shows the author's keen critical 
powers and is informed by the spirit of scholarship. 
He has pointed unerringly to the defects of the great 
characters named. 1. When death and truth unlock 
their secrets. 1-12. The poem never rises above the 
plane of this introduction. 29-39. Justify the criti- 
cisms of Shakspere. 42. " Of prose and catalogue " : 
refers to the Iliad, Book II. — 

"My song to fame shall give 
The chieftains and enumerate their ships." 

45. "Light-o'-love": Helen, carried away by Paris. 
The Trojan War resulted, which furnished the theme 
for the Iliad. 48. " Thy year-worn cloak." Socra- 
tes, the Athenian philosopher, said : " To want noth- 
ing is divine; to want as little as possible is the near- 
est possible approach to the divine life." This belief 


controlled his mode of living. His meat and drink 
were of the poorest; summer and winter his coat was 
the eame. 49. His iron stringencies were at the 
other extreme from the dandy's excessive indul- 
gences. 51. "Buddha": the founder of the Bud- 
dhist religion, tenets of which are explained in the 
succeeding lines. 51. "Dante": the great Italian 
poet. Pursue the study on this line. The criticisms 
are very felicitous; as, for instance, that on Milton, 
or on Emerson, or on Tennyson. The close reveals 
the poet's attitude toward Christ. 

Sunrise. The editor of the Independent, the pa- 
per from which this is taken, says of it: "This 
poem, we do not hesitate to say, is one of the few 
great poems that have been written on this side of 
the ocean." It is said upon authority that the lines 
were written when the author was in his last illness, 
with a fever of 104 degrees. It is melodious and 
emotional, — almost, if not quite, rhapsodical. All 
kinds of feet are used, but the efEect is anapestie; 
hence, it affords an excellent study in scansion. 

17. "Gospeling glooms": shades that provoke 
holy feelings. 19. Observe here and elsewhere the 
poet's Wordsworthian view of Nature. 39. Just 
what influenced the author to give a line to this brief 
word here and again below, is difficult to understand. 
58-85. This is great thought; search its full import. 
86, 87. What liberty in rhyme? See, also, the 
" Symphony," by this writer : 

" We weave in the mills and heave in the kilns, 
We sieve mine-meshes under the hills, 
And thieve much gold from the Devil's bank tills, 
To relieve," etc. 
102. "Multitudinous": effect of this word? 114, 
115. It is rather a tax upon the average reader to 


share the poet's rapture here and in the "heehive" 
figure further on. The poet's Pegasus sometimes 
takes the bit in his teeth. 153-181. Another supreme 
passage, well worthy close study. 182-193'. A ca- 
dence according with the vast harmonies of the 

A Ballad of Tebes. Pine proportion, careful 
versification, and exact diction make this poem re- 
memberable. What occasion in Christ's career is 
referred to? 4. Meaning of the line? 5, 6, 7. 
Kind of rhymes? Point out others. 7. Interpret 
the line. 13. Contrast with 4, and explain. IS. 
"Last. They had slain Him before"; how? Give 
the thought in a few words. 

COBN. This poem is not of uniform excellence. 
Parts of it are very imaginative; 80-110, for in- 
stance; others, brilliantly figurative. 185-193, and 
yet others, — well, characterize 134-184. 50. 
"Tilth": meaning? 60. "Pain": a favorite word 
with the poet. 130. What people did this? 133. 
"Neglect": a fine figure. 41. "Pleece": what al- 
lusion? 146. Meaning? Explain other terms of 
the mart in 68, 69, etc. 96. " Largesse " : define. 


James Maurice Thompson 


Mr. Thompson was a native of Indiana, but his 
parents were Southerners and returned to the South, 
first to Kentucky, then to Georgia, where the son 
was reared and educated. He served in the Con- 
federate Army, and at the close of the war estab- 
lished himself dn law at Crawfordsville, Ind. He 
was elected to the legislature of that State, and was 
later appointed State Geologist. 

He was a versatile writer, of poems, critiques, 
essays, novels, sketches of out-door life, etc. At one 
time he was connected editorially with the New York 

Among his books are " Hoosier Mosaics," " A 
Tallahassee Girl," " Songs of Fair Weather," " By- 
Ways and Bird-lSTotes," " Sylvan Secrets in Bird- 
Songs and Brooks," " The Story of Louisiana," 
" Poems," " The Ocala Boy," " At Love's Extremes," 
"The Witchery of Archery," "A Fortnight of 
Folly," and "Alice of Old Vincennes," — the last 
published about the time of his death. 


Thou art the last rose of the year. 
By gusty breezes rudely fanned : 

The dying Summer holds thee fast 
In the hot hollow of her hand, 



Thy face pales, as if looking back * 

Into the splendor of thy past 
Had thrilled thee strangely, knowing that 

This one long look must be the last. 

Thine essence, that was heavenly sweet. 
Has flown upon the tricksy air: i* 

Tate's hand is on thee; drop thy leaves. 
And go among the things that were. 

Be must and mould, be trampled dust. 
Be nothing that is fair to see : 

One day, at least, of glorious life ^^ 

Was thtae of all eternity. 

Be this a comfort : crown and lyre 
And regal purple last not long; 

Kings fall like leaves, but thy perfume 
Strays through the years like royal song. *" 


The singing streams, and deep, dark wood 
Beloved of old by Robin Hood, 

Lift me a voice, kiss me a hand. 
To call me from this younger land. 

What time by dull Ploridian lakes. 
What time by rivers fringed with brakes, 

I blow the reed, and draw the bow. 
And see my arrows hurtling go. 


Well sent to deer or wary hare. 

Or wildfowl whistling down the air; ^^ 

What time I lie in shady spots 
On beds of wild forget-me-nots. 

That fringe the fen lands insincere 
And boggy marges of the mere. 

Whereon I see the heron stand, ^^ 

Knee-deep in sable slush of sand, — 

I think how sweet if friends should come 
And tell me England calls me home. 


I keep good heart and bide my time. 

And blow the bubbles of my rhyme; ^o 

I wait and watch, for soon I know 
In Sherwood merry horns shall blow. 

And blow and blow, and folks shall come 
And tell me England calls me home. 

Mother of archers, then I go 25 

Wind-blown to you with bended bow. 

To stand close up by you and ask 
That it be my appointed task 

To sing in leal and loyal lays 

Your matchless bowmen's meed of praise; 




And that unclialleiiged I may go 
Through your green woods with bended 
bow, — 

Your woods where bowered and hidden 

Of old the home of Eobin Hood, 

Ah, this were sweet, and it wUl come ^5 
When merry England calls me home. 


Perchance, long hence, it may befall. 
Or soon, mayhap, or not at aU, 

That all my songs now hither sent, 

And all my shafts at random spent, *•* 

Will find their way to those who love 
The simple force and truth thereof; 

Wherefore my name shall then be rung 
Across the land from tongue to tongue. 

Till some who hear shall haste to come *^ 
With news that England calls me home. 

I walk where spiced winds raff the blades 
Of sedge-grass on the summer glades; 

Through purfled blades that fringe the mere 
I watch the timid tawny deer 50 



Set its quick feet and quake and spring. 
As if it heard some deadly thing. 

When but a brown snipe flutters by 
With rustling wing and piping cry; 

. I stand in some dim place at dawn, 55 

And see across a forest lawn 

The tall wild turkeys swiftly pass 
Light-footed through the dewy grass; 

I shout, and wind my horn, and go 
The whole mom through with bended 


Then on my rest I feel at noon 
Sown pulvil of the blooms of June ; 

I live and keep no count of time, 
I blow the bubbles of my rhyme: 

These are my joys till friends shall come ^^ 
And tell me England calls me home. 


The self -yew bow was England's boast; 
She leaned upon her archer host, — 

It was her very life-support 

At Crecy and at Agincourt, 7" 

At riodden and at HaHdon Hill, 
And fields of glory redder still ! 


bows that rang at Solway Mossl 
yeomanry of Neville's Cross! 

These were your victories, for by you '5 

Breastplate and shield were cloven through j 

And mailed knights at every joint. 
Sore wounded by an arrow point. 

Drew rein, turned pale, reeled in the seU, ^9 
And, bristled with arrows, gasped and fell ! 

barbed points that scratched the name 
Of England on the walls of fame ! 

music of the ringing cords 

Set to grand song of deeds, not words ! 

yeoman! for your memory's sake, *5 
These bubbles of my rhyme I make, — 

Not rhymes of conquest stern and sad. 
Or hoarse-voiced like the Iliad, 

But soft and dreamful as the sigh 

Of this sweet wind that washes by, — so 

The while I wait for friends to come 
And tell me England calls me home. 

1 wait and wait ; it would be sweet 
To feel the sea beneath my feet, 



And hear the breeze sing in the shrouds ^5 
Betwixt me and the white-winged clouds^ — 

To feel and know my heart should soon 
Have its desire, its one sweet boon. 

To look out on the foam-sprent waste 
Through which my vessel's keel would 

haste, "0 

Till on the far horizon dim 

A low white line would shine and swim; 

The low white line ; the gleaming strand. 
The pale cliffs of the Mother-land ! 

God! the very thought is bliss, ^^ 
The burden of my song it is. 

Till over sea song-blown shall come 
The news that England calls me home ! 


Ah, call me, England, some sweet day 

Ere these brown locks are silver gray, ^^^ 

And these brown arms are shrunken small. 
Unfit for deeds of strength at all; 

When the swift deer shall pass me by. 
Whilst all unstrung my bow shall lie. 

And birds shall taunt me with the time ^^^ 

1 wasted making foolish rhyme, 



And wasted blowing in a reed 

The runes of praise, the yeoman's meed, 

And wasted dreaming foolish dreams 

Of English woods and English streams, i^o 

Of grassy glade and queachy fen 
Beloved of old by archer men. 

And of the friends who would not come 
To tell me England called me home. 


Such words are sad : blow them away ^^ 

And lose them in the leaves of May, 

wind ! and leave them there to rot. 
Like random arrows lost when shot; 

And Here, these better thoughts, take these 
And blow them far across the seas, i^" 

To that old land and that old wood 
Which hold the dust of Robin Hood ! 

Say this, low-speaking in my place : 

" The last of all the archer race is 4 

" Sends this his sheaf of rhymes to those 
Whose fathers bent the self-yew bows, 

" And made the cloth-yard arrows ring 
For merry England and her king; 



" Wherever Lion Eicliard set 
His fortune's stormy banneret ! " 

Say this, and then, oh, haste to come 
And tell me England calls me home ! 

Amazilia cerviniventris 

A winged rocket curving through 

An amethyst trajectory. 
Blew up the magazines of dew 

Within the fortress of the bee. 

Some say the tulip mortar sent ^ 

The missile forth; I do not know; 

I scarcely saw which way it went. 
Its whisk of flame surprised me so. 

I heard the sudden hum and boom 

And saw the arc of purple light i" 

Across the garden's rosy gloom; 

Then something glorious blurred my 
sight ! 

The bees forgot to sound alarm, 

And did not pause their gates to lock; 

A topaz terror took by storm ^^ 

The tower of the hollyhock. 

Above the rose a halo hung. 

As if a bomb had been a gem. 
And round the dahlias's head was swung 

A blade that looked a diadem. ^^ 



What more befell I cannot say; 

By ruby glint and emerald gleam 
My sense was dazed; the garden lay 

Around me like an opal dream ! 

Caveat Begina 

Seeing, above dark spikes of green. 

Your great bold flowers of gold and red, 

I think of some young heathen queen 
With blazing crown upon her head. 

Some beautiful barbaric thing, ^ 

Clothed in rich garments emerald zoned. 

Whom simple folk, half worshipping 
And half in fear, have crowned and 

You will not deign to give the breeze ^" 

The slightest nod as it goes by; 
You will not move a leaf to please 
The drowsy gorgeous butterfly. 

With measureless nonchalance and pride. 
You take the humming bird's caress ; 

The brown melodious bee must bide ^^ 

Your haughty, arrogant wilfulness! 

You will not even stoop to hear 
The whisper of the adoring grass; 

The violets droop their heads in fear. 

The beetles grumble as they pass. 20 



Beware, queen, some day ere long 
All these may drop their fealty. 

And for redress of causeless wrong 
TJprise in passionate mutiny. 

Ah, then what rapturous sound, of wings, ^s 
Applauding when your throne goes 
down ! 
What cheering when the rude breeze 
And whisks away your withered crown ! 

Solace. A reflective lyric. Wherein exists the 
solace? 10. "Tricksy": define. 

In Exile. Eead through and explain whence the 
subject. The poem is written in couplets. What is its 
measure? Its character? The author was an ex- 
pert archer. What evidences of a love for out-door 
sports are shown in this ? " England calls me home," 
a refrain at the close of each section; what is the 
thought ? Explain proper names in 2, 70, 71, 73, 73. 

The Assault. The poem glows with imagination. 
Amazilia cerviniventris is a species of the humming- 
bird. 2. " Trajectory " : the are described by a body 
thrown upward obliquely into the air. Dwell upon 
the vivid imagery in 3, 4, 5, 10, 15, 16, 30, 34. 

The Tulip. What is the exact theme ? Compare 
this with the foregoing. Did the same mood inspire 
them? Did the same feeling toward flowers, birds, 
etc., inspire them? Whereia do they differ? 


John Henry Boner 


Mr. Boner was born in the old Moravian town, 
Salem, F. C. He received his early training in the 
schools there and began a bread-winner's life when he 
was yet a boy — ^first as a printer, work he was con- 
nected with more or less closely until his death. He 
edited papers in his native town and in Asheville, 
N. C. He was chief clerk of the North Carolina 
House of Eepresentatives, ISGQ-I'O, and two years 
later went into the Civil Service, at Washington, 
D. C, where he remained for sixteen years. He then 
removed to New York, and was successively on the 
staffs of the Century Dictionary, the New York 
World, the Literary Digest, and "A Library of 
American Literature." 

Declining health forced him to give np this work 
and seek restoration among his friends in his native 
State. A winter was spent in Ealeigh, with tem- 
porary relief; but soon after his return to the Gov- 
ernment Printing Office, Washington, he suddenly 
died of hemorrhage, March 6, 1903. The Authors 
Club of New York, of which he was a member, as- 
sisted in doing honor to his memory. He was buried 
in the Congressional Cemetery, Washington, but 
his remains were removed to Salem, N. C, and were 
reuiterred with impressive ceremonies. Dr. Marcus 
Benjamin, of WasMngton, D. C, led the movement, 
and prepared a fitting memorial to the dead poet. 

Boner published "Whispering Pines" in 1883, 


and " Some New Poems " in 1901. Just before his 
death he prepared a collection of such of his works 
as he wished to have survive. This book, " Boner's 
Lyrics," has been issued by his wife, through the 
Neale Publishing Company, of New York. 


iWhen wintry days are dark and drear 
And all the forest ways grow still, 
'When gray, snow-laden clouds appear 

Along tiie bleak horizon hill. 
When cattle all are snugly penned ^ 

And sheep go huddling close together, 
When steady streams of smoke ascend 

From farm-house chimneys — ^in such weather 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A great log-house, a great hearth-stone, i" 
A cheering pipe, of cob or briar. 
And a red, leaping light'ood fire. 

When dreary day draws to a close 
And aU the silent land is dark. 
When Boreas down the chimney blows ^^ 

And sparks fly from the crackling bark, 
'When limbs are bent with snow or sleet 
And owls hoot from the hollow tree. 
With hounds asleep about your feet. 

Then is the time for reverie. ^^ 

Give me old Carolina's own, 
A hospitable, wide hearth-stone, 
A cheering pipe, of cob or briar. 
And a red, rousing lighf ood fire. 




Wen de sheppuds watch de sheep on de plain of 
(Crismus times is come,) 
Dey was 'stonished at de star dat went a-swinging 
ober dem, 
(Crismus times is come;) 
Dey lean upon de sheppnd crooks a-shadin' ob der 
eyes, 5 

(Crismus times is come,) 
An' dey know de sun of glory wis a-gwine fur to rise, 
(Crismus times is come,) 
De wise men walk wid der heads ben' low 
Twell dey hear a ban' o' music like dey nebber hear 
befo' 10 

An' de angels come a-singin' wid de stars in der 

Aa' der flamin' wings a-shinin' on de heathun 


De kings ob de erf woke up dat night, 

(Crismus times is come,) 
An' der crowns look shabby in de hallyluyer light ^^ 

(Crismus times is come,) 
But de po' man riz en tuck his ole hat down, 

(Crismus times is come,) 
An' hit look so fine dat he fought it were a crown, 
(Crismus times is come,) 20 

Ole Jordan roll high en ole Jordan roU low, 
Aa' de star stood still whar de folks had to go, 


An' de angels flew away agin a-leavin' arter dem 
A blaze road from Juda to de new Jerusalem. 


Den pile on de lighf cod en set aroun' de fire, ^^ 

(Crismus times is come,) 
EosTim up de ole bow en chune the banjer higher, 

(Crismus times is come,) 
Dere's no mo' coonin' ob de log in de night, 

(Crismus times is come,) 
glory to de Lam' fur de hallyluyer light, 
(Crismus times is come,) 
De Crismus possum am a-bakin' mighty 

So han' aroun' de tumbler en de little yal- 

ler jug 
Wid de co'ncob stopper, en de honey in de 
" An' a-glory hallyluyer en a-bless yo' soul. 


Here lived the soul enchanted 

By melody of song; 
Here dwelt the spirit haunted 

By a demoniac throng; 
Here sang the lips elated; 
Here grief and death were sated; 
Here loved and here unmated 

Was he, so frail, so strong. 





Here wintry winds and cheerless 

The dying firelight blew ^* 

While he whose song was peerless 

Dreamed the drear midnight through. 

And from dull embers chilling 

Crept shadows darkly filling 

The sUent place, and thrilling ^^ 

His fancy as they grew. 

Here, with brow bared to heaven. 

In starry night he stood. 
With the lost star of seven 

Feeling sad brotherhood. ^^ 

Here in the sobbing showers 
Of dark autumnal hours 
He heard suspected powers 

Shriek through the stormy wood. 

Prom visions of Apollo ^5 

And of Astarte's bliss. 
He gazed into the hollow 

And hopeless vale of Dis; 
And though earth were surrounded 
By heaven, it still was mounded *" 

With graves. His soul had sounded 

The dolorous abyss. 

Proud, mad, but not defiant. 
He touched at heaven and hell. 

Fate found a rare soul pliant ^ 

And rung her changes well. 

Alternately his lyre, 

Stranded with strings of fire. 

Led earth's most happy choir 

Or flashed with Israfel. *° 



InTo singer of old story 

Luting accustomed lays, 
No harper for new glory, 

No mendicant for praise. 
He struck high chords and splendid, *^ 
Wherein were fiercely blended 
Tones that unfinished ended 

With his unfinished days. 


Here through this lowly portal. 

Made sacred by his name. 
Unheralded immortal 

The mortal went and came. 
And fate that then denied him. 
And envy that decried him. 
And malice that belied him, ^^ 

Have cenotaphed his fame. 


I think that we retain of our dead friends 
And absent ones no general portraiture; 
That perfect memory does not long endure, 
But fades and fades until our own life ends. 

Unconsciously, forgetfulness attends ^ 

That grief for which there is no other cure. 
But leaves of each lost one some record sure — 

A look, an act, a tone — something that lends 

Belief and consolation, not regret. 

Even that poor mother mourning her dead child ^^ 

Whose agonizing eyes with tears are wet, 
Whose bleeding heart can not be reconciled. 

Unto the grave's embrace — even she shall yet 
Remember only when her babe first smiled ! 



When from my mountain-top of years I gaze 
Backward upon the scenes that I have passed. 
How pleasant is the view ! and yet how vast 
The deserts where I thirsted many days ! 

There, where now hangs that blue and shimmering 
haze, ^ 

And there, and there, my lot with pain was cast. 
Hopeless and dark; but always at the last 

Deliverance came from unexpected ways. 

And now all past grief is as but a dream: 

Yet even now there loom before my path ^^ 

Shadows whose gloomy portent cheeks my breath. 

But shadows are not always what they seem — 
God's love sometimes appears to be his wrath, 
And his best gift is the white rose of death. 

The Light'ood Piee. A descriptive lyric true to 
nature. 15. "Boreas": the north wind. 

Ceismus Times Is Come. Dialect verse was ex- 
eluded in the plan of this book, but this and one 
or two others are so perfectly faithful in delineating 
the negro of the South that they have almost de- 
manded admission. 

Poe's Cottage at Foedham. Classify this lyric, 
and state its stanza and metrical-structure. 7. Poe 
lost his young wife at Fordham. 20. Explain. 21- 
24. Lines worthy the spirit they commemorate. 25- 
28. Mythological names introduced to express Poe's 
imaginative reach. The same idea is repeated below, 

" He touched at heaven and hell." 

Does it appear elsewhere? 31. An unfortunate in- 


terruption in the fluency of the poem. 38. 
« Stranded " : stringed. 40. Israfel." See Poe's 
poem with this title, p. 49. 56. " Cenotaphed " : like 
" stranded " above, a somewhat bold use of the word. 
The noun cenotaph, from which this word is made, 
means an empty tomb ; one erected to a person buried 
elsewhere. In the haunting music of the lines and 
in the graceful movement of the stanzas the poem 
reminds one of Swinburne's " Garden of Proser- 

Eemembeance. The sonnet was a favorite form 
with Mr. Boner in his latter years, and he handled 
it with remarkable skill. This is as well wrought as 
some by the English masters, — nor ds it the only one, 
nor even the best, that could be chosen from his 

"Time Beings Eoses." Another sonnet — grave, 
thoughtful, comforting. 


John Banister Tabb 


Father Tabb, ordained as a Catholic priest in 
1884, was born in Virginia. He served in the Con- 
federate Navy as captain's mate on a blockade-run- 
ner. At the time of his death he was a teacher of 
the lower classes ia English at St. Charles_ College, 
EUieott City, Md., and for several years had been a 
contributor of short, thoughtful poems to periodical 

He published these books: "Poems," "Lyrics," 
" An Octave to Mary," etc. 


One made the surging sea of tone 

Subservient to his rod: 
One from the sterile womb of stone 

Eaised children unto God. 


They cannot whoUy pass away. 

How far soe'er above; 
Nor we, the lingerers, wholly stay 

Apart from those we love: 
For spirits ia eternity. 

As shadows in the sun, 
Eeach backward into Time, as we, 

like lifted clouds, reach on. 



Their noonday never knows 
What names immortal are: 

'T is night alone that shows 
How star surpasseth star. 


Out of the dusk a shadow. 

Then, a spark; 
Out of the cloud a silence. 

Then, a lark; 
Out of the heart a rapture, * 

Then, a pain; 
Out of the dead, cold ashes. 

Life again. 

Beethovest and Angelo. This quatrain is rep- 
resentative of the author's work — ^thought couched 
in a few forceful words. 

The Departed. 5-8. The simile is beautiful in 
the beginning, but is not carried out to a perfect con- 
clusion. Criticise it. 

Fame. Another perfect quatrain. Bead White's 
great sonnet on Night and Death. 

Evolution. Nature teaches immortality; let us 
ponder this with hopeful reverence. 


Will Henry Thompson 


Mr. Thompson is a brother of the late James Mau- 
rice Thompson, whose poetical works have already 
received attention in this compilation. He was born 
in Gordon County, Ga., and, with his brother, served 
through the war in the Confederate Army. He is a 
lawyer, and followed that profession for a whUe at 
Crawfordsville, Ind., but later removed to Seattle, 
Wash., where he now resides, and is an influential 
member of the bar. He is distiaguished as an ora- 
tor and as the author of a few remarkably strong 


A cloud possessed the hollow field; 

The gathering battle's smoky shield. 
Athwart' the gloom the lightning flashed. 
And through the cloud some horsemen 

And from the heights the thunder pealed. ^ 

Then, at the brief command of Lee 
Moved out that matchless infantry. 
With Pickett leading grandly down, 
To rush against the roaring crown 
Of those dread heights of destiuy. i" 

Far heard above the angry guns 
A cry across the tumult runs — 

The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods 

And Chickamauga's solitudes. 
The fierce South cheering on her sons ! ^^ 



Ah, how the mthering tempest blew 

Against the front of Pettigrew! 

A Kamsin wind that scorched and singed 
Like that infernal flame that fringed 

The British squares at Waterloo ! ^o 

A thousand fell where Kemper led; 

A thousand died where Garnett bled; 
In blinding flame and strangling smoke 
The remnant through the batteries broke 

And crossed the works with Armistead. ^5 

" Once more in glory's van with me ! " 

Virginia cried to Tennessee; 

" We two together, come what may- 
Shall stand upon these works to-day " 

(The reddest day in history.) 3" 

Brave Tennessee! In reckless way 

Virginia heard her comrade say: 

" Close round this rent and riddled rag ! " 
What time she sets her battle-flag 

Amid the guns of Doubleday. ^^ 

But who shall break the guards that wait 

Before the awful face of fate? 

The tattered standards of the South 
Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth. 

And all her hopes were desolate. *° 

In vain the Tennesseean set 
His breast against the bayonet! 

In vain Virginia charged and raged, 

A tigress in her wrath uncaged. 
Till all the hill was red and wet ! *^ 



Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed. 

Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost 
Keceding through the battle-cloud, 
And heard across the tempest loud 

The death cry of a nation lost ! ^^ 

The brave went down! Without disgrace 
They leaped to Kuin's red embrace. 
They only heard Fame's thunders wake. 
And saw the dazzling sun-burst break 
In smiles on Glory's bloody face ! ^^ 

They fell, who lifted up a hand 
And bade the sun in heaven to stand ! 
They smote and fell, who set the bars 
Against the progress of the stars. 
And stayed the march of Motherland ! ^^ 

They stood, who saw the future come 

On through the fight's delirium! 
They smote and stood, who held the hope 
Of nations on that slippery slope 

Amid the cheers of Christendom! *5 

God lives! He forged the iron will 
That clutched and held that trembling hill, 
God lives and reigns ! He built and lent 
The heights for Freedom's battlement 
Where floats her flag in triumph still ! ™ 

Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns ! 
Love rules. Her gentler purpose rims. 

The mighty mother turns in tears 

The pages of her battle years. 
Lamenting all her fallen sons ! ^5 




The words of a rebel old and battered. 
Who will care to remember them? 

Under the Lost Flag, battle-tattered, 
I was a comrade of Allan Memm. 

Who was Allan that I should name him ^ 

Bravest of all the brave' who bled? 

Why should a soldier's song proclaim him 
First of a hundred thousand dead? 

An angel of battle, with fair hair curling 
By brown cheeks shrunken and wan with 
want; i"^ 

A living missile that Lee was hurling 
Straight on the iron front of Grant; 

A war-child bom of the Old South's passion. 
Trained in the camp of the cavaliers; 

A spirit wrought in the antique fashion ^^ 

Of Glory's martial morning years. 

His young wife's laugh and his baby's prattle 
He bore through the roar of the hungry guns — 

Through the yell of shell in the rage of battle. 
And the moan that under the thunder runs. 2" 

His was the voice that cried the warning 
At the shattered gate of the slaughter-pen. 

When Hancock rushed in the gray of morning 
Over our doomed and desperate men. 


His was the hand that held the standard — ^s 
A flaring torch on a crumbling shore — 

'Mid the billows of blue by the storm blown 
And his call we heard through the ocean roar : 

Ere the flag should shrink to a lost hope's token, 
Ere the glow of its glory be low and dim, ^o 

Ere its stars should fade and its bars be broken. 
Calling his comrades to come to him. 

And these, at the order of Hill or Gordon, — 

God keep their ashes! I knew them well, — 

Would have smashed the ranks of the devil's 

cordon, 35 

Or charged through the flames that roar in 


But none could stand where the storm was beat- 
Never a comrade could reach his side; 
In the spume of flame where the tides were 
He, of a thousand, stood and died. *" 

And the foe, in the old heroic manner. 

Tenderly laid his form to rest. 
The splintered staff and the riddled banner 

Hiding the horror upon his breast. 

Gone is the cot in the Georgia wildwood, *^ 

Gone is the blossom-strangled porch; 

The roof that sheltered a soldier's childhood 
Vainly pleaded with Sherman's torch, 




Gone are the years, and far and feeble 
Ever the old wild echoes die ; 

Hark to the Yoice of a great, glad people 
Hailing the one flag under the sky ! 

And the monstrous heart of the storm receding 
Fainter and farther throbs and jars; 

And the new storm bursts, and the brave are 
bleeding ^^ 

Under the cruel alien stars. 

And Allan's wife in the grave is lying 
Under the old scorched vine and pine. 

While Allan's child in the isles is dying 

Far on the foremost fighting line. ^^ 

Cheer for the flag with the old stars spangled I 
Shake out its folds to the wind's caress. 

Over the hearts by the war-hounds mangled, 
Down in the tangled Wilderness ! 

To wave o'er the grave of the brave forever ; ^^ 
For the Gray has sealed, in the bond of blood, 

His faith to the Blue, and the brave shall never 
Question the brave in the sight of God. 


A cry from pagan dungeons deep 
To Albion old and brave; 

A wail that startles from her sleep 
The mistress of the wave. 


We feel the thrill through England's soul 
Of noblest passion's birth; ® 

We hear her drum-alarum roll 
The circle of the earth. 

When mothers kiss with pallid lips 

The wounds of murdered sons, ^"^ 

We see the sailors on her ships 
Leap to their shotted guns. 

We hear her martial trumpets blow 

The challenge of the free ; 
Her lean steel war-wolves howling go ^^ 

Through gateways of the sea. 

The talons of her eagles tear 

The vulture from his feast; 
The lion mangles in his lair 

The tiger of the East. 20 

All, what a cheer from Asia breaks 

And roars along the dawn. 
As rescue's battle-thunder shakes 

The walls of Babylon! 

The High Tide at Getttsbueg. The late Charles 
A. Dana, of the New York Sun, called this the most 
remarkable battle poem, not merely of our day, but 
perhaps of any day, — an opinion in which Oliver 
Wendell Holmes concurred. Unquestionably it is 
the most powerful war lyric we have ever read. " Ho- 
henlinden " and " The Charge of the Light Brigade " 
both stand second to it. The author of it partici- 
pated in many hard-fought battles (he was at the 


" Bloody Angle," for instance), and he has in an un- 
equalled degree the power to portray in language the 
action and sublimity of a great battle. Where lies 
the secret of the poet's power ? In the first stanza he 
sketches out the whole setting. Sequence, observa- 
tion, description, imagery, take their places naturally. 
Follow out the study from these suggestions. 46-50. 
What superb figure here? Is there anything in the 
sentiments between this and the close that a South- 
erner could criticise? 56-60. Is the standard of his 
imagery sustained here? Criticise it. 

The Bond op Blood. What type of poem is this ? 
What is its measure? Its movement? Its theme? 
Its spirit? 65-68. What distinguishes this stanza? 
Do these touches add to the effect or the finish of the 

The Death-Dream op Aemenia. Give the 
thought in this. What is the type? The poem is 
characteristic of the author. Some of its lines are 
masterfully constructed, 7, 12, 16, for instance. It 
rises to a climax. 


Irwin Russell 


Irwin Eussell was the first to discover the literary 
value of the negro folk-song; both Joel Chandler 
Harris and Thomas Nelson Page acknowledge their 
indebtedness to Eussell. 

Eussell was bom at Port Gibson, Miss., and when 
a child contracted yellow fever, from the effects of 
which he never recovered fully. The family removed 
to St. Louis, where the boy completed a commercial 
course. At the opening of the Civil "War his family 
returned to their native State, and at the close of the 
conflict Irwin studied law, a profession he never fol- 
lowed, his inclination being toward letters. 

It is said that " Christmas Night in the Quar- 
ters," from which these extracts are taken, was first 
declined by a local newspaper, and afterwards pub- 
lished by an infiuential magazine. Upon its appear- 
ance other journals of standing gave the young au- 
thor a hearing ; and, thus encouraged, he visited New 
York with the hope of establishing himself there. 
He fell sick, however, and, disappointed, returned 
to the South to spend his last days in grief and pov- 

From " Christmas Night in the Quarters." 

Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you 

a-squawkin' ; 
Keep silence fur yo' betters! — don't you heah de 
banjo talkin'? 



About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter — ^ladies, 

listen ! — 
About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is 

missin' : 

"Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' 
solemn, — ^ 

Fur Noah tuk the " Herald," an' he read de ribber 
column, — i 

An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-el'arin' timber- 

An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the 
steamah Natchez. 

01' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawih'; 
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' 

a-pshawin' ; ^^ 

But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine 

to happen: 
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' 


Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob eb'ry sort o' 

beas'es, — 
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces ! 
He had a Morgan colt an' seb'ral head o' Jarsey 

cattle, — 15 

An' druv 'em board de Ark as soon's he heerd de 

thunder rattle. 

Den sech anoder fall ob rain! — it come so awful 

De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; 
De people all wuz drownded out — ^'cep' Noah an' de 

An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix 

de bitters. 20 



De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' ; 
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin' ; 
De sarpints hissed ; de painters yelled ; tell, whut wid 

all de fussin'. 
You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' 


Now, Ham, de only nigger whnt wuz runnin' on de 
packet, ^^ 

Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de 

An' so, fur to amuse hese'f, he steamed some wood an' 
bent it. 

An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz in- 

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' 

screws an' aprin; 
An' fitted in a proper neck — ^'twuz berry long an' 

tap'rin'; 2" 

He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to 

ring it; 
An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine 

to string it? 

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ; 
De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong, — des fit fur 

banjo-stringin' ; 
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner 

graces; ^^ 

An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses. 

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — ^'twuz " Neb- 
ber min' de wedder," — 

She sound' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all to- 



Some went to pattin'; some to dancin'; ISToali called 

de figgers; 
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob 

de niggers! *" 

N"ow, sence dat time — if s mighty strange — dere's not 

de slightes' showin' 
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin' ; 
An' curi's, too, dat's nigger's ways : his people nebber 

los' 'em, — 
Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar's de banjo an' de 

'possum ! 


Prom " Christmas 'SigJit in the Quarters." 

Mahs'r! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' 

sight ! 
Don't jedge us hard fur what we does — ^you know it's 

Chrismus-night ; 
An' all de balunce of de yeah we does as right's we 

Ef danein's wrong, Mahs'r! let de time excuse de 


We labors in de vineya'd, wu'kin' hard an' wu'kin 
true ; ^ 

Now, shorely you won't notus ef we eats a grape or 

An' takes a leetle holiday, — a leetle restin'-spell, — 

Bekase, next week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor 
twieet as well. 



Eemember, Mahs'r, — min' dis, now, — de sinfulness 
ob sin 

Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it 
in: 10 

An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance 
an' sing, 

A-feelin' like King David when he cut de pigeon- 

It seems to me — ^indeed it do — I mebbe mout be 

wrong — 
That people r'aly ought to dance when Chrismns 

comes along; 
Des dance bekase dey's happy — ^like de birds hops in 

de trees, ^^ 

De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de bowin' ob de 


We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet 

We has no harp to soun' de chords, to help us out to 

But 'eordin' to de gif s we has we does de bes' we 

An' folks don't spise de vi'let-flower bekase it ain't 

de rose. ^^ 

You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to- 

Ease den we'll need de blessin' more 'n ef we's doin' 

An' let de blessin' stay wid us, untel we comes to die, 

An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in 
de sky! 



Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we's a-gwine to jine 'em 
soon : 25 

Our voices we's a-trainin' fur to sing de glory tune; 

We's ready when you wants us, an' it aia't no matter 
when — 

Maha'r ! call yo' chillun soon, an' "take 'em home ! 

These two selections, together with Boner's, pp. 
360, 361, and McNeill's, pp. 336, 337, leave nothing 
to be added ia negro dialect. Nothing better or truer 
has ever been written in this vein. 


Samuel Minturn Peck 


This writer of graceful songs live^ in his native 
town, Tuscaloosa, Ala. His parents were both from 
the North, but lived in, and were identified with, the 
South. His father, E. Wolsey Peck, was Chief Jus- 
tice of Alabama. 

The son was graduated from the University of 
Alabama, studied medicine (which he never prac- 
ticed), and later began making songs, nature lyrics, 
and society verse. Still later he tried prose, and has 
■published a book of stories entitled "Alabama 
Sketches," which appeared about 1902. He con- 
tinues to contribute to the magazines, and has con- 
siderable material toward another volume. His 
principal collections are " Cap and Bells," " Eings 
and Love-Knots," and " Ehymes and Eoses." He is 
to America what Austin Dobson is to England. 


If love could pass as die away 
The summer winds at ebb of day 
That through the amber silence stray, 

Sweet heralds of repose. 
Whispering in the ear of Mght ^ 

The memory of the Morning's light. 

The fragrance of its rose, 
Then we might love and never dread 
The awful void when love is dead. 



peerless land of tears and smiles. 
Of fragrant glooms and golden hours, 

Where Summer's hand with endless wiles 
Entwines the feet of Time with flowers, 

Howe'er the tide of fortune flow, ^ 

Thou hast my heart where'er I go ! 

No blot of shame thy record mars 

In senate-hall or lurid fight: 
Thy spotless fame shines like the stars 

That guard thee through the balmy night, i" 
In weary wanderings to and fro. 
Thou hast my heart where'er I go ! 

• Thy maids are fair, thy warriors brave, 

And those at peace beneath the pine. 

Hymned through the air by wind and 

wave, — ■ 

Their glory needs no song of mine. 

native Land ! through weal and woe. 

Thou hast my heart where'er I go. 


Oh, art thou weary of the glare 

Of cities and the fevered show. 
And dost thou loathe the fret and care 
That through their ways forever flow? 
Prithee to me give ear, for lo ! 
Beside a pine-clad Southern hill 

There is a place to soothe thy woe. 
Where sings the lonely whip-poor-will. 



Thou wilt not hear the trumpet's blare, 
Wo diva's shrill arpeggio; ^^ 

No danseuse demi-nude will dare 
Lorgnettes up-levelled row on row; 
But purer pleasures thou shalt know, 

The trembling fern, the purling rill; 
For thee shall bound the startled doe ^^ 
Where sings the lonely whip-poor-will. 

And thou shalt greet beyond compare 

The fairest vision life can owe. 
When through the calm and fragrant air 

The night shall come with stars a-glow, ^o 

And tall magnolias all a-blow 
Shall win the zephyrs to be still; 

All this is thine if thou wilt go 
Where sings the lonely whip-poor-will. 


Oh, Prince, I pray this boon bestow ^^ 

On one unlearned in courtier-skill. 
Come with me now and fear no foe 
Where sings the lonely whip-poor-will. 


When the cricket sings with elfin lyre 
In autumn fields of rich attire. 

How sweet to gaze, with heart at rest. 
Where summer's flying feet have pressed 
The glowing turf! What joy is higher? ^ 
The sunbeams stretch like golden wire 
Whereon the winds at their desire 
Chant choruses with happy zest 
When the cricket sings. 


Yet when the autumn hues expire, ^" 

And winter gales shriek out in ire. 
There comes an hour more truly blest, 
For Love and I, within our nest, . 
[We heed no storm beside the fire 

When the cricket sings ! ^^ 


Along a pine-clad hill it lies, 
O'erlooked by limpid Southern skies, 
A spot to feast a fairy's eyes, 

A nook for happy fancies. 
The wild bee's mellow monotone ^ 

Here blends with bird-notes zephyr-blown. 
And many an insect voice unknown 

The harmony enhances. 

The rose's shattered splendor flees 

With lavish grace on every breeze, ^^ 

And lilies sway with flexile ease 

Like dryads snowy-breasted; 
And where gardenias drowse between 
Eich curving leaves of glossy green. 
The cricket strikes his tambotirine, ^^ 

Amid the mosses nested. 

Here dawn-flushed myrtles interlace, 
And sifted sunbeams shyly trace 
Frail arabesques whose shifting grace 

Is wrought of shade and shimmer; 
At eventide scents quaint and rare 
Go straying through my garden fair. 
As if they sought with wildered air 

The fireflies' fitful glimmer. 



Oh, could some painter's facile brush ^^ 

On canvas limn my garden's blush. 
The fevered world its din would hush 

To crown the high endeavor; 
Or could a poet snare in rhyme 
The breathings of this balmy clime ^^ 

His fame might dare the dart of Time 

And soar undimmed forever ! 


Across the gloom the gray moth speeds 

To taste the midnight brew. 
The drowsy lilies tell their beads 
On rosaries of dew. 

The stars seem kind, ^ 

And e'en the wind 
Hath pity for my woe. 
Ah, must I sue in vain, ma belle? 
Say no, Mignon, say no! 

Erelong the dawn vdll come to break ^° 

The web of darkness through ; 
Let not my heart unanswered ache 
That beats alone for you. 
Your casement ope 
And bid me hope, ^ 

Give me one smile to bless; 
A word will ease my pain, ma helle. 
Say yes, 'Mignon, say yes! 

Foreboding. The author sent me this tender lit- 
tle reflection, and it is now printed for the first time. 

A Song for the South. This lyric reveals the 
author's feeling toward his native Southland. 


In the Southerk Pines. This is a ballade, a 
French form. Examine its complicated structure. 
It takes rare skill in versification to write it well, 
for spontaneity is its chief charm, and its restrictions 
are likely to give it a labored movement. 35. The 
"Envoy" is an explanatory or commendatory post- 
script added to this kind of poem. 

"When the Cricket Sings is also a foreign form, 
— a rondeau. The foregoing remarks apply here. 

An Alabama Garden. Classify this poem. What 
is its mood ? Characterize its diction. Its movement. 
Wliat is its stanza-form? Is the form figurative? 
6. "Zephyr-blown": the word is trite. 11, 13. Is 
the figure more graceful than illustrative? 13. 
" Dryads " : nymphs of the woods. 15. Criticise the 
line. 19. "Arabesques": meaning? The poem is 
written with delicate appreciation. 

MiGNON. This is an exquisite little love song, 
tender in mood and graceful in movement. 2, 3. 
Explain the pretty conceit. 


Ajmistead Churchill Gordon 


Mr. Gordon is a lawyer, living in Staunton, Va., 
and was at one time mayor of that city. He is a 
Virginian, born in Albemarle County, and is the 
grandson of General W. P. Gordon. 

With Thomas Felson Page he published " Befo' de 
War." He himself is the author of "Echoes in 
Negro Dialect," "For Truth and Freedom," and 
" The Gay Gordons," — this last being a collection of 
ballads edited by him and containing one of his own. 
" The Gift of the Morning Star," " The Ivory Gate," 
" Eobin Aroon," " For Truth and Freedom," " Life 
of General William Fitzhugh Gordon," are others of 
his works. 


How shall the eternal fame of them be told. 
Who, dying in the heyday of life's morn, 

Thrust from their lips the chalice of bright gold 
BUled to the brim with joy, and went forlorn 

Into the abysmal darkness of that bourn ^ 

Whence they who thither go may nevermore return ? 

The circling seasons pass in old progression 

Of beauty and of immortality; 
The ancient stars march on in far procession ; 

And immemorial winds sweep o'er the sea; ^" 
The mountains drop their wine; the flowers bloom; 
While these, who should have lived, sleep in an early 



Ko blight had touched the garlands that they wore. 
Dewy and fresh with innocence and ruth; 

No dead illusions or spent glamours bore ^^ 

With heaviness upon them. Their gay youth 

Caught but the bubbles on the beaker's brim, 

Nor e'er beheld life's lees with eyes grown old and 

Were they in love with death's f orgetfulness 

Thus to lie down with the enduring dead? ^° 

Had wood and stream lost all their loveliness. 
Or morning's sunshine faded overhead, 

That they sought surcease of life's sorrows there. 

Leaving wan Love to weep o'er boyhood's sunny hair ? 

All the old questionings rise to our lips ^^ 

In the sad contemplation of Youth slain: 

Life's hidden meaning, and Death's dark eclipse, — 
The passion and the pathos and the pain; — 

The unanswering answer that the wisest reads 

In the grim mystery that hangs behind the creeds. ^** 

And yet — and yet — we old, whose heads are gray, 
Whose hearts are heavy, and whose steps are slow 

With journeying on this rough and thorny way, — 
We, who live after them, — what may we know 

Of their ecstatic rapture thus to have died, — ^^ 

The marvellous, sleepless souls that perished in their 
pride ? 

If the worn hearts and weary fall on sleep 
With a deep longing for its sweet repose. 

Shall not they, likewise, whom the high Gods keep. 
Die while yet bloom the lily and the rose ? *" 

To each man living comes a day to die : 

What better day than when Truth calls to Liberty ? 


Writ in the rocks, the world's primeval page 
Is old past human skill to interpret it. 

Save where it speaks to grief of man's gray age, ^^ 
And with the end of all things is o'erwrit: — 

All things save one, that hath unfading youth: 

And strength and power and beauty, — clear-eyed 

On mountain top — ^in valley — ^by the sea, — 

Wherever sleep the patriots who have died ^^ 

In her high honor, — at Thermopylae, — 

At Bannockburn, — or where great rivers glide. 

To the wide ocean bordering our own shore. 

Truth sees the holy face of Freedom evermore! 

The blood-stained face of Freedom, that hath 
wrought 5* 

For man a magic and a mystery: 
Whose bright blade, e'en when broken, yet hath 
A grave with the eternal for the free. 
— Freedom and Truth, — ^these went beside them 

Marching to deathless death, forever young and 
fair. 60 

— " Send the Cadets in ! and may God forgive ! " 
— ^Who spake the words had welcomed rather 
But truth dies not, and Liberty shall live. 
E'en though Youth wither in the cannon's 
breath. 65 

— And at the order, debonair and gay, 
They move into the front of an immortal day. 


" Battalion forward ! " rang the sharp command ; 

" Guide centre ! " and the banner was unfurled. 
Then, as if on parade, the little band 

Dressed to the flag. — A sad and sombre world '^^ 
Thrills with the memory of how they went, 
Into that raging storm of fire and carnage blent. 

A worn and weary world in sorrow weeps 

For high hopes vanished at life's sunny morn; 

— ^Yet Truth with eyes that never falter, keeps ''^ 
Her gaze on Freedom's face, that smiles in scorn 

Of death for them who wear the laurelled crown, — 

The early dead, who die with an achieved renown. 

Creeds fade, faiths perish; empires rise and fall; 

And as the shining sun goes on his way, ' ^^ 

Oblivion covers with a dusty pall 

The life of man, predestined to decay. 
— ^Yet is there one thing that shall never die : 
The memory of the Dead for Truth and Liberty. 

This poem was read June 33, 1903, at the dedi- 
cation of Sir Moses Ezekiel's monument to the mem- 
ory of the cadets of the Virginia Military Institute 
who fell in the battle of New Market, Va., May 15, 
1864. What type of poem? 52, 53. What battles 
are meant in " or where great rivers glide," etc. ? 


William Hamilton Hayne 


The son of Paul Hamilton Hayne inherited a 
goodly share of his father's lyric gift. He grew to 
manhood at " Copse Hill " under the careful direc- 
tion of his refined parents, and attained to an inti- 
mate knowledge of English literature and music. 

His poems are usually brief, many of them taking 
the quatrain form. His power of concentration is at 
times striking. JSTo better illustration of this state- 
ment could be offered than the first selection from 
his work, " The Head of Niobe." 

Mr. Hayne has published one volume, " Sylvan 
Lyrics," and contributes occasionally to some of our 
leading periodicals. He now lives in Augusta, Ga. 

In the Uffizi Oallery 

Lips that withhold the anguish she had known. 
Perpetual pathos in the voiceless stone, — 
The eyes decreed in dead Olympian years 
A mournful immortality of tears. 


In the Vatican Museum 

A half-veiled head, a sad, unfufrowed face. 
Titanic power and more than mortal grace; 
Across wan lips and eyes bereft of light 
The awful shadow of unending night. 




In shadow-land I wander far 

Without the clasp of that dear hand, 
Whose mother-love was like a star 
In shadow-land. 

Her soul has reached the shining strand ^ 

Where waves that roll from Death's dark bar 
Lapse into light and music grand. 

She dwells where darkness cannot mar 

The hiills of God, by glory spanned, — 
I roam where grief's gray memories are ■^* 

In shadow-land. 



He loves the dark, he shuns the light. 
His soul rejoices in the night ! 

When the sun's latest glow has fled. 
Weird as a warning from the dead. 

His voice comes o'er the startled rills, ^ 

And the black hollows of the hills. 

As though to chant, in language fell. 
An invocation caught from Hell! 


He seeks the dark, he shuns the light. 

His soul rejoices in the night ! ^^ 



He loves to think man's breath must pass 
Like a spent wind amid the grass ; 

And oft the bitterest blows of Fate, 
His eerie cries anticipate! 

Ah ! once he knew in realms below ^ 

The mysteries of Death and Woe; 

And in his sombre wings are furled 
The secrets of the under world ! 


I see a tiny fluttering form 
Beneath the soft snow's soundless storm 
'Mid a strange moonlight palely shed 
Through mocking cloud-rifts overhead. 

All other birds are far from sight, — ^ 

They think the day has turned to night; 
But he is cast in hardier mould. 
This chirping courier of the cold. 

He does not come from lands forlorn. 
Where midnight takes the place of morn ; i* 
Nor did his daimtless heart, I know, 
Beat first above Siberian snow; 

And yet an arctic bird he seems; 
Though nurtured near our southern streams. 
The tip of his small tail may be ^^ 

A snow-storm in epitome. 




There is no music that man has heard, 

Like the voice of the minstrel sea, 
Whose major and minor chords are fraught 

With infinite mystery — 
For the sea is a harp, and the winds of God ^ 

Play over his rhythmic breast. 
And bear on the sweep of their mighty wings 

The song of a vast unrest. 

There is no passion that man has sung, 

Like the love of the deep-souled sea, i" 

Whose tide responds to the moon's soft light 

With marvelous melody — 
For the sea is a harp, and the winds of God 

Play over his rhythmic breast, ^* 

And bear on the sweep of their mighty wings 

The song of a vast unrest. 

There is no sorrow that man has known. 

Like the grief of the wordless main. 
Whose Titan bosom forever throbs 

With an untranslated pain — ^o 

For the sea is a harp, and the winds of God 

Play over his rhythmic breast, 
And bear on the sweep of their mighty wings 

The song of a vast unrest. 

In Shadovt Land. Compare this rondeau with 
Peck's, p. 384, and note the difference in their form. 

The Screech-Owl is written iu couplets. Point 
out how the setting and the diction are in harmony 
with the theme. 



The Southern Snow-Bikd. This, too, is written 
with keen appreciation. Contrast its treatment 
with the foregoing. 8, 16. Very felicitous lines; 
match them elsewhere in the poem. 

A Sea Lteic. This poem, taken from the Atlan- 
tic Monthly, in which it first appeared, is one of the 
author's very best poems. It is indeed a haunting 


Frank Lebby Stanton 


Mr. Stanton is a South Carolinian. He was born 
in Charleston, but for the most of his life has been a 
resident of Atlanta, 6a. He is on the editorial staff 
of the Constitution, and contributes a column daily 
to that paper, — verses, ■vritticisms, etc. While these 
songs necessarily lack thought and finish, dashed off 
as they are to fill waiting space, yet now and then 
one sings with lyric beauty. 

He has issued three volumes, " Songs of a Day," 
" Songs of the Soil," and " Comes One with a Song." 
His poems are widely popular. 


Adown the vale of Life together 

We walked in Spring and Winter weather. 

When days were dim, when days were bright; 
My friend of whom God's will bereft me. 
Whose kind, congenial spirit left me ^ 

And went forth in the Unknown Night. 

I saw his step grow more invalid, 
I saw his cheek grow pallid — ^pallid. 

And wither like a dying rose; 
Until, at length, being all too weary !*• 

Per Life's rude scenes and places dreary, 

He bade farewell to friends and foes. 



This is his grave. The Spring with flowers 
Bestrews it in the morning hours, 

Her rarest roses o'er him bowed; ^ 

And Summer pauses to deplore him. 
And weeping Winter arches o'er him 

Her solemn drapery of cloud. 

He was not faultless. God, who gave him 
Life, and Christ, who died to save him, ^^ 
Sent Sorrow, wherewith he was tried; 
And if, as I who loved him name him. 
There should be heard a voice to blame him. 
May we not answer, " Christ hath died " ? 

Ah, verily ! . . . I fancy often ^5 

I see his kindly features soften, — 

I mark his melting eyes grow dim. 
While Hunger, with its pained appealing. 
Its want and woe and grief revealing. 

Stretched its imploring palms to him. ^^ 

He cannot answer now. He never. 
In all the dim, vast, deep Forever, 

Shall speak with human words again. 
He cannot hear the song-birds calling; 
He cannot feel the Spring dews falling, ^^ 

Nor sigh when Winter winds complain. 

Deep is his sleep. He would not waken 
Though earth were to her centre shaken 

By the loud thunders of a God. 
Though the strong sea, by tempest driven, *" 
With wailing waves rock earth and heaven. 

He would not answer from the sod. 


So be it, friend ! A little wliile hence. 
And in the drear, deep, dreamless silence 

We too shall share thy couch of rest. *s 

When we have trod Life's pathways dreary. 
Kind Death will take the hands grown weary. 

And gently fold them o'er the breast. 

Sleep on, dear friend ! N"o marble column 
Gleams in the lights and shadows solemn ^^ 

Over the grasses on thy grave ; 
But flowers bloom there — ^the roses love thee ; 
And the tall oaks that tower above thee. 

Their broad, green banners o'er thee wave. 

Sleep, while the weary years are flying; ^^ 

While men are born, while men are dying! 

Sleep on thy curtained couch of sod! 
Thine be the rest which Christ hath given. 
Thine be the Christian's hope of Heaven; 
Thine be the perfect peace of God ! ^^ 


Where have you gone, little Blaine, 
With eyes like violets wet with rain — 
Silvery April rain that throws 
(Ah, never with eyes as bright as those!) 
Melting diamonds over the rose. * 

You have left me alone, but where have 

you flown? 
God knows, my dear, God knows! 



Where have you gone, little Elaine, 
With laughing lips of the crimson stain — 
Lips that smiled as the sunlight glows ^'* 

When morning breaks like a white, sweet 

Over the wearisome winter snows? 
Shall I miss their song my whole life long? 
God knows, my dear, God knows ! 

You have left me lonely, little Elaine: i* 

I call to you, but I call in vain; 

I sing to you when the twilight throws 

Its dying light on my life's last rose. 

While the tide of memory ebbs and flows. 

Is it God's own will I shoidd miss you still ? 

God knows, my dear, God knows! 


There's a kind o' chilly feelin' in the blowin' o' the 

An' a sense o' sadness stealin' through the tresses o' 

the trees; 
And it's not the sad September that's slowly drawin' 

But jest that I remember I'm here to say " Good-by." 

" Good-by," the wind is wailin' ; " good-by," the trees 
complain, ^ 

An' bend low down to whisper, with green leaves 
white with rain ; 

" Good-by," the roses murmur, an' the bendin' lilies 

As if they all felt sorry that I'm come to say " Good- 



I reckon all have said it, some time or other — soft 
An' easy like — ^with eyes low down, that couldn't look 

aloft !« 

Fer the tears that trembled in 'em, fer the lips that 

choked the sigh 
When it kind o' took holt o' the heart, an' made it 


I didn't think 'twas hard to say, but standin' here 

With the pleasant past behin' me, an' the future all 

A gloomin' yonder in the dark, I can't keep back the 

sigh, 15 

An' Fm weepin' like a woman as I tell you all " Good- 


The work Fve done is with you; maybe some things 

went wrong. 
Like a note that jars the music in the sweet flow of 

a song! 
But, brethren, when you think o' me, I only ask you 

Say as the Master said o' one : " He's done just what 

he could!" 20 

An' when you sit together in the time that's goin' to 

By your bright an' beamin' firesides in this pleasant 
land o' Lee, 

Let the sweet past come before you, an' with some- 
thin' like a sigh, 

Jest say: "We ain't f ergot him since the day he 
said " Good-by ! " 



My Dead Feiend. A dignified expression of a 
manly sorrow. At times the poem reaches exalted 
utterance, as, for instance, in line 32. 36-41. Is this 
passage in the same key as the verse mentioned ? 43. 
" While hence," rhyming with " silence," is as un- 
expected as Browning's somewhat similar " silence '' 
with " mile hence " in " The Pied Piper of Hamelin," 
— or his " from mice " with " promise," in the same 

Little Elaine. A lyric of tender sentiment, wor- 
thy to be classed with some of those by Aldrich, Field, 
and Eiley. 

GooD-BT. This is introduced as a representative 
of the author's dialect verse, in which class by far 
the most of his work falls. What is the theme in this 
poem? 20. What of this quotation? What is the 
measure? The movement? 


Henry Jerome Stockard 


[Mr. Stockard's poems are included in this volume at 
our request. The Publishebs.] 

Mr. Stockard is a native of Forth Carolina, where 
he has resided nearly all his life. He was educated 
at the Graham High School, and pursued a course at 
the State University, Chapel Hill, E". C. He is an 
educator, has been a member of the faculties of the 
University of North Carolina, Fredericksburg Col- 
lege (Va.), etc., and- is at this time the president of 
Peace Institute, Ealeigh, N. C, with which college 
he has been connected for about ten years. 

Mr. Stockard has contributed occasionally to some 
of our leading periodicals, — Harper's, the Century, 
etc., and is the author of one volume of verse, " Fugi- 
tive Lines" (1897), published by the Putnams of 
New York. He is also the author of this " Study in 
Southern Poetry." 


He heard the Voice that spake and, unafraid. 
Beheld at dawning of primeval light 
The systems flame to being, move in flight 
Unmeasured, unimagined, and unstayed. 

He stood at nature's evening and surveyed 
Dissolved worlds, — saw uncreated night 
About the universe's depth and height 


Slowly and silently forever laid. 
Down the pale avenues of death he trod. 

And, trembling, gazed on scenes of hate that 

chilled 10 

His blood, and for a breath his pulses stilled : — 

Then clouds from sun-bright shores a moment rolled 

And, blinded, glimpsed he One with thunder shod, 

Crowned with the stars, and with the morning 

stoled ! 


She leads the sea through hills of Darien, 
And brings the east and west to every door. 
With silent influence drawing more and more 
Into close brotherhood the tribes of men. 

She holds the trail of Pain to his secret den; ^ 

The dim process of being dares explore; 
Spells slowly out on mountain, rock, and shore 
The syllables of God to mortal ken. 

She yet may sail from vague, cloud-builded piers. 
And lay along the darkness and the wind ^* 

A cable vast which world to world shall bind ; 

Breathless, may catch the deep, slow speech of Mars, 
Now, haply, passing on from outer spheres 
The grave, tremendous message of the stars. 


Down where the bed of ocean sinks profound. 
Lodged in the clefts and chasms of the deep 
Where silence and eternal darkness keep 
These dumb primordial living forms abound. 

What know they of this life in the vast round 


Of earth and air, — how wild the pulses leap 

At love's sweet dream, — what storms of sorrow 

sweep, — 
What hopes allure us and what terrors hound? 

And, scattered on these slopes and plains below 
This atmospheric sea, one with the worm i" 

And beetle, for a momentary term, 

What know we more of those ethereal spheres, — 
What rapture may be there, what poignant woe. 
What towering passions and what high careers? 


As some mysterious wanderer of the skies. 

Emerging from the deeps of outer dark. 
Traces for once in human ken the arc 
Of its stupendous curve, then swiftly flies 

Out through some orbit veiled in space, which lies ^ 
Where no imagination may embark, — 
Some onward-reaching track that God did mark 
For all eternity beneath his eyes, — 

So comes the soul forth from creation's vast; 

So clothed with mystery moves through mortal 
sight; 10 

Then sinks away into the Great Unknown. 

What systems it hath seen in all the past, 
What worlds shall blaze upon its future flight, 
Thou knowest, eternal God, and thou alone ! 


Benjamin Sledd 


Mr. Sledd was bom in Virginia, and was educated 
at Washington and Lee University, that State, where 
in 1886 he was graduated with the degree of M. A. 
Immediately he entered upon a course at Johns Hop- 
kins, but was compelled to give up his plans on ac- 
count of failing sight. Since 1888 he has been a 
professor in Wake Forest College, Wake Forest, N. C. 

Mr. Sledd has published two volumes of verses, 
" From Cliff and Scaur" and " The Watchers of the 
Hearth," and he has yet another ready for the press, 
" IdyUs of the Old South." 

There is a chord of melancholy distinct in the 
poef s lyrics which at times becomes a major tone. 


In the lone night she comes 
And clasps her hand in mine; 

We speak not : silence has 
A language more divine. 

Day with its weary strife, 
Mght with its gloom, forgot: 

Soul and soul are wandering 
Where day and night come not. 


" Wood fur marster; kin'lin' wood." — Negeo Melodt. 

Where the pine-woods in the twilight murmur sadly 

of the past. 
Singing goes he, with the fagots o'er his handed 

shoulder cast, — 
Poor old Isaac, of a vanished time and order, best 

and last. 

And his song is of the master, many a year now in 

his grave. 
Loved as brother loveth brother, — ^worthy master, 

worthy slave. ^ 

" Wood fur marster; kin'lin' wood ! " — oh, the mem- 
ory of the days 

Blessed with more than ease and plenty, freer hearts 
and gentler ways. 

Once again 'tis Christmas morning, and I watch with 

sleepless eyes 
Where the phantom of the Yule log 'mid its ashes 

glimmering lies. 

Isaac's horn, without, is sounding day-break sum- 
mons unto all. — 1" 

Mansion, cabin, byre and sheepfold, waken to the 
mellow call. 

And 'tis Isaac's noiseless shadow starts the pine-knots 

into flame; 
To the trundle-bed then stealing, whispers low each 

sleeper's name. 
Loving forfeit of the children, who but Isaac first to 

claim ? 



And he tells of many a secret Santa Glaus alone 
should know, — ^^ 

Mysteries that will not wait the morning's tardy 
light to show. 

And the treasures without number fashioned by the 

dear old hand — 
Childhood's inmost, sweetest longings, who so well 

could understand? 
Christ, who so loved little children, bless him in that 

better land ! 

For no more the aged figure comes at sunset down 

the way: 2* 

Yonder stands his empty cabin slowly yielding to 

Weeds and creepers now are struggling where we 

played before the door. 
And the rabbit hides her litter there beneath the 

sunken floor. 

Trees are springing where the pathway to the mas- 
ter's mansion led. 

And the feet which trooped along it, all are vanished, 
some are dead. 25 

" Wood fur marster ; kin'lin' wood ! " — comes the 
old remembered strain; 

Hush! 'tis Isaac softly singing by his cabin door 

— Only swallows in the twilight roimd the chimney 
twittering go. 

Mournful token of the hearthstone cold and tenant- 
less below. 



In the old forsaken garden, sleeps the master, sleeps 
the slave: ®° 

And the pines to-night are sighing o'er each unre- 
memhered grave. 


They weary ns, — those mighty bards of old 
Who sang alone of war and fateful wrong, 
Their accents for our tired lives too strong. 

Which all the voices of the past must hold. 

And Ilion's woe, divinest tak e'er told, ^ 

Can win ns not; nor Milton's seraph song; 
And even he, lord of the buskined throng, 

Speaks in a language harsh and overbold. 

Better in time's still, pensive noon to lie 

'Mid the sweet grass, on lonely pasture slopes — ^^ 

Some lowly poet's new-discovered rhymes, 

A far white hamlet, with its faint-heard chimes. 

Murmur of youth and maiden loitering by. 

And all our little world of dreams and hopes. 


To-night, methought, across the moonlight's play 
Upon my wall, a shadowy hand was thrust, 
And past my lattice, like a wandering gust 
Of ghostly wind, that wailing dies away, 
Came a low voice. "A year," it seemed to say, ^ 
" And earth shall hold in her mysterious trust 
Thy little all of silent, sightless dust. 
Waiting — some far-off, prophet-promised day ! " 
And while I listened, awed but undismayed, 


Half joyed to give life's long, hard conflict o'er, ^^ 
Came sound of little feet upon my floor. 
And touch of soft, warm cheeks pressed to my own. 
And through the gloom, with burning heart I 
" Spare me, ye powers, tUl my brood be flown ! " 

My Silent Guest. These lines have reference to 
a lost child. They are stamped with sincerity. 

Isaac. A true picture of a character that is pass- 
ing away rapidly — too rapidly. What type of poem 
is this? Its measure? Its theme? 

Decadence. What is the exact theme in this son- 
net? 6. "Ilion": Troy. 7. " Lord of the buskined 
throng": Shakespeare. Explain buskined. 8. Jus- 
tify the criticism. 

Intercession. The author's love for children is 
shown again here. Give the scheme of this and con- 
trast its sestet with that of the foregoing. 11, 13. A 
tender sentiment. 


Madison Julius Cawein 


No other American of to-day has taken up verse- 
writing with more earnestness than Mr. Cawein, and 
very few with so much success. He has already is- 
sued eight or ten volumes, and is yet a young man. 
His iirst collection, put forth when he was a school- 
hoy, attracted the favorable notice of recognized crit- 
ics; and if one may judge by his growth in his art 
since its appearance the author has entered upon a 
career honorable alike to himself and to the South. 

Among his books may be named the following : — 
" Blooms of the Berry," " Aceolon of Gaul," " Lyrics 
and Idylls," "Moods and Memories," "Eed Leaves 
and Eoses," "Undertones," "The Garden of 
Dreams," " Shapes and Shadows," " Idyllic Mono- 
logues," " One Day and Another," " Weeds by the 
Wall," and "A Voice on the Wind." A collec- 
tion of his poems, made by Mr. Edmund Gosse, was 
published, 1902, in England under the title, " Ken- 
tucky Poems," and was received with cordial favor 
throughout that country. Besides his original work, 
he has made good translations, in their original me- 
ters, of the German poets from Goethe to Geibel. 
His poems are instinct with true feeling, graceful in 
diction, rich in imagery, and vivid in imagination. 

Mr. Cawein is a native of Louisville, Ky., where 
he now lives. 




Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on her state 
Of gold and purple in the marblest west. 

Thou eomest forth like some embodied trait. 
Or dim conceit, a lily-bud confessed; 

Or, of a rose, the visible wish; that, white, ^ 

Goes softly messengering through the night. 
Whom each expectant flower makes it guest. 

All day the primroses have thought of thee. 

Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat ; 

All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly ^^ 

Veiled snowy faces,— that no bee might greet 

Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed; — 

Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last. 
Their lord, who eomest to salute each sweet. 

Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's ^^ 

Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks 

The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays 
Nocturnes of fragrance, thy winged shadow links 

In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith; 

bearer of their order's shibboleth, ^o 

Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks. 

What dost thou whisper in the balsam's ear 
That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's, — 

A syllabled silence that no man may hear, — 

As dreamily upon its stem it rocks ? 25 

What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, 

Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant. 
Some spectre of some perished flower of phlox? 


voyager of that universe which lies 

Between the four walls of this garden fair, — 3' 
Whose constellations are the fireflies 

That wheel their instant courses everywhere, — 
'Mid fairy firmaments wherein one sees 
Mimic Bootes and the Pleiades, 

Thou steerest like some fairy ship-of-air. s' 

Gnome-wrought of moonbeam fluff and gossamer. 
Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest 

Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her 

His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest. — 

for the herb, the magic euphrasy, *" 

That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah, me ! 
And all that world at which my soul hath guessed ! 


Secluded, solitary on some underbough. 

Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmering light. 
Like Puck thou crouchest : Haply watching how 
The slow toad-stool comes bulging, moony white. 
Through loosening loam; or how, against the 
night, 6 

The glow-worm gathers silver to endow 
The darkness with; or how the dew conspires 
To hang at dusk with lamps of chilly fires 
Each blade that shrivels now. 




vague confederate of the whip-poor-will, ^^ 

Of owl and cricket and the katydid ! 

Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrill 
Vibrating note and send'st it where, half hid 
In cedars, twilight sleeps — each azure lid 

Drooping a line of golden eyeball still. — < 
Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voice 
Within the Garden of the Hours apoise 
On dusk's deep daffodil. 


Minstrel of moisture ! silent when high noon 

Shows her tanned face among the thirsting clover 

And parching meadows thy tenebrious tune ^^ 

Wakes with the dew or when the rain is over. 
Thou troubadour of wetness and damp lover 

Of all cool things ! admitted comrade boon 

Of twilight's hush, and little intimate ^5 

Of eve's first fluttering star and delicate 
Round rim of rainy moon! 


Art trumpeter of Dwarf -land ? does thy horn 
Inform the gnomes and goblins of the hour 
When they may gambol under haw and thorn, 3" 
Straddling each winking web and twinkling 

flower ? 
Or bell-riuger of Elf -land ? whose tall tower 
The liriodendron is? from whence is borne 
The elfin music of thy bell's deep bass. 
To summon fairies to their starlit maze, ^^ 

To summon them or warn. 



The hot sunflowers by the glaring pike 
Lift shields of sultry brass ; the teasel tops, 

Pink-thorned, advance with bristling spike on spike 
Against the furious sunlight. Field and copse 
Are sick with summer now, with breathless stops 

The locusts cymbal; now grasshoppers beat ^ 

Their castanets: and rolled in dust, a team, — 
Like some mean life wrapped in its sorry dream, — 

An empty wagon rattles through the heat. 


Where now the blue, blue flags? the flow'rs whose 
mouths 10 

Are moist and musky? Where the sweet-breathed 
That made the brook-bank herby ? Where the South's 

Wild morning-glories, rich in hues, that hint 

At coming showers that the rainbows tint? ^* 
Where all the blossoms that the wildwood knows ? — 

The frail oxalis hidden in its leaves; 

The Indian-pipe, pale as a soul that grieves; 
The freckled touch-me-not and forest-rose. 


Dead ! dead ! all dead besides the drouth-burnt brook. 

Shrouded in nioss or in the shriveled grass. 20 

Where waved their bells, — from which the wild-bee 


The dew-drop once, — gaunt, in a nightmare mass, 



The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle 

Thirsty and lean, seeking some meagre spring, ^4 
Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of wool 
The panting sheep have left, that sought the cool. 

From morn till evening wearily wandering. 


No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awake 
The sleepy hush; to let its music leak 

Fresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the 
brake : 2" 

Only the green-blue heron, famine weak, — 
Searching the stale pools of the minnowless 
creek, — 

Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too. 
False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air; 
While overhead, — still as if painted there, — ^5 

A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue. 


Before the rain, low in the obscure east. 

Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray; 

Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased. 
Wove an enormous web, wherein it lay 
Like some white spider hungry for its prey. ^ 

Vindictive looked the scowling firmament. 
In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray, 

Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent. 


The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stone 
The peevish cricket raised a creaking cry. ^^ 

Within the world these sounds were heard alone. 
Save when the rufiBan wind swept from the sky. 
Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh; 

Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed. 
That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by, ^^ 

Sharded the silence with its feverish speed. 

Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passed 
Before was heard the thunder's sullen drum 

Bumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last. 
Restless with waiting, — ^like a woman, dumb ^^ 
With doubting of the love that should have clomb 

Her casement hours ago, — avowed again, 
'Mid protestations, joy that he had come. 

And all night long I heard the Heavens explain. 


A mile of lane, — ^hedged high with iron-weeds 
And dying daisies, — white with sun, that leads 
Downward into a wood; through which a stream 

Steals like a shadow; over which is laid 
A bridge of logs, worn deep by many a team, ^ 

Sunk in the tangled shade. 

Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry; 
And in the sleepy silver of the sky 
A gray hawk wheels scarce larger than a hand. 
From point to point the road grows worse and 
Until that place is reached where all the land 
Seems burdened with some curse. 



A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung, — 
On which the fragments of a gate are hnng, — 
Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt, ^^ 

A wilderness of briers ; o'er whose tops 
A battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt, 

'Mid fields that know no crops. 

Fields over which a path, o'erwhelmed with burrs 
And ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers, ^'^ 

Leads, — lost, irresolute as paths the cow-s 

Wear through the woods, — unto a woodshed; then, 
With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house. 

Where men have murdered men. 

A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock, ^5 
Is seamed and crannied ; whose lame door and lock 
Are bullet-bored; around which, there and here, 

Are sinister stains. — One dreads to look around. — 
The place seems thinking of that time of fear 

And dares not breathe a sound. ^^ 

Within is emptiness: the sunlight falls 
On faded journals papering its walls; 
On advertisement chromos, torn with time. 

Around a hearth where wasps and spiders build. — 
The house is dead; meseems that night of crime ^^ 

It, too, was shot and killed. 


Again, in dreams, the veteran hears 
The bugle and the drum; 

Again the boom of battle nears, 
Again the bullets hum; 


Again he mounts, again he cheers, ^ 

Again his charge speeds home — 

memories of those long gone years ! 
years that are to come ! 

We live in dreams as well as deeds, in thoughts as 
as well as acts; 
And life through things we feel, not know, is real- 
ized the most; ^^ 
The conquered are the conquerors, despite the face 
of facts. 
If they still feel their cause was just who fought 
for it and lost. 


Again, in thought, he hears at dawn 

The far reveille die; 
Again he marches stern and wan ^^ 

Beneath a burning sky: 
He bivouacs; the night comes on; 

His comrades 'round him lie — 
memories of the years long gone! 

years that now go by ! ^^ 

The vintager of Earth is War, is War whose grapes 
are men; 
Into his wine-vats armies go, his wine-vats steam- 
ing red: 
The crimson vats of battle where he stalks, as in a 
Drunk with the must of Hell that spurts beneath 
his iron tread. 




Again, in mind, he's lying where ^/ 

The trenches slay with heat; 
Again his flag floats o'er him, fair 

In charge or fierce retreat: 
Again all's lost; again despair 

Makes death seem three times sweet — ^^ 
years of tears that crowned his hair 

With laurels of defeat! 

There is reward for those who dare, for those who 
dare and do; 
Who face the dark inevitable, who fall and know 
no shame: 
Upon their banner triumph sits and in the horn 
they blew, — 
Naught's lost if honor be not lost, defeat is but a 


The deep seclusion of this forest path, — 

O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy. 
Along which bluet and anemone 
Spread a dim carpet; where the twilight hath 
Her dark abode ; and, sweet as aftermath, s 

Wood-fragrance breathes, — ^has so enchanted me, 
That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be 
Some sylvan resting, rosy from her bath: 
Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams. 

That every foam-white stream that twinkling 
flows, 10 



And every bird that flutters wings of tan. 
Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems 

A l^aiad dancing to a Faun who blows 
Wild woodland music ,on the pipes of Pan. 

Written of Colossal Cave, Kentucky 

Aisles and abysses; leagues no man explores, 
Of rock that labyrinths and night that drips ; 
Where everlasting silence broods, with lips 

Of adamant, o'er earthquake-builded floors. 

Where forms, such as the Demon-World adores, ^ 
Laborious water carves; whence echo slips 
Wild-tongued o'er pools where petrifaction strips 

Her breasts of crystal from which crystal pours. — 

Here where primordial fear, the Gorgon, sits 

Staring all life to stone in ghastly mirth, i" 
I seem to tread, with awe no tongue can tell, — 

Beneath vast domes, by torrent-tortured pits, 
'Mid wrecks terrific of the ruined Earth, — 
An ancient causeway of forgotten Hell. 

A Twilight Moth:. A nature lyric. Select im- 
aginative touches, as, for instance, 29-35. Study the 
classical allusions. 

The Tree Toad. Classify this, and characterize 
its diction. 4. What distinguishes this line? Any 
especially fine imagery in the poem ? 

Drouth. An intimate knowledge of nature is 
disclosed in this. The picture is well drawn. The 
poet seems to have a fondness for compounds., His 
epithets are especially felicitous: "glaring pike," 
" sorry dream," " meagre spring," etc. His rhymes 


are imusual, unhackneyed. Justify this assertion 
here and in the other selections. 

Before the Eaik. Another nature lyric into 
which description enters with fine effect. 10. 
" Peevish cricket " : point out other equally signifi- 
cant epithets. 15, 16. Striking lines. 18, 19. A 
notable ease of correspondence between sound and 
sense. 30. The figure is not so apt as the diction. 
24. Meaning? 

Feud. A descriptive poem pervaded by a spirit 
of horror. The theme is treated by a firm hand and 
from original sources. Some of the most fatal feuds 
in our history have been in Kentucky. 

The Man in Gray. This poem was written for 
the reunion of the Confederate Veterans at Louis- 
ville, Ky., 1900. Type of poem? 31-34. What dis- 
tinguishes this passage? What is the central thought 
in the lines — for instance, from 33 to 36? 

Enchantment. Delicacy of thought and diction 
characterizes this sonnet. 13, 14. Explain mytho- 
logical names. 

Caveens. What characterizes this? 3. Origin 
of the word labyrinth? 8. "Gorgon": explain the 
allusion as revealed in the next line. 14. " Cause- 
way": meaning? 

Walter Malone 


Mr. Malone is a native of De Soto County, Miss- 
issippi, and an alumnus of the University of that 
State, class of 1887. For ten years he practiced law 
in Memphis, going to lifew York City in 1897, where 
he lived three years and engaged in literary pursuits. 
In 1900 he returned to Memphis and resumed his 
profession. He resides there now, and has heen 
raised to the bench. 

He has been a faithful wooer of the Muse. Some 
of his published volumes of verse are the following : 
" Claribel, and Other Poems," " The Outcast, and 
Other Poems," "Narcissus, and Other Poems," 
" Songs of Dusk and Dawn," " Songs of December 
and June," " The Coming of the King," " Songs of 
the North and South," and " Poems." 


Far, far away, beyond a hazy height. 

The turquoise skies are hung in dreamy sleep; 

Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white. 

Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. 

Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, ^ 

October robes the weeds in purple gowns; 

He sprinkles all the sterile flelds with gold. 
And aU the rustic trees wear royal crowns. 


The straggling fences are all interlaced 

With pink and azure morning-glory blooms, ^^ 

The starry asters glorify the waste. 

While grasses stand on guard with pikes and 

Yet still amid the splendor of decay 

The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead. 

The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away, ^^ 
And lovely Summer songsters that have fled. 

And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, 
Amid the flutter of her withered leaves. 

Pale Summer for her perished Kingdom pines. 
And all the glories of her golden sheaves. ^^ 

In vain October woos her to remain 
Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, 

Entreats her to forget her heart-break pain. 
And weep no more above her faded flowers. 

At last November, like a Conqueror, comes ^^ 
To storm the golden city of his foe; 

We hear his rude winds, like the roll of drums. 
Bringing their desolation and their woe. 

The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood. 
Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, ^o 

The forest flames with foliage red as blood, 
A conflagration sweeping to the sky. 

Then all the treasures of that brilliant state 
Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; 

October, like a King resigned to fate, ^^ 

Dies in his forests, with their sunset fire. 



This livelong day I listen to the fall 

Of hickory nuts and acorns to the ground, 
The croak of rain-crows and the blue] ay's call. 
The woodman's axe that hews with muffled sound. 

And like a spendthrift in a threadbare coat ^ 

That still retains a dash of crimson hue. 

An old woodpecker chatters forth a note 
About the better Summer days he knew. 

Across the road a ruined cabia stands, 
With ragweeds and with thistles at its door. 

While withered cypress vines hang tattered strands 
About its falling roof and rotting floor. 



In yonder forest nook no sound is heard 
Save when the walnuts patter on the earth. 

Or when by winds the hectic leaves are stirred 
To dance like witches in their maniac mirth. 

Down in the orchard hang the golden pears, 
Half honeycombed by yellow-hammer beaks; 

Near by, a dwarfed and twisted apple bears 

Its fruit, brown-red as Amazonian cheeks. *" 

The lonesome landscape seems as if it yearned 
Like our own achiag hearts, when first we knew 

The one love of our life was not returned. 
Or first we found an old-time friend untrue. 

At last the night comes, and the broad white moon ^5 
Is welcomed by the owl with frenzied glee; 

The fat opossum, like a satyr, soon 
Blinks at its light from yon persimmon tree. 


The raccoon starts to hear long-dreaded sounds. 
Amid his scattered spoils of ripened corn — ^o 

The cry of negroes and the yelp of hounds. 
The wild, rude pealing of a hunter's horn. 

At last a gray mist covers all the land 
Until we seem to wander in a cloud. 

Far, far away upon some elfin strand ^^ 

Where Sorrow drapes us in a mildewed shroud. 

No voice is heard in field or forest nigh 
To break the desolation of the spell 

Save one sad mocking-bird in boughs near by. 
Who sings like Tasso in his madman's cell; 


While one magnolia blossom, ghastly white. 
Like high-born Leonora, lingering there. 

Haughty and splendid in the lonesome night. 
Is pale with passion in her dumb despair. 


He who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain. 

And worn the royal purple of a king; 

Hath shrunk beneath the icy Winter's sting. 
Then reveled in the golden Summer's reign; 
He hath within the dust and ashes lain, 

Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing; 

A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, 
And hath been lord of castle-towers in Spain. 


He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell. 
Then in Aladdin's jeweled chariot driven; 

He hath with passion roamed a demon fell. 
And had an angel's raiment to him given; 

His restless sonl hath burned with flames of hell. 
And winged through ever-blooming fields of 

October in Tennessee. What class of poem does 
this represent? 5. "Aladdin": explain the char- 
acter. 13. An imaginative line. Point out other 
like touches. Some of the figures are striking; 
choose the best for analysis. 

Autumn in the South. Does this fall in the 
same class with the foregoing? Which predomi- 
nates, description or reflection ? 20. " Amazonian " : 
interpret. 35-28. What felicitous imagery? 40. 
Explain the allusion. 

" He Who Hath Loved." This is one of the poet's 
best pieces of verse. The theme justifies the hyper- 
boles. It is the Petrarchan type of sonnet. Com- 
pare it with the Shakesperean and state wherein 
they differ. 


Virginia Frazer Boyle 

Mrs. Boyle is 'a daughter of the late Col. Charles 
Wesley Frazer, who was an officer in the Confederate 
Army. She was married to Mr. Thomas E. Boyle, 
an attorney of Memphis, Tenn., her native city, 
where she has always lived. She comes of old Col- 
onial and Eevolutionary stock on -both sides, repre- 
senting North Carolina and Virginia lines. 

Her writings, both prose and verse, have appeared 
in the Atlantic, the Century, Harper's, and other 
like magazines. "The Other Side," her first book, 
a poem of the South from its settlement through Ee- 
construction, was well received both North and 
South. The same may be said of " Brokenburne," a 
love story of the war. " Devil Tales," published by 
Harper's in 1900, a series of old nurses' stories, which 
first ran through their magazine, possesses literary 
and dramatic interest. Other books by her are 
" Serena," a novel, and " Love Songs and Bugle 


It was out of the South that the lion heart came, 
From the ranks of the Gray like the flashing of flame, 
A juggler with fortune, a master with fame — 
The rugged heart born to command. 


And he rode by the star of an unconquered will, ^ 
And he struck with the might of an undaunted skill. 
Unschooled, but as firm as the granite-flanked hill — 
As true and as tried as steel. 

Though the Gray were outnumbered, he counted no 

But fought like a demon and struck like a god, ^" 
Disclaiming defeat on the blood-curdled sod. 
As he pledged to the South that he loyed. 

'Twas saddle and spur, or on foot in the field, 
Unguided by tactics that knew how to yield; 
Stripped of aU, save his honor, but rich in that 
shield, ^' 

Full armored by nature's own hand. 

As the rush of the storm, he swept on the foe ; 
It was " Come ! " to his legions, he never said " Go ! " 
With sinews unbending, how could the world know 
That he rallied a starving host? 

For the wondering ranks of the foe were like clay 
To these men of fiint in the molten day ; 
And the hell-hounds of war howled afar for their 
When the arm of a Forrest led. 

For devil or angel, life stirred when he spoke, ^^ 
And the current of courage, if slumbering, woke 
At the yell of the leader, for never was broke 
The record men wondering read. 

With a hundred he charged like a thousand men, 
And the hoofbeats of one seemed the tattoo of ten ; ^° 
What bar were burned bridges or flooded fords when 
The wizard of battles was there ! 


But his pity could bend to a fallen foe, 
The mailed hand soothe a brother's woe; 
There was time to be human, for tears to flow — ^^ 
For the heart of the man to thrill. 

Then " On ! " as though never a halt befell. 
With a swinging blade and the Rebel yell, 
Through the song of the bullets and ploughshares of 
The hero, half iron, half soul ! *" 

Swing, rustless blade in the strong right hand — 
Ride, soul of a god, through the dauntless band — 
Through the low green mounds or the breadth of the 
land — 
Wherever your legions dwell ! 


Swing, Rebel blade, through the halls of fame. 
Where courage and justice have left your name; 
By the torches of glory your deeds shall flame 
In the reckoning of Time ! 


War has played the game of battles on the bloody 
field of Mars, 
With fate behind the masque of hope, for clashing 
gray and blue; 
And beside its broken altars, one has furled its stars 
and bars, — 
The whitest flower of chivalry that Heraldry e'er 



And the knighthood of the Southland kept the mem- 
ory of its Cross, 5 
Above the bitter lees of life the darkened years 
have quaffed, — 
For its spirit lives, invincible, beyond life's woe and 
loss, — 
Its wassail bowl was valor and immortal truth the 

How they charged ! the whole world wondered at the 
thrilling battle stroke, — 
In life's grandest panorama, like Crusaders they 
had come; — i" 

But knightlier far, than legend e'er in song or story 
woke, — 
For their Cross was love and honor, and their Holy 
Grail was Home! — 

What marvel then, that nations heard and gave of 
their applause, 
Before the clash of right with might, — of princi- 
ple with gold ? — 
That cradle and the grave were robbed to swell the 
living cause, ^^ 

That lefi upon the sodden field the grandest record 

Fate won; and knew not mercy in that awful molten 
When the Southrons turned in sorrow from the 
smoking cannon's mouth. 
But the arms of love were round them, and above a 
grim despair 
Eose the voices of their vestals, — ^faithful women 
of the South! 20 



Theirs were the hands that tied the sash and girt the 
blade of light; 
Theirs vere the hearts that fared them forth, the 
bravest of the brave; 
Theirs were the feet that trod the loom from morn 
till weary night, 
And theirs the love that knelt in faith beside a war- 
rior's grave! 

Far out upon the wrecks of love, their cradle songs 
were cast, — ^^ 

The songs of nursing mothers, as they wept the 
blood-stained shields; 
And hymned unto the boom of guns, the rattling of 
the blast, — 
Their days of youth lie buried on forgotten battle- 

But they builded in the twilight of their hopes and 
of their fears. 
Love's memorial unto valor, that shall stand while 
time shall bide; ^" 

Blent of springtime's crimson roses and the purity 
of tears, — 
The Southron's glory-chaplet, for the victor's shaft, 

And the wide world heard no murmur from the 
keepers of the shrine, — 
In the birth throe of a nation, nor the death pang 
that it brought, — 
In the tending of the cypress that a faithful few will 
twine, 3^ 

When fate tramples down the laurels that a daunt- 
less people sought. 



Give the laurel to the victor, — ^give the song imto the 
slain, — 
Give the Iron Cross of Honor, ere death lays the 
Southron down! — 
But give to these, soul proven, tried by fire and by 
A memory of their mother-love that pressed an 
Iron Crown! *•* 

The Wizard of the Saddle. This noble poem 
was read at the laying of the corner-stone of the 
monument erected to the memory of Gen. Nathan 
Bedford Forrest, the dashing cavalry leader of the 
Confederacy. It is a lyric of rememberable power. 
It was written in 1903 by invitation of the Forrest 
Monument Association, of Memphis. 

The Women of the Confedekact. This was 
written for the book of Memorial Histories pub- 
lished by the Confederated Southern Memorial As- 
sociation, whose badge, the iron crown, was suggested 
by the last stanza. Classify both poems. Is the 
movement in the first regular? Should it be? 
Choose striking imagery for analysis. Criticise. 
8. In second poem : wassail bowl ; explain. 9. What 
recollection of Tennyson ? 10. Is there another line 
equal to this in power? 12. Allusions? 30. "Ves- 
tals " : meaning ? This is one of the poems that 
should be committed to memory. To say it makes 
an approach toward its lofty theme is to accord it 
very high praise. 


John Charles McNeill 


John Charles McNeill was a native of North Caro- 
lina. His ancestors came from Scotland and settled 
in the Old North State ahout the beginning of the 
nineteenth century. 

He was graduated from "Wake Forest College, 
Wake Forest, N. C, in 1898, but remained a year 
for post-graduate work, meanwhile acting as tutor 
in the department of English. In 1900 he was 
elected to assistant's position in Mercer College, 
where he spent a year. He then turned to the law 
as a profession, in which he met with encouragement. 
He was elected to represent his country in the State 
legislature one term, but he cared little for polities. 
His verses having found acceptance with the Century 
editors, he was encouraged to cast himself more fuUy 
upon a literary career. The Charlotte (N. C.) 06- 
server, too, recognized his gifts and made him an 
ofEer to join the staff of that journal. The ofEer was 
accepted, and McNeill's column became a feature of 
the Observer almost up to the day of his death. 

Two volumes embody his work, " Songs Merry 
and Sad " and " Lyrics from Cotton Land," both 
published by Messrs. Stone and Barringer, Charlotte, 
N. C. The titles of the two books characterize the 
spirit of their contents. The negro dialect pieces 
are wonderfully true, and the more serious lines con- 
vince one that the untimely death of the young poet 
was especially to be deplored. 




Love, should I set my heart upon a crown. 

Squander my years, and gain it. 
What recompense of pleasure could I own? 

For youth's red drops would stain it. 

Much have I thought on what our lives may ] 

And what their best endeavor, 
Seeing we may not come again to glean. 

But, losing, lose forever. 

Seeing how zealots, making choice of pain. 
From home and country parted, i" 

Have thought it life to leave their fellow slain. 
Their women broken-hearted; 

How teasing truth a thousand faces claims. 

As in a broken mirror, 
And what a father died for in the flames ^^ 

His own son scorns as error; 

How even they whose hearts were sweet with song 

Must quaff oblivion's potion. 
And, soon or late, their sails be lost along 

The all-surrounding ocean; 2" 

Oh, ask me not the haven of our ships, 

Nor what flag floats above you ! 
I hold you close, I kiss your sweet, sweet lips. 

And love you, love you, love you ! 




Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west; 

Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly; 
The star of peace at watch above the crest— 

Oh, holy, holy, holy! 

We know, Lord, so little what is bestj ^ 

Wingless, we move so lowly; 
Bnt in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest — ■ 

Oh, holy, holy, holy ! 


De Angus' meetin's over now, 

We's all done been baptize'; 
Me en Ham en Hiek'ry Jim 

En Joe's big Lize. 

Oh, 'ligion is a cu'i's thing ^ 

In its workin' amongs' men ! 
We'll hatter wait a whole yur now 

'Fo' bein' baptize' again! 


I ain't gwine a work till my dyin' day; 

'F I ever lays up enough, 
I's gwine a go off a while en stay; 

I'll be takin' a few days off. 
'Ca'se de jimson weeds don't bloom but once, ^ 

En when dey's shed dey's shed; 
En when you's dead, 'taia't jis' a few monf s. 

But you's gwine be a long time dead. 


I knowed a' ol' man died powerful rich — 

Two mules en Ian' en a cow. ^^ 

I jus' soon die fum fallin' in a ditch, 

Fur he went to's grave fum's plough. 
He never had nothin' 'twas good to eat 

Ner no piller upon his bed; 
He never took time to dance wid his feet, ^^ 

But he's gwine a take a long time dead. 

I know a' ol' woman wut scrubbed and hoed. 

En never didn' go nowhar. 
En when she died de people 'knowed 

Dat she had supp'n hid 'bout dar. 20 

She mought a dressed up en a-done supp'n' 

En had 'er a coht-case ple'd; 
But she didn' have time to live veh long; 

She's gwine have a plenty dead. 

So I says, if I manage to save enough 25 

Erum de wages I gits dis 3rur, 
I is right den takin' a few days off 

At one time en an'er. 
'Ca'se while I is got my mouf en eyes 

En a little wheel in my head, 3" 

I's gwine a live fas', fer when I dies 

I'll sho' be a long time dead. 

"Oh, Ask Me Not." McNeill regarded this as 
his best work. Point out felicitous figures, t, 9. 
Exact meaning of "seeing"? 13. Explain "teas- 
ing." Give the thought in the entire poem. 

Sundown. There is sincere reverence in these 
lines. What type of lyric is it? 


A Few Days Off. The lines call up the quat- 
rain so often seen in the cafes of Berlin's Latin 
Quarter : 

Das Leben froh geniessen 

1st der Vernunft Gebot, 
Man lebt doch nur so kurze Zeit 

Und is 60 lange todt. 

X"' Enjoy your life, my brother,' 

Is gray old reason's song. 
One has so little time to live 

And one is dead so long.")^ 


Olive Tilford Dargan 


Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan was bom some time in 
the " troublous seventies," in the town of Old Caney, 
county of Grayson, which lies in the hill-country of 
western Kentucky on the borders of the blue-grass 
region. She is of Virginian ancestry, but her fore- 
fathers emigrated to Kentucky in time to take part 
in the founding of that Commonwealth. Her mother, 
Rebecca Day, was a remarkably gifted teacher, and 
her father, Francis Tilford, was also a teacher of 
much popularity before he finally fell upon days of 
unrelieved invalidism. He was, however, of a rest- 
less temperament, and moved with his family to Mis- 
souri when Olive, his second daughter, was ten years 
old. For three years the parents taught together in 
the town of Doniphan, but, the mother's health fail- 
ing, the family removed to Warm Springs, a health 
resort in the Ozark foothills of northern Arkansas, 
where her father again established a successful 
school. It was near this place that Mrs. Dargan, 
then a child of fourteen, began her work as teacher, 
at the same time continuing, her own studies, which 
she declared to be " the fun of her life." 

At the age of eighteen she secured a scholarship to 
the University of ISTashville, Tenn., and two years 
later was graduated with honor from that institu- 
tion. After three more years of teaching, one in 
Missouri and two in San Antonio, Tex., she went 
to Cambridge, Mass., and became a student of 



EadclifEe College, taking courses in philosophy and 
literature, but for the most part working independ- 
ently in the Harvard library. It was here that she 
met Mr. Pegram Dargan, then in his senior year at 
Harvard, to whom she was married three years later. 
Mr. and Mrs. Dargan, when not in New York city, 
are usually to be found at their beautiful mountain 
place in western North Carolina, two miles from the 
village of Almond. 

Mrs. Dargan is a contributor to the best maga- 
zines, though she has written very few lyrics. She 
has published " Semiramis, and Other Plays," 
"Lords, and Lovers," and a masque, "The Woods 
of Ida." She has a new books of plays in prepara- 
tion. AH her work is vibrant with life. 


" I am fleet," said the joy of the sun, 

Trembling then on the breast 

Of the summer, white, still; 

" I am fleet, I am gone " 

Smiling came one ^ 

With brush and a will, 

TJndelaying, unpressed. 

And the glancing gold of the tremulous 

Lingers for man, inescapable, won. 

"Not here, nor yet there," ^^ 

Cried the waves that fled, 
"Shall ye set us a snare. 
Motion is breath of us. 
Stillness is death of us; 
We pause and are sped, ^ 



We live as we run." 
Laughing came one 
With hrush and a will. 
And the waves never die and are never- 
more still. 

« I pass," said the light 2» 

On the face of the child; 
But softly came one 
And forever it smiled. 
Here Time shall replight 
His faith with the dawn, *5 

And his ages gaunt, gray. 
Ever cycling hehold 
Their youth never flown 
In a world never old, 
Though they pass and repass with their 
trailing decay. so 

"We stay," said the shadows, and hung 
On the brush of the master; "take us, 

thine own ! " 
Fearless he flung 

The magical chains around them, and said, 
"Ye too shall be light, and to life bring 

the sun." 3^ 

And man, delayed 

By the painted pain's revealing glow, 
Feeleth the breathing woe. 
And his vow is made : 

" Ye shall pass, ye shadows ; yea, *" 

And life, as the sun, be free; 
The God in me saith ! " 
And the shadows go; 


For joy is the breath *^ 

Of eternity. 

And sorrow the sigh of a day. 


Born of needs of little men. 

Of the longing gods in them. 

Of the reach of children's hands. 

Of the piercing mother eyes 

Begging "Now!" and praying "When?" 


Of the yearning millions' cries. 

Of the passion and the dream 

Sighing up from trodden lands. 

Comes the vision and the power, 

Comes the voice unmastered, free ^^ 

Comes the soul unto the hour. 

And the way grows wide for him 

Walking with the day to be. 

Dead the grasp of Custom then. 

Silent grows her voice and pen; ^^ 

Break as thread the steel-drawn strands. 

Part as air the birth-wrong bands; 

Graves no longer overawe; 

Dust is dust, and men are men; 

A living tongue again gives living law. ^' 

Trophies ours by gold and gun. 
Little treasures, houses, — ^nay. 
Guerdons of our dearest fight, — 
Now are fuel for his sun. 
And the dreams that lit the night ^^ 

Bum as candles in the day. 


Yet we made thee, Man of Eight, 

As our being plead to rise; 

Of our straining arm thy might; 

Even as we prayed for sight, 3" 

Lo, afar thou hadst thy prophet eyes. 

Ay, thy gleaming spear is ours ; 

Ours thy fearless, golden bow; 

And our shining arrows go 

From thy bright untaken towers. ^ 

Thou art what we will to be. 

Sceptre, star and winged cloud; 

We are blood and brawn of thee. 

Glowing up through sod and stone. 

Burning through thy rended shroud, *" 

Moving with thee, chainless, on. 

Till the world, a quickened whole. 

Truth-delivered, naked, free. 

Once again hath found its deathless soul. 

SoEOLLA. A Spanish painter whose pictures, espe- 
cially of seashore life of Valencia, are notable for 
their exquisite chasteness. 

The Great Man. We consider this as possibly 
Mrs. Dargan's best short poem. 


Index of Authors 

AixsTON, Washington 22 

BoNEE, John ' Henby 258 

Boyle, Vjbginia. Fbazeb ? ; . 328 

Cawein, Madison Julius 311 

Cooke, John Esten 171 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton 93 

Daegan, Olive Tilfoed 389 

Flash, Henet Lynden 177 

GOEDON, Aemistead Chuechill 28S 

Haeney, Will Wallace 173 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton 161 

Hayne, William Hamilton 292 

Hill, Theophilus Hunteb 184 

Hope, James Babbon 156 

Jackson, Heney Rootes 104 

Jeffbey, Rosa Veetnee 143 

Key, Feancis Scott 25 

Laniee, Sidney 224 

Legaee, James Matthews 119 

McGABE, William Goedon 219 

McNeill, John Chables 334 

malone, waltee 323 

O'Haba, Theodoee 99 

Palmee, John Williamson 123 

PECK, Samuel Mintuen 282 

FIATT, SaeaB M. B 190 

PIKE, Albeet 81 


POE, Bdgab Allan 48 

Peentice, Geoege Denison 31 

PEESTON, Mabgaeet Junkin 134 

RANDALL, Jambs Rydbb 205 





Ryan, Abeam J 198 

SIMMS, William Gilmoeb 39 

Sledd, Benjamin 306 

Spalding, John Lancasteb 215 

Stanton, Feank Lebby 297 

Stockabd, Henby Jeeome 303 

TABB, John Banisteb 266 

Thompson, James Maubice 247 

THOMPSON, John Reuben 113 

Thompson, Will Henhy 268 


TiMEOD, Henby 140 

Townsend, Maby Ashley 193 

TucKEE, St. Geobge 20 

iwelby, Amelia B 96 

wildb, richabd henby 28