The Student - A Tale of the Chesapeake.
The Student
The clock had tolled the midnight hour
Yet still the student trimmed his lamp
And drew, with fingers, waste and worn,
The hair from off his forehead damp,
And still read on, with sleepless eyes
The paper, that near him open lay,
Nor cared not, that this ceaseless toil
Had tinged his raven locks with gray.
There was not one, in this wide world
With whom he claimed a kindred name,
And day and night had almost grown
With this lone man, to be the same.
His home was near the roaring surge
Of the Chesapeake's loud-sounding bay,
In which he heard the billows roll
And moan and murmur, day by day.
Often, when morn's first star arose,
He stood upon the pebbly shore,
And from some rock, with curious eye
Viewed the wide, spreading waters o'er
And stood, and mused, 'till from the deep
The glorious sun did seem to rise,
And mantle, with his golden rays
The foam-clouds of the eastern skies;
Then homeward turned, to seek again
His only friends, his books, to read
Of fond-hearts broke, of trusts betrayed,
And friends forsaken, in their need,
Until he almost learned to look
Upon his lone, forlorn estate
As some great good, where he was placed
Exempt alike from love and hate.
His lamp burned dim, he stopped to think
Upon the past, the time gone by,
When loudly on his ear there burst
A sound, like thunder in the sky.
Quick to the door he sped, and soon
He stood beneath the star-lit dome
Of that blue sky, whose fadeless lamps
Kept watch above his lonely home.
The booming scare had died away,
The smoke, hung cloud-like o'er the deep
The sound, a signal gun of war,
Had waked the echoes from their sleep.
He gazed, but as he looked there sunk
A blackened wreck, beneath the wave,
A flag, of mingled stripes and stars,
Came floating o'er the watery grave.
All horror struck, he turned away
To seek again his craggy cot,
With down-cast eye, and lingering step,
He mused on man-kind's hopeless lot.
T'was instinct caused him turn once more,
To gaze upon that heaving tide,
Whose cruel jaws had oped and closed
And swallowed man-hood, in its pride.
Then something caught his searching eye,
A speck, upon the foaming wave,
"A human life," he gasped for breath,
"A human life, 'tis mine to save."
He plunged into the briny deep
Where white waves reared their foamy crest
He battled with the billowy flood,
And clasped a maiden to his breast.
Then turned again with tireless skill,
And reached the hard-beat echoing shore,
Where 'neath the willow's weeping shade
He softly laid the maid he bore.
It seemed the vital spark of life
Had from that form, forever fled;
The dark and sunken eye looked less
Like to the living than the dead.
He bent above that nerveless form
And looked upon that pale, still face,
Upon that brow where grasping Death
Seemed to have left his cold embrace.
Once more he raised her in his arms,
And struggled up the steep ascent
Up - up - the rugged, stony paths
His steps toward his cot he bent;
This reached, he laid her near the hearth
On which a bright fire roared and blazed,
Until, oh! yes! she stretched her hands
And raised her eyes, oh! Heaven, be praised!
Then life soon sparkled in her eyes
And maulted on her dewy cheek,
And her expressive face was lit
With grateful thoughts she could not speak.
She raised her eyes and looked around
For him who saved her from the wave,
His look met hers, she knelt and prayed
For him who snatched her from the grave.
Her eyes were filled with grateful tears
Her lips did thankful blessings pour,
Until he could no longer hear
But gently raised her from the floor.
No more the student's lot unblest,
No more, his only friends, his books,
Now, joy enlivens every scene
And beaming smiles and loving looks.
That maiden whom with heroic hand
He'd safely borne 'mid tempest roar,
Had vowed before God's altar, she
Would leave the student never more.
And well she kept her word, for years
Had glided on with smiling mein,*
And still beside that pebbly shore
The two to walk, were often seen,
And by the waves, for hours, they'd sit
To watch the stars, so pure and bright,
And see the waters smiling deep
As glad to mirror back their light.
And oft they talked of other lands,
That bloomed beyond that wavy tide,
"But there were none," she smiled and said,
"Had power to take her from his side."
No, dearer far, was that lone man
With all his wealth of heart and mind,
Than aught, in other lands, she'd seen,
Among the thousands of man-kind.
So time fled on, and little gems,
With azure eyes and golden hair,
With dimpled cheeks and childish glee
Were added to the happy pair.
Their voices sounded by the shore
As forth they danced, with merry feet,
Where sparkling wavelets, briny bright
Burst forth, their tuneful songs to greet.
And happier, far, the student's life
With smiles to bless his toilsome hours,
With friendship sweet and love's caress
To strew his daily path, with flowers,
Than when he lived a hermit's life
And he was forced, with joy to own
The truthfulness of adage old,
"Man was not made to live alone."
About the Poem
I have no background on this story poem.
A Plea for the Old Oak Tree On Sycamore Street
A Plea for the Old Oak Tree on Sycamore Street
There’s an old, old oak on a dusty street
That stands like a wreck of the past,
Whose sturdy limbs and giant frame,
A shadow of refuge cast,
A grateful shade, in a weary land,
When the sun beats heavy and hot,
A place of rest for the toddling child –
A cool and inviting spot;
Where the breezes blow from the sighing west
When the day-star hangs on high,
And the wild bird builds her downy nests
When the sweet springtime is nigh.
And there all day, on the swaying boughs
They drink the glad, free air,
And carol gladsome songs of praise,
In notes we all may share.
Their joyous hymns, to God above –
For the sun and the air and the breeze,
And thanks, no doubt, for the emerald leaves
With which He clothes the trees,
When the glorious sun with cheering light,
Comes up o’er the Orient* hills,
And the dreamy sounds of the woods respond
To the tinkle of unseen rills;
When the dewy sparkles, on grass and grain,
Are gemming the waking world,
And the banners, of night, with its dusty train,
In the morning light, are furled;
When the lilies white and roses bright,
Are drinking the early morn –
Ere the blushing tints of Aurora’s feet
Have scattered the silvery dawn.
‘Tis there from the heart of this ancient oak,
A chorus of love is heard,
Sweeter than that of Aeolian strings*,
By summer breezes stirred –
The mating hymn, of the countless birds,
Floats up to the bending sky
While spirits of air, on golden wings
Are listening and hovering nigh.
Then spare that oak, that old, old oak,
To the child and the singing bird –
That at morn and noon and at eventide,
The songs of joy may be heard.
Let it live and reign, in its lordly strength,
For another Century more,
That a coming age, may read a page –
Of the mellow songster’s lore.
By E. D. Hundley
*See Glossary
Acknowledgements
This poem was printed in the Record, the local paper in
Greensboro, North Carolina.
The editor noted:
"We respectfully call attention of the city fathers to the
lines entitled, 'An Appeal for the Old Oak on Sycamore Street,'
written by one of Greensboro’s talented daughters.
If any man would vote to cut this tree down after reading
this appeal, he surely would be hard-hearted indeed."
Needless to say, the tree was spared.
Picture:
https://pixabay.com/en/oak-tree-tree-oak-majestic-old-292114/
Glen Alpine
Glen Alpine
Beautiful Glen Alpine!
How grand thy mountains rise,
And lean their heads, all glory-crowned,
Against the sunset skies.
How soft thy balmy breezes
In summer’s evening tide,
How bright thy silvery streamlets,
How murmuringly they glide.
Ah! See the crimson glory,
As the sun goes, lingering, down,
While far away, “Mount Mitchell” stands
With dark and lowering frown,
As on the southern mountains,
With gleams of gold unfurled
The banner of the dying king
Floats o’er a twilight world.
How green the sleeping valleys,
Which kine* walk slowly through.
As the first silvery star of eve
Peeps through the vaulted blue,
And trembles in its radiance
Above yon craggy height,
With purest ray of all the gems
That crown the brow of night.
How changed the face of Nature,
The darkness grows apace,
As if the clouds, with giant speed
Had run a Titan race,
From cliff to crag the lightnings
Like fiery serpents glide
And force their way with flaming tongue
Adown the mountain’s side,
While the booming of the thunder,
Like distant guns at sea,
Comes roaring through the valleys,
Which echo dismally,
And down in inky torrents,
The flood-like rains descend,
While the great oaks before the winds
Their mighty branches bend.
Glen Alpine Night
‘Tis midnight on the mountains,
The storm its force has spent,
And many a forest monarch
His lofty head has bent,
The clouds, like sullen armies
Retreating from the fight,
Have yielded up the azure field
To “Dian,” queen of night,
Who, with her train of silvery stars,
A courtly retinue*,
On “Raven’s cliff” is pouring out
Her “urn of diamond dew.”
My spirit seems to stretch away,
Beyond the misty height,
Beyond the moon-beams glittering sheen,
Beyond the stars of night,
To sit in heavenly places
Far o’er the crystal seas,
Where cherubim and seraphim
Harp angel melodies.
Such midnights on the mountains,
To Eden life is kin
So quiet, so ethereal
Afar from worldly din.
How bright is proud Orion
As he “slopeth to the west,”
How fair the rainy Hyades,
Above the mountain’s crest.
I feign would dwell forever,
Where high-tide breezes blow,
E’en when these grand old cedars
Are wrapped in fleecy snow,
*See Glossary
Glen Alpine Springs Resort
Glen Alpine, cont.
For the monotone of lowland life
Ill suits the aspiring soul
For the earth is there too earthy,
As this life is not its goal.
But when I see these summits
Pierce through the clouds and mist,
My fancy flies on pinions,
That my will cannot resist.
But the day-star’s faintly rising
And I see the flush of dawn,
And soon the world will be astir
In the busy, busy morn.
Ah! Beautiful Glen Alpine!
‘Tis hard to say adieu
To all thy wealth of mountain air,
To all thy skies of blue,
But thy sunny scenes of loveliness
Will ever hold a part
And portion of the greenest spots
That nestle in my heart.
By Nanny Grey
About Glen Alpine Springs
Glen Alpine Springs Hotel Resort opened its doors in July 1878. At that time, it was the largest frame structure under one roof in Noth Carolina. It was built by Colonel Thomas George Walton for the princely sum of $30,000. Glen Alpine Springs was an elegant mineral springs resort whose guests included Governor Zebulon Vance and railroad magnates William Henry Vanderbilt and Jay Gould. The hotel ballroom seated 200 guests and food for the hotel was shipped from New York. In addition to healing waters, it offered amenities such as billiards, bowling, lavish meals, and dancing.
The Presbyterian Mission Board acquired the property and ran a boarding school called Glen Alpine Springs School there from 1902-09. The building then remained vacant until it was destroyed by fire in 1934.
Acknowledgements
(The Poem was published in 1878 for "The Patriot," Greensboro, North Carolina.)
These lines were suggested during a visit to the “Glen Alpine Springs,”
Burke County, North Carolina.
Background Information from: https://www.amazon.com/Glen-Alpine-Springs-Hotel-Accommodation/dp/069256120X.
A review for the book:
Glen Alpine Springs Hotel: A History of Burke County's Finest Accommodations.
by Louisa Emmons.
Day Dreams
Day Dreams
Bright, fairy scenes are hovering now,
About my wakened reams;
I see a maid with nut-brown curls,
O’er which the sunlight streams;
I see her with her classic brow,
And dark-blue liquid eyes,
And face whose fine expression plays
With feelings fall and rise.
Her cheek is resting on her hand,
Her thoughts afar do roam,
From this cold clime of colder hearts
To her bright southern home;
She sees again the bright-hued flowers,
That crowned the gentle hills,
She hears again the murmuring sound,
Of the sparkling, silvery rills.*
She sits again with beating heart,
Her lover fond beside,
To watch the glistening moonbeams play,
On the river's leaping tide -
Her fair, white hand is gasped in his,
As she looks with eager eyes,
In the distant dim, where the rocky mounts
Of Mexico arise.
His words are falling on her ear,
In love’s sweet, gentle tone,
As he woos her ‘neath the silvery stars,
That she may be his own.
All nature’s still: the moon, the stars,
Have heard the whispered vow,
That she, when far in distant lands,
Would ever love as now.
They parted as fond lovers part,
He to the battlefield -
She to a far off northern home,
To pray that God would shield
Her lover brave from death and harm,
From war’s disastrous chance,
That she again, in her happy home,
May meet his loving glance.
A year hath passed, but not one word
From her loved one has she heard;
She waited long with patient hope,
But now her heart is stirred,
With the bitter feeling that will arise,
To rack her soul with pain;
She’s thinking now, “Oh! is he false?
Or, is he in the battle slain?”
“If he be false, then never more
To aught of earth I’ll trust;
Should he be dead, then may I too,
Be lowly laid in dust -
For one fond glance from his bright eye,
Ten years of my life I’d give,
And how much more, to only know
That he for me with live.”
The tears are trickling o'er her cheek,
Her heart with sorrow’s sore:
She hears a voice and turns to look,
A beggar stood at the door -
His untrimmed locks were roughly cast
Upon his sun-browned cheek,
His beggard eye and trembling limbs,
Told more than words could speak.
His ragged garments were old and thin,
One arm in a sling was borne,
His steps were feeble and the poor beggar man,
Looked dreadfully weary and worn.
Her heart with pity was touched at the sight,
So kindly she asked his desire,
He answered, “Kind mistress, a mouthful of bread,
And a seat near the warm glowing fire.”
“I’ve travelled all day, both hungry and cold,
Though I oft for a mouthful did pray,
Some said they had none, and others more stern,
Rudely did drive me away.
I told them I’d fought for my country’s fame,
That I’d poured out my blood for her good,
They laughed me to scorn, with words of contempt,
But never a one gave me food.”
“You came from the wars,” the maiden cried,
“Now I think you are honest and true,
Tell me, good man, in that far battlefield,
Did you ne’er meet with one Edwin Drew?"
"Edwin Drew! Yes! methinks now I did,
Poor fellow, he died on the plain,”
“Oh! Edwin! dear Edwin!" the maiden wept loud,
“Shall I ne’er see thee Edwin again?”
The beggar at this, threw his old hat away,
And brushed his uncombed locks aside,
“Oh! turn, dearest Ida, ‘tis I, Edwin Drew,
That erst* now I told you had died.
I’ve traveled, my darling, by water and land,
To look once again on your face,
And almost had reached you, when envious ones said,
Another did now fill my place.
In a beggar’s disguise, I thought I would come,
And judge undeceived with my eyes;
Thine emotion, dear Ida, too plainly did show,
That Edwin, thou didst not despise,”
“Twas a merry Christmas night, but happiest of all,
We're bright Ida and her own Edwin Drew,
Who’d returned from the wars,
All her heart could desire true.
The Blind Girl's Song
The Blind Girl's Song
Oh! gentle flowerets blooming,
I feel ye in the air,
And sweet tuned bird-lets warbling.
I know that ye are fair;
For in dreams I often see ye,
And then ye seem so bright
That I sorrow when I waken,
For my eyes are closed to light.
Yes! I am blind; my mother
Said, I never saw the day,
That I never caroled blithely,
With the children at their play;
But would sit all sad and drooping,
‘Neath the golden-willow tree,
Where lies my sailor brother,
Who died when out to sea.
And there I’d sing, oh! sadly,
In a low and plaintive strain,
And pray that I in Heaven,
Might meet him once again.
For oh! he dearly loved me,
And often hand in hand,
We wandered o’er the meadows,
By summer breezes fanned.
And he’d cull the fairest flowers,
That blossomed on the sight,
And bid me breathe their fragrance,
And tell me they were bright;
He’d tell me of the heavens,
That were so clear and blue,
And of the little golden stars,
That oft came peeping through.
Ah, me, he died. They laid him,
Beneath the willow tree,
And there I often sit and think,
If I shall ever see –
In that beauteous land of Heaven,
In that pure, happy place,
Where light immortal’s given,
My darling brother’s face.
My mother, too, has left me,
Two weeks ago she died,
And I sorrowed when they laid her,
By my gentle brother’s side.
Who now will guide my wanderings?
And who to me’ll be kind?
Oh! who will take the orphan,
So lonely and so blind?
By Nanny Grey
Richmond, Virginia
About
Picture: Scanned from a family photo of a Sally Gardner.
The Sailor's Dream of Home
The Sailor's Dream of Home
Now behind the distant mountains,
Sinks the glorious sun to rest,
Whilst his rays of golden lustre
Gild the sea-wave's snowy crest;
Now the weary land sick sailor,
Feels the cool winds 'round him play,
As soft zephyrs* o'er the ocean
Whisper the decline of day.
Soon sweet Morpheus* comes alluring,
With his gentle, dreamy spell,
'Till he sees no more the sunset,
Hears no more the billows swell;
Far away on airy pinions,
Doth his roving fancy soar,
'Til he treads the accustomed pathways,
Of his native land once more.
There he sees a poor white cottage,
All with roses overgrown,
When life wore a form of gladness,
In days gone-by. It is his own!
With throbbing, joyous heart he treads
O'er the meadows soft and green,
By the stream where snow-white lilies
Mingle with its silvery sheen.
Soon he spies a cherub boy
Paddling 'cross the purling brook,
Whose bright eyes of heavenly azure,
Gaze on him with startled look -
'Tis his own, that fair-haired cherub,
To his fond embrace he flies,
As bright tears of pearly radiance,
Glitter in his sparkling eyes.
Up the grass-grown hill they'er climbing,
Soon they reach the cottage door -
When a sound burst loudly on him,
'Tis the angry ocean's roar -
'Tis the storm-god in his madness,
Revelling o'er the shrieking main,
'Till the wildly -heaving waters
Mock the thunders back again.
Oh! poor sailor, rudely wakened,
From thy dreams of wife and home,
From thy babes, from grassy meadows,
Where thou never more shalt roam.
Who can paint the anguished feelings
Writhing through thine inmost soul,
As thou seest the forked lightnings
Mingling with the billows roll?
One loud shriek of death rung wailing,
Echoes on the rock bound shore,
Sinks the ship 'neath blackened waters;
From the waves to rise no more.
Dream, fond wife, of death and shipwreck,
Clasp thy babes with fonder love,
For their father, vainly looked for,
Thou'lt only see in realms above.
By Nannie Grey
* See Glossary
About
To Leonard
To Leonard
And am I then forgotten?
Does your heart not cherish yet
The memory of those happy hours
I never can forget?
Oh! do you not remember,
The cot beneath the hill?
And the splashing of the waters,
That trickled from the mill?
And the fragrant bower of roses
With rustic seats of green?
And the star-flower's glistening petals,
Of pure and snowy sheen?
Where the sunbeams loved to linger,
E’er they sought their rosy rest,
E’er the first bright star of evening,
Glimmered faintly in the west.
Oh! I’ve forgotten nothing,
Even the apple buds so fair,
That you wove with verdant cedar,
To twine amid my hair.
That cherished wreath, now faded,
Is hanging ‘neath the tree,
Where late, one summer evening,
You pledged your vows to me.
Alas! those vows are broken –
Your heart inconstant proved,
I dreamed not in those frightful days,
Your fancy ever roved;
But, I met you, ‘twas but lately,
In a gorgeous hall of light
And your cheek was still as rosy –
Your eye as glittering bright.
As in happier days, I’d found you,
When life was fair for me,
And I was blithe and happy,
Ere I found inconstancy,
On your arms was fondly leaning
A girl of magic mould,
Adown whose snowy shoulders
A golden halo rolled.
You whispered, oh! so fondly,
In her soft and willing ear,
And it burnt like coals of fire
On my heart, those words to hear.
They were the same you’d spoken
Beneath the willow tree,
In that summer eve of beauty,
When you pledged your vows to me.
And she with guileless spirit,
With trusting heart and brow,
Was speaking words reciprocal,
In accents soft and low,
Is she, too, to be forsaken?
And her bright life turned to night?
And the sunny radiance quenched,
From those eyes of heavenly light?
Yes! false-hearted, gay deceiver,
You’ll leave her sad, forlorn,
Like me to bear a withered life,
By sorrows waste and worn.
But oh! there’ll come a reckoning,
When you shall feel the blow,
As keenly as the suffering hearts
Of those that you’ve laid low.
By Nannie Grey
About This Poem
Published in the Evening Bulletin, Richmond, Virginia.
I have no information about his poem.
Picture:
https://pixabay.com/en/w%C3%A1ter-girl-model-porait-hair-1703257/
Lament for the Hunter
Lament for the Hunter
No more from the heights of the mountains resounding,
Shall we list to the sound of the hunter's loud horn
No more on the waves of the blue waters bounding,
Shall the notes of his bugle be borne.
He is gone, like the wavelet that glints in the morning
As the sun rises high on the far away hill,
No more shall his horn to his hounds sound a warning,
And the voice of his singing, is still.
Oh, lament for the hunter, thus early laid low,
With the cold, cloggy sods of the valley around him,
He sleeps, the deep sleep, which we all soon must know,
In which death's icy chain has bound him.
No more shall the scream of the wild bird awake
The joyous emotions of hope, in his breast.
The fox now may sleep - and the hare in the brake*
For the hunter is gone to his rest.
Oh! bury him deep, where the moon-beams may steep
On the green, grassy turf, above his lone head,
Where the first violets peep and the sad willows weep,
Oh! there let the hunter be laid.
And there let the wild-bird, his glossy wing plume*
As he sits 'mid the boughs of the tall poplar trees,
And there, let the flowers fling their sweetest perfume
On the breath of the cool, evening breeze.
By E. D. Hundley
* See Glossary
Bridal Emblems
Bridal Emblems
Fair as the dawning, silvery gray
Of the morn, when clouds have broken away,
Bright as the smile of the eastern skies,
Which autumn paints with roseate dyes,
Pure as the pearls of the sparkling dew
When the sun beams bright, from the bended blue,
'Neath thy snowy veil at the even-tide
Thou'lt shine a beauteous, peerless* bride.
May the gems which deck thy forehead fair,
Be emblems of thy virtues, rare,
The diamond's flash, in brilliant light,
Show for discretion, firm and bright,
The ruby, in its crimson gleam
Glow soft as love's untroubled stream,
The sapphire, clear as azure dew
Be constancy's unchanging hue,
And each and all in pure gold set,
Like truth, forms all life's coronet.
By E. D. Hundley
* See Glossary