Изображения страниц

HON. P. T. TURNLEY. Then silent and smooth on the waters serene, BORN: DANDRIDGE, TENN., SEPT. 6, 1827.

My miniature craft would glide down the

stream, For twenty-six years Mr. Turnley was in the

Every object I saw on the land or in air army. He was married in 1873 to Miss Mary

Seemed joined at the earth to another as fair,
My own chubby face seemed actually two,
As seen in the deep, from my little canoe.
There, under yon oak, just below the old mill,
Where the rapids are lost, in the eddies so

Where willows and weeds grow thick and so

[bank, 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

canoe. The pine board paddle, which blistered my

hand, And the rough hickory pole, I stuck in the

sand; Slipped the old hempen line through a ring in

the bow, Which I roguishly stole from Mark's little

scow, Then tramped down the weeds, just wet with

the dew, And made fast to a limb, my little canoe. It was lonely and dark, 'neath that old oaken

tree, HON. P. T. TURNLEY.

And under those willows still darker to me; Rutter. Mr. Turnley is a resident of High-| For the few twinkling stars were hid from land Park, II., of which city he is Mayor.

my sight,

As they kissed tiny waves that leaped into MY LITTLE CANOE.

light; I was dreaming last night, of a beautiful Then an owl's sudden shriek, and solemn toostream,

hoo, Of long years ago, when scarcely thirteen, Made me tremble with fear as I tied my When the happiest hours that fell to my lot

canoe. In sunshine or shade, whether chilly or hot, Were those which I spent without hat or a Of the many who lived on the farm at that shoe


time, Poling round through the rapids in my little Only Hannah and Mark still linger behind! Not an Indian who lived, whether young one But of those whom I knew, to have lived on or old,

that shore, Could equal my skill in the use of the pole. There appeared in my dream, a great many Over ledges of rock so high and so thick

more; Where the wild waters rushed so rapid and And high above all distinctly in view, quick,

(true, Sat one who had watched me in my canoe. I could shoot my frail bark as an arrow so It was she who most loved her rollicking bor, Yet touch not a stone with my little canoe.

At the age when the lad thinks most of his Down through the rapids, and over the

toy; shoal,

And she looked just the same, to me in my I steered my canoe with a rough hickory pole;

dream, Still down to the eddies so deep, clear and As when watching me splash in that beauticalm,


ful stream; That pebbles two fathoms appeared but a But, the moment my dream seemed perfect Where the tall willow trees that grew on the

and true, shore

Mary noved her left arm and swamped my Appeared roots to sky and tops down below.



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;
Demand of the coward to yield;

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,
As it reached to its foe for a mate.
So, come I from the banks of the Hudson

Long long ago,
That same Mother bade me not tarry;
To stand for the right,

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!
Close under the dying

'Neath the black smoking lide 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 band

Has more than its meed
That nothing essays but to write it.
Those who are present

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.

MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. MRS. LOU BEDFORD's first work, A Vision 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

But surely morning, with its rosy light
A-sweeping back the curtains of the night,
Until the earth, all beautiful and bright,
Bursts forth in one grand anthem of de

To Youth and joyous Childhood is the best.
But O! to me the evening time is best!
For I am tired and I sigh for Home-
I long beneath my Father's roof to rest,
To lean my head upon my Brother's

breastI watch the sun declining to the west, Rejoicing that the Evening time is come!


MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. Gathered Leaves, a very fine collection of her later poems. This lady has had six children three 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.

NOTHING BUT LEAVES. How sad, how very sad it would be,

When the toils of life shall be done, And we shall ascend above the sky

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 beaut'ful 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 0, 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 bear no

Have 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;
| I grow so weary, instead of sheaves,
Of bearing this burden of useless leaves.
Dear Savior! teach me to look to Thee,

And trust in Thy grace alone;
And help me do, as the years go past,

All my duties, one by one,
That I may bring Thee, instead of leaves,
A bundle of beautiful, golden sheaves.

EVENING TIME BEST. There are who say that evening time is best When ev'rything in Nature sinks to rest;

Altho' the morning hour is passing fair, With warmth and beauty springing every

where, And Hope a-brooding in the balmy air, And drowning with glad music anxious

Still, many hold that evening time is best.
Full well I know that evening time is best
To one a-weary and in need of rest;

Unheeded all, the silent Hours

Pass outward, one by one;
So much amid the Past we love,
Or castles of To Come, we move,
We scarcely deem the Present ours,

Until, perchance, 'tis gone;
Gone with its record, dark or fair -
For all life's deeds are written there.
In silence, too, the hurrying Years

Pass outward, one by one;
We almost deem Time's silver sands
Are lying idle in our hands --
Though blotted here and there with tears -

Until they, too, are flown;
Or, furrowed brow and frosted hair
Tell how the Years are passing there.


THE POET'S SONGS. Immortal and pure, methinks that Song

Is an angel that walks the world of men; And every emotion, deep and strong,

Tells of her presence, herself unseen; And the Poet, chosen and set apart

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! The strain can never die

That trembles to the Poet's lyre,
But, floating upward to the sky,

Is caught up by the heavenly choir;
For Song is but the truth exprest,
That vibrates in each human breast,
And, past the realm by mortals trod,
It lives - eternal as its God.

We stand to-day on the beach of Time,

Whence we gaze far out to sea,
Whose waters tenderly lave our feet,

Then dance back laughingly;
But each rippling wave bears from the shore

A grain of the gleaming sand,
And frailer begins our hold on earth,
And narrower grows the strand.



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

The low, sad music of the distant pines,
And the strange odors as of tropic flowers,
Sweet as the breath of Eden.

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 own
A sacred temple, beautiful and fair,
Above the jarring sounds of earth and air.

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 paus

ed Upon the threshold; but the star, that

gleam'd So brightly on her forehead, heralded The full-orbed day; the darkness backward

swept, And Morning flashed her beams upon the


THE WIND Softly the evening breeze

Is coming now –
Sighing among the trees -

Fanning my brow:
Now quickly hies away, .
Mid other scenes to play.
But whither it doth go,

No one can tell;
O'er hills and streams we know-

Through shady dell;
But where it findeth rest
No one hath ever guessed!
It may be that 't is lost

'Mid waving corn: Or where Aurora fair

Awakes the mora –
Where Night and Morning greet,
Or earth and heaven meet!
Its whispering tones are heard

Among the pines:
By it the leaves are stirred,

And flow'rs, and vines:
And often we rejoice
To hear its merry voice.
But we can never find

Its dwelling-place;
Nor with surveyor's line

Its bound'ry trace!
That it doth come and go,
Is all the wisest know!

MRS. MARY A. A.SENTER. Borx: GREAT FALLS, N, H., SEPT. 1, 1835. Tais lady was educated at New Haven, Conn., and at Northfield, N. H. Her father was a noted Methodist clergyman. She married

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 if sun or rain

Fall in my life's short day,
Or strains of joy, or strains of pain,

Burst from my lips alway.
It matters not if gloom surround,

And darkness gathers now,
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

Or 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,

I stand on death's lone shore,
Oh! may I have the blessed one

To gently bear me o'er.

MRS. MARY A. A. SENTER, E. L. Senter, a speculator, and now resides in the town of Exeter, N. H. The poems of Mrs. Senter are distinguished for their classic beauty, deep feeling, and delicate descriptive power.

THE DYING GIRL. Her spirit was leaving its temple of clay, And on wings of purity vanished away, While she raised her hand in the gesture of prayer,

[there. That the God of Heaven would welcome it And the tears roll'd down her cheek of snow, As she murmur'd it forth in accents so low, That you saw but the motion ber pale lips

gave, While her bosom heaved like a swelling wave. And her white hands shook as she held them

in air, And like autumn leaves they seem'd wither

ing there, Till like autumn leaves they fell to rest, Oo a pulseless heart and silent breast. And thus death had won for its chamber so

dark, With an arrow that ne'er had miss'd its mark,

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,

Look for those that are most dear, As my life is fast receding, Shall I know that thou art near?

Wilt thou come not then? 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? Must the golden bowl be broken,

And the vale of shadow past, Ere I hear the dear word spoken, Saying I have come at last?

I shall see thee then!

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »