Then silent and smooth on the waters serene, My miniature craft would glide down the stream, Every object I saw on the land or in air Where willows and weeds grow thick and so And the buckeye and birch lean over the Where oft I went swimming the summer's day through, Is the place, I am sure, where I tied my 38 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. EPIGRAM. I recount you a tale, It is not very long And was writ on my heart as I heard it. It has ne'er been chanted In story or song, For only the feeling might word it. 'Twas the evening of battle; All day the shots sped O'er the field which the foeman was winning. And yonder a hillock Ringed round with the dead, Marked the spot of its fatal beginning. A battery planted Begrimed o'er with smoke, Frowned down on the pitiful scene. And the sobs of the dying The dead stillness broke Where the boom of the cannon had been! Its guns were all silent, Not a man stood to tell The tale of a day that was lost; But each stiffened corpse On the spot where he fell, Told they died every man at his post. One last gun stood loaded; The fuse that had called Half a score of brave souls to their God, Was clenched in the hand Whose strong sinews had palled E'er it sped the dire missile of blood. And now from the reeking sword, Bleeding and pale, The captain mounts up to his gun; "Tis our last shot, my braves; It shall bear them our tale, From the field that they dearly have won. But sharp from the thicket A horseman sprang forth, Dismounted and called the "Surrender!" This land, thou aggressor, Is the land of my birth, And I am its faithful defender. Your sword, dying man, Quick down on your knee, For grace that you ne'er would have given, A soldier strikes not, At the wounded like thee, Quick shrive you, and hie you to Heaven. They stood face to face, And the gaze eye to eye Was a gaze full of hate and defiance; My reply, And this trusty sword my reliance. Each soldier that lies On this gore-covered sod, Shall give nerve to my arm as I wield it, And not till my spirit Goes up to its God, Shall living man say that I yield it. I fight for the right And my quarrel is just, 'Tis my country, when war is upon her; The sword which I hold, Has never seen rust, Nor shall it now suffer dishonor. But first tell me thy name, And thy place vaunting foe? "Tis no quaking fear that demands it, But 'twill strengthen my arm That my spirit shall know What heel spurns this dust as I leave it? That proud foeman's brow, Great rolling drops lave; His grim eyes with tears grew mellow, For Bravery's eye Knows the eye of the brave, And respects in his foeman a fellow. 1 come from the banks of the Hudson Brave man, From a Mother who ne'er taught me to hate. And a tear glinted down On the service-browned hand, So, come I from the banks of the Hudson That same Mother bade me not tarry; Yet a brother to know And the heart of a brother to carry. They gaze face to face, But proud hate Had been drowned in love for the Mother, And down by the dying man Tenderly sat The officer, soldier and brother! 'Neath the black smoking tide He dug up the earth wet with blood, And there laid his own sword, With his foes by its side And covered them o'er with the sod. Thus endeth my story: If a moral it read, He's repaid who wept blood to indite it, And this feeble hand Has more than its meed That nothing essays but to write it. A cordial good cheer, To the absent a hearty God speed him. For the dead, whatever his creed, Here's a tear, A friend to the soldier who needs him. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. MRS. LOU BEDFORD's first work, AVision and Other Poems, was published in 1881, and by permission was re-produced in London. This volume elicited many fine enconiums from such men as Oliver Wendell Holmes, Longfellow, and Paul Hayne. In 1888 appeared MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. Gathered Leaves, a very fine collection of her later poems. This lady has had six childrenthree sons grown to manhood reside in Dallas, Texas; the youngest child and only living daughter is attending college. The other two children, a grown daughter and son, with their father, are resting under the shadow of the trees." Personally Mrs. Bedford is of medium height and size, with black hair slightly threaded with gray, and dark-brown eyes. The lady is still a resident of Dallas. EVENING TIME BEST. There are who say that evening time is best And Hope a-brooding in the balmy air, Still, many hold that evening time is best. 39 But surely morning, with its rosy light light, To Youth and joyous Childhood is the best. For I am tired and I sigh for Home - breast I watch the sun declining to the west, Rejoicing that the Evening time is come! NOTHING BUT LEAVES. How sad, how very sad it would be, To meet the Eternal One, If in our arms, instead of sheaves, We should bear a bundle of worthless leaves. "Tis true, they might very beautiful be Green, crimson, and golden, too,And gathered fresh from the parent stem, And glistening with morning dew; But they'd not suffice for want of sheaves, Those beautiful, graceful, dewy leaves. Yet such, I fear, my portion 't will be, Tho' I've labored and sorrowed here; And have hoped to reap a rich reward In a brighter, happier sphere; But O, I feel that I have no sheaves Have naught but a bundle of fading leaves. Methinks, perchance, the Savior will look At my wayworn, bleeding feet, And a gentle smile of pity and love My averted eyes will meet; That he'll not condemn tho' I sheavesHave simply a bundle of worthless leaves. "T is well He knoweth how frail we are, And remembereth we are dust; And giveth us grace in our darkest hour In His Righteousness to trust; Else fatal 't would be, instead of sheaves, To carry a bundle of worthless leaves. Sometimes I tire of the burden of life, And long for the hour of rest; Aye, fain would I lay my aching head On my loving Savior's breast; bear no I grow so weary, instead of sheaves, That I may bring Thee, instead of leaves, 40 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. SILENT STEPS. Unheeded all, the silent Hours So much amid the Past we love, In silence, too, the hurrying Years Pass outward, one by one; We almost deem Time's silver sands Though blotted here and there with tears- Or, furrowed brow and frosted hair EXTRACTS FROM A VISION. NIGHT. From o'er the hills That lie so dark against the southern sky, Float gentle zephyrs that, through all the day Have wandered 'mid the orange groves, o'er beds Of violets, and by the cool, clear streams; And now they come, bearing upon their wings The low, sad music of the distant pines, And the strange odors as of tropic flowers, Sweet as the breath of Eden. THE POET'S HOME. And this we find, the world's his home; its trees, Vales, mountains cataracts, its glorious views; Its streams, lakes, bays, straits, oceans, gulfs and seas All pay a grateful tribute to his muse; And yet, not of the world, he treads alone A temple consecrated all his ownA sacred temple, beautiful and fair, Above the jarring sounds of earth and air. A VISION. With slippered feet, but ling'ring step, gray Dawn, Parting the sable curtains Night had draped About the gorgeous couch where Nature slept, Came up the eastern stair. Awhile she paused Upon the threshold; but the star, that gleam'd So brightly on her forehead, heralded swept, And Morning flashed her beams upon the world! EXTRACTS FROM GATHERED LEAVES. Immortal and pure, methinks that Song To give true voice to that sacred Guest, Must feel, if he'd stir the great world's heart, The sting of the thorn in his own breast. NOT DEAD. Not dead! The strain can never die Is caught up by the heavenly choir; NEW YEAR'S THOUGHTS. But each rippling wave bears from the shore THE WIND. Softly the evening breeze No one can tell; O'er hills and streams we know Awakes the morn- By it the leaves are stirred, Its dwelling-place; LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. MARY A. A. SENTER. BORN: GREAT FALLS, N. H., SEPT. 1, 1835. THIS lady was educated at New Haven, Conn., and at Northfield, N. H. Her father was a noted Methodist clergyman. She married 41 A form that seem'd like a truant from heaven, And that never sinn'd, but to be forgiven. Though death was so stern, he left the trace Of a holy smile on her calm white face; Methinks 'twas a shade that the spirit had cast As away from that temple so lovely it pass'd. IT MATTERS NOT. It matters not if sun or rain Fall in my life's short day, Or strains of joy, or strains of pain, It matters not if gloom surround, And even now with thorns be crown'd My weary aching brow. It matters not how rough the road That I must journey through, If I but reach the blest abode Of Him who suffered too. And naught of earth can move my breast, Its glitter nor its show, For Christ has said, I'll give you rest, I all your sorrows know. And ever more I close my heart To this vain world of sin, I've chosen now the better part, And Jesus reigns within. And when at last life's journey done, WILT THOU COME NOT THEN? When at last the twilight falleth, And the shadows come apace, And around me friendship calleth, Many a dear familiar face, Wilt thou come not then? When my life has almost drifted To the far-off golden shore, Ere the curtain is uplifted, Hiding heaven never more, Wilt thou come not then? When my eyes with earnest pleading, Ere my voice is hushed forever, And my eyes are closed for aye, Ere my hands can clasp thine never, Ere the angels bear away, Wilt thou come not then? Ere I hear the dear word spoken, I shall see thee then! |