The poets of Portsmouth

Front matter

THE

POETS OF PORTSMOUTH.

COMPILED BY

Preface

In offering this volume to the public, while we would put forth no extravagant claims in its behalf, we cannot deny that we regard it as indicating a high average order of taste, sentiment, culture, and poetical ability in the writers. It must be remembered, that, of the entire number, not more than four or five have placed themselves prominently before the world as candidates for fame ; that most of them have made poetry their pastime, and not even one among their occupations ; and that the pieces now gathered were, for the most part, literally fugitive pieces, — some written with no view to publication, others prepared only for the brief life which the weekly or daily newspaper might give them. Yet, among these last, there are not a few which the public will not let die.

It will be seen that all but two of the poets here represented belong to the present generation, and that

VI PREFACE.

the greater part of them are still living. Dr. Haven and Jonathan Mitchell Sewall were the only Portsmouth poets of the last century whose colledled poems have come down to us ; nor can we add to the list, from any tradition that has reached us. But the last half-century has been throughout a period of great literary activity in our community. Not to speak of the elder among our living poets, to whom we trust like praise will be rendered at some distant day, Portsmouth was greatly indebted to Nathaniel Appleton Haven for the impulse given in every dire6lion of high culture, and especially for the institution and successful management of at least two literary societies, by whose exercises the habit of composition was invited and cultivated, while, at the same time, a discriminating taste received its development and education. In later years, two chronic invalids, sufferers beyond measure, with minds only the brighter and clearer for the severe ordeal, — James Kennard, jun., and Caroline Elizabeth Jenness, — were largely influential in creating and directing literary ambition ; they themselves beguiling else weary months of seclusion from the outward world by book and pen, and inspiring in the numerous friends that sought their society the desire for kindred pursuits. To others of the departed, we would gladly offer the meed of grateful eulogy ; and we regret that we cannot, without violating conventional propriety, express our friendly

PREFACE. vn

and high appreciation of those of the living whose

intimacy has been our privilege and pleasure. We

send the book forth with satisfaction and pride, and

can ask nothing better than that our city may be judged

by its poets.

A. P. P.

Contents

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

Pagk

Piscataqua River i

Part Second 180 Part Third iSa

Wreck of the " Seguntum " 185

Sad Hours 188

Death on the Pale Horse 189

XIV CONTENTS.

ALBERT LAIGHTON.

Taoe

The Missing Ships 192

The Summer Shower 194

To my Soul 196

In the Woods 197

Found Dead 198

New England 199

Joe 200

Ebb and Flow 201

My Native River 202

The Midnight Voice 203

In Memoriam 204

The Necropolis 205

The Aurora Borealis 206

To a Bigot 207

The Dead . . . ' 208

The Veiled Grief 208

The Chimes 209

Song of the Skaters 210

Under the Leaves 211

An Invocation 212

The Wreck 213

BENJAMIN D. LAIGHTON.

Lines written in May . 214

The First-born 217

MARY E. B. MILLER.

On Life's Threshold 219

Comfort 221

The Book of Life 222

Little Josey's Grave 223

Nightfall 224

Evening Aspirations 225

Snow 227

CONTENTS.

XV

THOMAS P. MOSES.

Pagk

To a Miniature of the Departed 2^9

The Returned Rinij 230

Sympathy 231

JOHN N. MOSES.

The Midnight Voice 232

JAMES R. MAY.

At Yorktown 236

CATHERINE M. McCLINTOCK.

Wherefore? 239

Faith 241

Doath in Spring . . ^ 242

EDWARD P. NOWELL.

The Deserted Homestead 244

To John B. Gough 247

Pa;an for Vi(5lory 248

In Memoriam 249

The Sea 250

The Old Oaken Cradle 251

Child and Cherub 252

Rocky Glen 253

MRS. C. E. R. PARKER.

Lost and Won 254

''Lord, is it I."" 256

Thine forever 2i;7

The Old Kitchen-fire 259

Blue Flowers 261

My Cross 263

b

XVI CONTENTS.

MRS. C. E. R. PARKER {continued).

Page

Our Lamb 265

Night 267

MRS. ADELAIDE E. M. PARKER.

The Benighted Traveller 268

A Prayer 271

The Vagaries of a Dream 272

The Divine Comforter 275

Song 276

To a Friend 277

AURIN M. PAYSON.

Sedes Musarum 278

The Suffering Poor 280

The Character of Napoleon 283

The Pulse of Freedom 286

EDWARD A. RAND.

Pond-lilies 289

Rain on the Roof 290

Waiting 291

Peace 292

The Mist 293

Gone 293

JONATHAN M. SEWALL.

The Transfiguration 295

On the Gloomy Prospecfts of 1776 297

Paraphrase on the Last Chapter of Ecclesiastes .... 298

On a Quack, who died of Asthma 299

The Seasons 300

CONTENTS.

xvu

JONATHAN M. SEWALL {continued).

Anniversary Song To S. S., Esq. .

To a Lady singing Psalm XCIII. . .

Epigram . .

Epitaph on a Pettifogger

304 305 305

B. P. SHILLABER.

The Three Locks 306

The Spring on the Shore 308

Benevolence 310

The Little Rivulet 311

Spirit Longing 313

A Pi<5lure 315

An Analogy 317

Frenchman's Lane 319

Ballad about Bunker 321

A Courting Reminiscence 323

The Dismissal 325

Grape-skins 327

Poor Boy ! 328

Master Weeks's Old Ferule 330

Transmutation 333

Bless You I 335

LOUISA SLMES.

To a Child 337

To a Thoughtful Bride 338

To an Early Rose 341

ToJ.K. C 342

The New Year 343

One in Sympathy 340

Life 350

It is better to be remembered in the Prayer of the Poor

than in the Praises of the King 352 xviii CONTENTS.

LOUISA SIMES icoutinued).

Page

There is a Might in the Present, of which we dream not

till it be past 354

To a Friend in Sadness 356

"The First Graj Hair" . . ; 357

To a Friend at Parting 358

ELIZA O. SHORES.

On visiting the Scenes of Earlj Life 360

Refle(!:tions on the Close of the Year 361

The Hour-glass 362

WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

The Old North Burial Ground in Portsmouth, N.ll. . . 364

An Oath on Woman's Lips 367

Gethsemane 368

Walking on the Sea 369

There is an Hour of Peaceful Rest 370

For America 371

The West 372

The Angel's Wing 374

The Nativity 376

Wake, Isles of the South 377

The Thunder-storm 378

JAMES P. WALKER.

Seven Years to-day 379

New Friends and Old 3S0

Necessities and Luxuries 381

To Lillie G 3S4

To my Wife 385

MRS. CAROLINE E. WHITON.

May 386

Summer Sunset 38S

Autumn Sunset 388

CONTENTS.

XIX

MRS. C. E. WHITOX {continued).

P.AOK

My Flowers 3S9

Indian Summer 391

The Lost Verse 392

Our Country 393

We are Three 395

My Neighbor 396

MRS. JULIA VAN NESS WHIPPLE.

The Voice amid the Trees 39S

Easter Sunday 401

S. ADAMS WIGGIN.

Love 403

Victory 404

POETS OF PORTSMOUTH.

POETS OF PORTSilOUTH.

THOMAS BAILET ALDRICH.

PISCATAQUA RR'ER.

HOU singest by the gleaming isles,

By woods and fields of corn ; Thou singest, and the heaven smiles Upon my birthday mom.

But I, within a citj', — I, So full of vague unrest, —

Would almost give my life to lie An hour upon thy breast ;

To let the wherry listless go.

And, wrapped in dreamy joy.

Dip, and surge idly to and fro, Like the red harbor-buoy ! 1

POETS OF PORTSMOUTH.

To sit in happy indolence,

To rest upon the oars, And catch the heavy earthy scents

That blow from summer shores ;

To see the rounded sun go down.

And with its parting fires Light up the windows of the town,

And burn the tapering spires ;

And then to hear the muffled tolls From steeples slim and white ;

And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, The Beacon's orange light.

O River, flowing to the main

Through woods and fields of corn !

Hear thou my longing and my pain, This sunny birthday morn ;

And take this song which sorrow shapes

To music like thine own.

And sing it to the cliffs and capes

And crags where I am known.

BEFORE THE RAIN.

We knew it would rain ; for, all the morn, A spirit, on slender ropes of mist.

Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens, — Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,

Dipping the jewels out of the sea,

To sprinkle them over the land in showers.

We knew it w^ould rain ; for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain

Shrunk in the wind, and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain !

THE BALLAD OF BABIE BELL.

Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Babie Bell

Into this world of ours ?

The gates of heaven were left ajar : With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star. Hung in the glistening depths of even, — Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged Angels go. Bearing the holy Dead to heaven ! She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels !

They fell like dew upon the flowers, Then all the air grew strangely sweet ! And thus came dainty Babie Bell

Into this world of ours.

POETS OF PORTSMOUTH.

II

She came, and brought delicious May. The swallows built beneath the eaves ; Like sunlight in and out the leaves, The robins went, the livelong day ; The lily swung its noiseless bell. And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seemed bursting with its veins of wine How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! Oh ! earth was full of singing-birds,

And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Babie Bell

Came to this world of ours.

III. O Babie, dainty Babie Bell !

How fair she grew from day to day ! What woman-nature filled her eyes ! What poetry within them lay !

Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise ! And so we loved her more and more : Ah ! never in our hearts before

Was love so lovely born : We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen, —

The land beyond the morn !

And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth ' (The mother's being ceased on earth When Babie came from Paradise), —

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ ! — our hearts bent down Like violets after rain.

IV

And now the orchards, which were white And red with blossoms when she came. Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell, The ivory chestnut burst its shell. The grapes hung purpling in the grange ; '

And time wrought just as rich a change

In little Babie Bell.

Her lissom form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace. In softened curves, her mother's face ! Her angel-nature ripened too.

We thought her lovely when she came ; But she was holy, saintly now : Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame !

V

God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech ; And oft she said a few strange words. Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us ; We never held her being's key ; We could not teach her holy things : She was Christ's self in purity.

POETS OF PORTSMOUTH.

VI. It came upon us by degrees

We saw its shadow ere it fell, —

The knowledge that our God had sent

His messenger for Babie Bell.

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,

And all our hopes were changed to fears,

And all our thoughts ran into tears

Like sunshine into rain.

We cried aloud in our belief, " Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! Teach us to bend, and kiss the rod.

And perfect grow through grief." Ah ! how we loved her, God can tell : Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Babie Bell ! '