[Footnote 101: Born in North Carolina; in the intervals of his law practice has published a volume of poems.]
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=Thomas Hailey Aldrich.[102] 1836-.=
From his "Poems."
Kind was my friend who, in the Eastern land,Remembered me with such a gracious hand,And sent this Moorish Crescent which has beenWorn on the tawny bosom of a queen.
No more it sinks and rises in unrestTo the soft music of her heathen breast;No barbarous chief shall bow before it more,No turbaned slave shall envy and adore!
I place beside this relic of the SunA cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon,Once 'borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trodThe desert to Jerusalem—and his God!
Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds,Each meaning something to our human needs,Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith,By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.
That for the Moslem is, but this for me!The waning Crescent lacks divinity:It gives me dreams of battles, and the woesOf women shut in hushed seraglios.
But when this Cross of simple wood I see,The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me,And glorious visions break upon my gloom—The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!
[Footnote 102: Born in New Hampshire, but long connected with the press in New York. Has produced several volumes of poetry of unusual beauty and finish.]
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=Francis Bret Harte.=
From his "Poems."
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,The river ran below;The dim Sierras, far beyond, upliftingTheir minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, paintedThe ruddy tints of health,On haggard face, and form that drooped and faintedIn the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasureA hoarded volume drew,And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure,To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,And as the firelight fell,He read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of "Little Nell."
Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,—for the readerWas youngest of them all,—But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar,A silence seemed to fall.
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,Listened in every spray,While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,Wandered, and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes—o'ertakenAs by some spell divine—Their cares dropped from them like the needles shakenFrom out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp I and wasted all its fire:And he who wrought that spell?—Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant storyBlend with the breath that thrillsWith hop-vines' incense all the pensive gloryThat fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and hollyAnd laurel wreaths intwine,Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—This spray of Western pine!
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From "East and West Poems."
As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,Looking over the ultimate sea,In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,And one sails away from the lea:One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,With pennant and sheet flowing free;One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—The ship that is waiting for me!
But lo, in the distance the clouds break away!The Gate's glowing portals I see;And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bayThe song of the sailors in glee:So I think of the luminous footprints that boreThe comfort o'er dark Galilee,And wait for the signal to go to the shore,To the ship that is waiting for me.
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=Charles Dimitry,[103] 1838-.=
Our army lay,At break of day,A full league from the foe away.At set of sun,The battle done,We cheered our triumph, dearly won.
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All night before,We marked the roarOf hostile guns that on us bore;And 'here and there,The sudden blareOf fitful bugles smote the air.
No idle wordThe quiet stirredAmong us as the morning neared;And brows were bent,As silent wentUnto its post each regiment.
Blank broke the day,And wan and grayThe drifting clouds went on their way.So sad the morn,Our colors torn,Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn!
At early sun,The vapors dunWere lifted by a nearer gun;At stroke of nine,Auspicious signThe sun shone out along the line.
Then loud and clear,From cannoneerAnd rifleman arose a cheer;For as the grayMists cleared away,We saw the charging foe's array.
[Footnote 103: Of a Louisiana family: is considered one of the most promising of the young writers of the South. The present is a favorable specimen of the poetry of the secession writers.]
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=John Hay.=[104]
From "Pike County Ballads."
The skies are blue above my head,The prairie green below,And flickering o'er the tufted grassThe shifting shadows go,Vague-sailing, where the feathery cloudsFleck white the tranquil skies,Black javelins darting where aloftThe whirring pheasant flies.
A glimmering plain in drowsy tranceThe dim horizon bounds,Where all the air is resonantWith sleepy summer sounds,—The life that sings among the flowers,The lisping of the breeze,The hot cicada's sultry cry,The murmurous dream of bees.
The butterfly—a flying flower—Wheels swift in flashing rings,And flutters round his quiet kinWith brave flame-mottled wings.The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,The Phlox' bright clusters shine,And Prairie-cups are swinging freeTo spill their airy wine.
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Far in the East, like low-hung cloudsThe waving woodlands lie;Far in the West, the glowing plainMelts warmly in the sky;No accent wounds the reverent air,No foot-print dints the sod,—Lone in the light the prairie lies,Rapt in a dream of God.
[Footnote 104: Born in Indiana. Gave up the practice of the law to becomeSecretary and Aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Served briefly in theRebellion war with the rank of Colonel, and was afterward Secretary ofLegation at Paris and Madrid, and for some months, Chargé d'Affaires atVienna. Subsequently applied himself to literature and journalism.]
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=Joaquin Miller.=[105]
From "Songs of the Sierras."
Dared I but say a prophecy,As sang the holy men of old,Of rock-built cities yet to beAlong those shining shores of gold,Crowding athirst into the sea,What wondrous marvels might be told!Enough to know that empire hereShall burn her brightest, loftiest star;Here art and eloquence shall reign,As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;Here learn'd and famous from afar,To pay their noble court, shall come,And shall not seek or see in vain,But look on all, with wonder dumb.
Afar the bright Sierras lie,A swaying line of snowy white,A fringe of heaven hung in sightAgainst the blue base of the sky.
I look along each gaping gorge,I near a thousand sounding strokes,Like giants rending giant oaks,Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;I see pick-axes flash and shine,And great wheels whirling in a mine.Here winds a thick and yellow thread,A moss'd and silver stream instead;And trout that leap'd its rippled tideHave turn'd upon their sides and died.
Lo! when the last pick in the mineIs rusting red with idleness,And rot yon cabins in the mould,And wheels no more croak in distress,And tall pines reassert command,Sweet bards along this sunset shoreTheir mellow melodies will pour;Will charm as charmers very wise,Will strike the harp with master-hand,Will sound unto the vaulted skiesThe valor of these men of old—The mighty men of 'Forty-nine;Will sweetly sing and proudly say,Long, long agone, there was a dayWhen there were giants in the land.
[Footnote 105: Cincinnatus Heine Miller, commonly known by his assumed name of Joaquin Miller. Born in Indiana, but was taken when very young to Oregon. After a wild career in Oregon and California, he at length studied for the law. His poetry, like his life, is of an eccentric cast.]
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=Joel Chandler Harris,[106] 1846-.=
She has a tender, winning way,And walks the earth with gentle grace,And roses with the lily playAmid the beauties of her face.
When'er she tunes her voice to sing,The song-birds list, with anxious looks,For it combines the notes of springWith all the music of the brooks.
Her merry laughter, soft and low,Is as the chimes of silver bells,—That like sweet anthems float, and flowThrough woodland groves and bosky dells,
And when the violets see her eyes,They flush and glow—with love and shame,They meekly droop with sad surprise,As though unworthy of the name.
But still they bloom where'er she throwsHer dainty glance and smiles so sweet.And e'en amid stern winter's snowsThe daisies spring beneath her feet.
She wears a crown of Purity,Full set with woman's brightest gem,—A wreath of maiden modesty,And Virtue is the diadem.
And when the pansies bloom again,And spring and summer intertwine.Great joys will fall on me like rain,For she will be for ever mine!
[Footnote 106: A native of Georgia; is deemed one of the best of the younger poets of the South.]