Mr. Thomas Bailie
Dedicated to the Memory of Mr. Thomas Bailie
Like some grand, majestic oak tree,
In the forest dark and dim,
Struck down by sudden lightning,
So death came unto him;
Ere his years had reached the zenith,
When life and hpe were bright,
The dark-winged angel, Azriel,
Quenched out their brilliant light.
He sleeps within the churchyard,
In his cold and narrow bed,
But the tears of friends shall moisten
Every turf above his head,
For a heart, more true and noble,
Hath ne'er been laid to rest;
And one more warm and generous,
Ne'er beat in mortal breast.
We'll miss his ringing laughter
Around the social hearth,
We'll miss his joyous presence
Amid the scenes of mirth;
But most of all, they'll miss him
In his lonely! lonely! home,
In the calm and gentle evening
When the stars begin to come.
For then it was his presence
Came like the breath of flowers,
When he stood with joy and gladness,
In the tender twilight hours,
Beside his wife and children,
The objects of his love,
And in a land of bearty
May they meet him up above.
May the tears of angels water
The flowers o'er his grave,
And sweet be the singing requiem
Of the zephyrs, when they wave
In sad and plaintive music
Around his lowly home,
And there may unseen seraphs
On guardian errands roam.
By E.D. Hundley
Information About this Poem
Dedicated to the memory of Mr. Thomas Bailie and written for the "American." The newspaper article was in the Richmond Dispatch on Tuesday morning, August 4, 1857.
Thomas Bailie was born in Virginia about 1815. The 1850 US Census showed him living in Richmond, Virginia with his wife Hannah and five children, Charles M., age 11; Julia T., age 10; Columbia, age 9; William H., age 5; and Mary J., age 2. Mr. Bailey was a printer and worked at various newspapers in Richmond. He died August 3, 1857, and was buried in Shockoe Hill Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia.
In Hollywood
In Memory of E H I
In Hollywood, at close of day,
When sunset beams 'round the marbles stray,
Where the river's monotone goes by
As it mirrors the gold of the western sky -
Where the willows weep and roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume,
I linger near a sacred spot -
Where blooms the flower, forget-me-not,
And read, 'neath twilight's shadowy wing
This, "Simply, to thy Cross I cling"
Engraved upon this sculptured stone -
These blessed words, and these alone.
Oh! maiden, in soft slumbers, deep,
While sorrowing friends above thee weep,
In regions blest and brighter far,
Than Heaven's most brilliant, beaming star,
We feel thou art above our tears,
Beyond our trembling earth-born fears,
Thou sayest, where the seraphs sing,
Yea, "Simply to the Cross I cling" -
Oh! blessed cross, whose light devine
Can on our inmost sorrows shine
And streaming from the Courts above
Illumine all our griefs, with love.
Our dear one, in thine arms we lay,
'Till we, too, share her endless day,
A day of joy, of peace and love
Where we, with her shall ever sing,
Yea, "Simply to the Cross I cling."
By E. D. Hundley
Richmond, Virginia
About this Poem
Hollywood Cemetery is where her husband, Richard Hundley, is buried along with other relatives and friends in Virginia.
There is no information on who this poem is written about other than the initials E. B. I.
Mrs. Ali G. Kouve
The Memory of the Dead
Oft at twilight's pensive hour,
Come the forms long past away,
Angel foot-steps, in the shade,
Linger at the close of day,
Airy voices, in the breeze,
Whisper fondest words of love,
Gently o'er my spirit steal
These bright visions from above.
And, when night's blue mantle falls
Duskily o'er land and sea,
I almost hear the spirit-calls
Rippling dreamily to me.
Oh! 'tis sweet to steal away
To some lone and quiet spot,
Far away from sounds of life,
Where the dead are not forgot.
Then on memory's glancing wing
Comes the shade, remembered well,
Of a dear, beloved friend,
Passed away, in heaven to dwell.
Oh! 'twas sad, that death should choose
From among the household band,
Her, the loveliest of them all,
And bear her to the spirit-land.
She was a rare and radiant one,
Brighter than the forms of light,
Gentler than the zephyr's sigh,
Purer than the stars of night.
Her hair in rippling shadows,
Fell o'er a brow of white,
And her eye of jetty blackness
Swam soft in brilliant light.
The rosebud left upon her cheek
Its softest, sweetest dye,
Her voice was like the breath of flowers
When west winds near them sigh.
But she was gone, in Heaven to dwell,
My own, my radiant one,
And memory of the past is all
That cheers me when alone.
Not all, for far, in regions
Of never fading light,
Where float the songs of angels,
In a land of beauty bright,
I hope, when dark, dim Azereal
Shall bear me hence, away,
I shall meet my gentle sister,
In the clime of endless day.
By Nannie Grey
Information About the Poem
This poem was dedicated to Mrs. Ali G. Kouve and written for the "Religious Herald" in Virginia. (Not sure of the spelling of her name. I could not read the handwriting.)
Picture: https://www.pexels.com/photo/sunset-sun-horizon-priroda-35599/
https://pixabay.com/en/sunset-field-poppy-sun-priroda-815270/
Mr. Herbert M. Gardner
A Merited Tribute
Herbert M. Gardner, whose death was announced in Thursday’s Dispatch, was a young man of such rare worth and virtue that duty, more than taste for praise, prompts this tribute. The saddest death is that which seems at least untimely. At only twenty years of age, he had won the confidence – yea, the affection – of his employer, Mr. B. F. Tinsley, who said, "For over five years this young man has proved himself conscientious to a fault, and, now that he is cut down, I feel as if there was irreparable loss to me in his death, so much had I come to confide in him.” He was modest almost to timidity; he was insensible to admiration and walked the path of duty and virtue unmindful of reward or praise. His earnings were brought to his widowed mother as a guileless offering of endless gratitude, and thus he was greatly her stay and protector. At an age when character is seldom definitely formed, his was like regulated machinery, and, while unobtrusively but courteously he passed day after day from his business directly home and back, he looked the habits of maturer years.
After twenty-one days of toil and watching by the bed of sickness, the hope (a mother’s hope that is the last to yield) that had supported the prayerful anticipations of that watcher’s faith, fled, and the exacting typhoidal messenger drew his veil over the last flickering spark of the innocent dying. But how beggarly is our effort to do justice to such a youth in this day of temptations to them, and still more how futile our efforts to comprehend the mother’s grief at the loss of such a son.
Written by a Neighbor
(Mrs. E D Hundley)
About
His mother, Mrs. Gardner is the widow of Reuben Gardner,
formerly of Hanover.
Picture is from the family photos of an unnamed person.
My Friend is Gone
A Memoriam for Bessie
And art thou gone, dear Bessie,
Friend of my childhood’s hours?
Gone, in the noon of summer
To sleep among the flowers,
Where the wild rose and forget-me-not
May deck thy silent bed,
And roses, white and golden,
Shed fragrance over-head?
Oh, sing, sweet birds of summer time,
Your vesper rides on high,
And shimmer softly silvery stars
Adown the mid-night sky,
And sunrise, with your beaming,
Make bright the resting place,
Of the gentle, tender dreamer
Now cold in Death’s embrace.
The years seem but a moment,
Since we stood side by side,
To watch the crystal brooklet
Leap onward to the tide –
And dipped our childish fingers
Within its waves so bright
And laughed to see the sparkling
Of the water, in the light.
But Time’s unwelcome wheeling
Cast our life’s paths far apart,
But neither time nor distance
Crushed the love from either heart.
And now, I read, “Your early friend
Is laid within the tomb,”
And surely Heaven’s clouded,
And earth is full of gloom.
Ah! No, the light is breaking,
She’s only gone before,
And waiting on the shining sands
That gild the farther shore,
As oft before she waited
In happy years gone by
And called, “Come through the water,
It will not hurt you, try.”
And I, with trembling footsteps,
Stepped o'er the rocky bed,
To meet her smile of welcome
And gentle hands out spread;
Then hours on hours, together,
Beneath the fragrant pines,
We listened to the humming
Of the bees among the vines.
I think, beyond the sunset,
Beyond the “gates afar”
When I shall cross the river,
I shall see her from afar,
Shall see her crowned with glory
Where streams unfailing flow,
With out-stretched hands of greeting,
As in the “long ago.”
By E. D. Hundley
For the Daily Workman
Greensboro, North Carolina, 1886
The Daily Workman
This newspaper began In Greensboro on May 28, 1883 and
ceased in January 1891.
Bessie must have been a childhood friend. I have found no information about her yet.
Picture: https://pixabay.com/en/vintage-girls-library-book-sisters-1168512/
Childhood's Happy Hours
Isa
I remember, dear Isa, the time long past and gone
When we wondered, happy-hearted, 'till the summer sun went down
When the twilight gathered gently, above the shadowy trees
And the scent of wild-plum blossoms, come floating on the breeze.
Then we sat beside the rippling stream, to chant simple song
And fancied that our music, floated on the waves along
'Till the white moon, with her smiling face, rose o'er the eastern hill,
And found her silver radiance on the waters of the rill.
That time has long since ended, yet the waters of the rill
In beauty and in gladness, are sparkling onward still,
The flowers of that forest are blooming yet, and bright
The whippoorwill, within the grove, still chants his song at night;
But thou, and I, dear Isa are many miles apart
Yet the memory of our childhood still dwells within my heart,
Like the green and tender ivy that 'round the ruin clings,
And bright, within my fancy, thine image often springs.
I see thee yet, dear Isa, with thy wavy, golden hair,
And the rose of youth and beauty, blooming on thy cheek so fair
And thy gentle eye of azure, in which often shone a tear
And the silver-tones of thy merry voice still echo on my ear.
Oh! years are past and over, since we sat side by side
And watch the sparkling wavelets of the water's sunny tide,
And friends we both have found, and tried, with feelings warm and true
But we never more can know the joy, are happy childhood knew.
By E. D. Hundley
About
Another childhood friend. I do not know who Isa is.
Daisy of the Dell
Daisy of the Dell
'Twas a balmy springtime morning
Earth was radiant with delight,
And the glorious sun illumined
Every diamond-gem of night,
That I wondered forth, to loosen
From my thoughts, their dreamy spell,
When I met a blue-eyed maiden,
Gentle Daisy of the Dell.
Oh! she was fair and lovely,
As aught of earth could be,
And her voice, soft as the breathings
Of some Neriod of the sea.
Her eyes were softest azure,
Her teeth a pearly shell,
Her hair, the golden sunset,
Fair Daisy of the Dell.
I stood entranced, enraptured,
Gazing on her with surprise,
On her gentle, winning loveliness,
Till teardrops filled mine eyes.
Where a silvery streamlet rippled,
With a soft melodious swell,
Stood the rose-embowered cottage
Of my Daisy of the Dell.
Mine eyes are dim with weeping,
My heart filled with despair,
For death, with cruel purpose,
Sought my Daisy, bright and fair.
And from my sight he bore her,
Among the dead to dwell,
The long green, grass now waves above
Sweet Daisy of the Dell.
And I have searched the forest,
For flowers of every hue,
Wild roses and forget-me-nots,
And violets, meek and blue
And strewed them o'er her ashes,
As fast my teardrops fell,
To think I never more should see
Lost Daisy of the Dell.
But hark! an angel whispers,
"She is not slumbering here,
Her soul is bright in heaven,
So wipe away each tear."
Oh! blessed hope thus given,
Thou has calmed my spirit well,
I feel, I soon shall clasp again,
Dear Daisy of the Dell.
About
I do not know who Daisy is.
Picture: https://www.pexels.com/photo/bloom-blooming-blossom-bright-514536/
The Autumn Rain
The Autumn Rain
The Autumn time is coming
When leaves are brown and sear
The wood-dove’s voice is calling
With a sound I love to hear,
But nothing brings the past again
So sadly as the Autumn rain.
The plaintive wind is sighing
With a melancholy tone
Above the pale flowers, dying,
With a music all its own;
But that fills not my heart with pain
Like the dropping of the Autumn rain.
For I remember, fondly
The friend of childhood’s years
Who shared with me joyousness
And wept with me, her tears,
And memory brings her back again
When listening to the Autumn rain.
We thought not then of sorrow
As time flew quickly by,
For joy dwelt in our bosoms
Though clouds were in the sky,
And gently on the window pane
Sad Autumn dropped her tearful rain.
Ah! dark clouds crossed my vision
My bright friend drooped and died,
They made her a lovely resting place
By the river’s rippling side,
And o’er the grass where she was lain,
The Autumn dropped its tearful rain.
I list now to the dripping
Of the rain from the cottage eaves
And it's solemn patter, patter,
Among the fallen leaves;
And with these sounds sad thoughts again
Come, mingling with the Autumn rain.
By E. D. Hundley
About
Mrs. Emma Morehead Gray
In Memoriam
She has gone like the spray from the sparkling fountain,
She has flown as a bird that escapes to the mountain,
Gone, through the fields of the blessed to roam,
Leaving sorrow and grief in her desolate home.
Away from all sadness, and suffering and pain,
Our loss is to her but an infinite gain.
We shall miss her when clear on the ambient air,
The Sunday school bells their messages bear,
In the church where the accents of praises arise
With the incense of prayer to the blue bending skies,
We shall miss her sweet voice in the service of song
And her bright, beaming face mid the worshiping throng.
The words of her mouth, like the wisdom of old,
Were as apples of silver in pictures of gold –
And long shall the poor and the suffering mourn,
For that presence, now vanished, no more to return,
And the heathen shall sigh in his faraway land
For the touch of that generous, benevolent hand.
But alas! In the home where her children deplore
And weep for the mother who comes back no more,
The shadows lie dark on the desolate hearth
And home seems to fade from the sorrowing earth,
But brighter than lightning and swifter than thought
On the wings of the morning her spirit was caught,
And up o’er the paths of Elysian* delight,
Past the sun and the stars in its heavenward flight
O’er the crystalline sea, near the fair, pearly gate
Where the loved gone before at the portal await
With what rapturous joy will they break on her sight,
And all sorrow be drowned in eternal delight.
So away from all sadness and sorrow and pain,
Our loss is to her but an infinite gain.
Written by E.D. Hundley
Greensboro, North Carolina
March 1, 1896
*See Glossary
Information
Emma Victoria Morehead Gray was the daughter of Gov. John Motley Morehead and Ann Eliza Lindsay Morehead. She was born in North Carolina in 1836 and was reared in The Blandwood Mansion, the historically restored mansion in Greensboro. She married Julius Alexander Gray in 1858, a leader in the community. When her parents died, Emma and Julius bought Blandwood from her youngest brother Eugene Morehead. They had six children. Julius was very active in business and government. He was the founder of Greensboro Chamber of Commerce, the Greensboro Bank and Trust, and was president of the Yadkin/Cape Fear and the North Carolina Railroad Companies. He also was a Representative in the State Legislature.
I was curious as to what the connection was between Emma Gray and Ellen D. Hundley. I could see that they were contemporaries in the Greensboro society. Many in both families were lawyers. Looking into their families I found this relationship: Ellen D. Hundley’s son-in-law, Charles E. Shober’s first wife, Mary Ann Gilmer’s sister-in-law, Sarah, was a first cousin of Emma. See the line following:
Robert Lindsay
m. Letitia Harper
____________________|_____________________
| |
Ann Eliza Lindsay (sisters) Jesse Harper Lindsay
m. John M. Morehead m. Amelia Ellison
| |
Emma Victoria Morehead (cousins) Sarah Letitia Lindsay
m. Julius Alexander Gray m. John Alexander Gilmer
his sibling Mary Ann Gilmer m. Charles E. Shober, who's third wife was: Nanny Lee Hundley, daughter of Poetess, Ellen Dowdell Hundley.
Emma is Ellen's son-in-law's sister-in-law's first cousin.
Since Emma and Ellen were both born in the 1830s, I imagine they were good friends and attended the same Presbyterian Church together.
Col. Julius A. Gray
This estimable gentleman was born in Randolph County, North Carolina on September 6, 1833 and in 1858 was married to Emma Victoria Morehead, daughter of Hon. John M. Morehead, the distinguished Governor of the State of North Carolina. He died on April 14, 1891, five years before his wife, Emma.
Our Beloved Pastor - In memory
Rev. Dr. Jacob Henry Smith
He sleeps in beautiful Green Hill
With the smile of heaven on his face,
And the arms of the Lord about him
In a sweet and solemn embrace.
We laid him beneath the roses,
And flowers of snowy white,
When the golden glow of the sunset
Bathed all the world in light.
It was meet that one, so loving
Should rest where the violets spring,
Where the flickering shadows of evening
Fall soft as an angel’s wing –
A sunny spot, ‘mid the lilies,
Where gold-green willows weep,
Where song birds come in the morning
In the beautiful garden of sleep.
He is not here – far, far away
His ransomed soul has flown,
The casket remains, the jewel is set,
A gem, in the Savior’s crown.
So we lift our eyes, o’er flowing,
To follow his shining track,
His glorious flight, our hearts are cheered –
We would not call him back.
Oh! far away beyond the stars,
Through the blue, ethereal light,
Through the gates of pearl, o’er the crystal sea,
He has winged his heavenly flight,
We calm our souls, with precious hope
Found in the eternal Word,
And though absent from the body
He’s forever with the Lord.
E. D. Hundley
Greensboro, North Carolina
About the Tribute to Pastor
Written in Greensboro, North Carolina, November 26, 1897, as a tribute to her pastor.
Green Hill Cemetery in Greensboro is the burial place of many of her friends and relatives in North Carolina. The family plot is in section 2.
Mrs. F. M. Bumfrees
In Loving Memory of Mrs. F. M. Bumfrees
A mother in Israel has passed away,
We shall see her face no more –
A saintly soul, from its house of clay,
Has escaped to the Heavenly shore.
We shall miss her soft, sweet voice in prayer
And the smile on her placid face,
As her earnest words, through the ambient air
Rose up to the throne of grace.
But we know she dwells in a happier clime
In a cloudless land of love,
She has floated beyond the heights sublime
To the radiant courts above.
Over the shining, crystal sea
Up through the silvery light
By the stars, where many mansions be
She has taken her Heavenly flight.
And now she beholds the city of gold,
Jerusalem, brilliant and fair
Where the beautiful story, the story of old
Is sung by the angels, there.
We follow her track, with longing eyes
Ablaze on the upward road
A brightening line, through the vaulted skies,
That touches the palace of God.
No nobler, sweeter spirit has blown
None nearer the love Divine,
To the home where Jesus claims His own
Where glories ineffable shine.
She lies in dreamless sleep ‘mid the flowers,
Where the violets exhale their perfume
Where the willows weep through the golden hours
And the midsummer roses bloom.
In the bosom of God, in the haven of love
Afar from all tumult and strife
In the amaranth* bowers immortal, above
She has entered eternal life.
We shall miss her here, but find her there
When earth and its sorrows have fled
Like the benediction that comes after prayer
In the land of the deathless dead.
Greensboro, North Carolina
By E. D. Hundley
*See Glossary
About
Have not yet learned who Mrs. Bumfrees was.
Picture: https://www.pexels.com/photo/city-dawn-nature-sky-64278/
Mr. Baxter H. Todd
In Memory of Baxter
Gone, gone, alas dear Baxter,
Gone with the summer flowers,
In the very prime of manhood
From life's enchanted bowers,
Gone with the fragrant roses
That faded all too soon
Gone in thy youth's glad morning,
Its glorious sunny noon.
Sweet autumn buds of beauty
Shall deck thy lowly bed,
White lilies and carnations
Above thy slumbering head,
While bright the emerald grasses
Wave in the balmy breeze,
Where silvery waters murmur
'Neath Elmwood's shadowy trees.
There, bright winged birds at sunrise
Shall sing their mating hymn,
And chant beneath the golden stars
In twilight, cool and dim;
While the tears of friends and kindred,
Like drops of heavenly dew,
Will sadly fall in the dreamy night
For one so good and true.
Farewell, though earth be lonely,
The heavens are full of light
Where thou art in the perfect day
In a land of beauty bright,
Where through eternal ages
Beyond the reach of pain
Beyond the touch of sorrow
We hope to meet again.
About
Baxter H. Todd was born on 15 Sep 1875 and died on 14 Sep 1900, one day before his 25th birthday. He was a clerk at a bank in Charlotte and he lived there with three of his single siblings. He is buried in Elmwood Cemetery, Charlotte, North Carolina.
Picture is from the family photos of an unnamed person.