THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Commodore Byron v 'cCandless
 
 HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
 
 EVENINGS WITH 
 
 COLORADO POETS, 
 
 A COMPILATION OF 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM COLORADO POETS 
 AND VERSE-WRITERS. 
 
 COMPILED AND EDITED BY 
 
 FRANCIS S. KINDER, AND 
 F. CLARENCE SPENCER. 
 
 DENVER, COLO.: 
 
 THE CHAIN & HARDY CO. 
 
 1894.
 
 COPYRIGHTED, 1N!'4, 
 BY F. S. KINT1ER AN!) F. C. 5PKNCKK.
 
 B 
 
 TO 
 
 Our friend and former Instructor, 
 MARY RIPPON, 
 
 crowning pleasure in the compilation of this book is the 
 privilege- of dedicating it to you ; and this token of personal 
 esteem is not without special fitness, since to you we owe much of our 
 love of the beautiful a chief inspiration to the labors of our 
 undertaking. 
 
 957400
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHARLOTTE BALLARD. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 OLNEY NEWELL. 
 
 GEORGE S. PHELPS. 
 
 FREDRICK KRAMER. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 T. J. SIPPLE. 
 
 H. B. STEPHENS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 J. D. DlLLENBACK. 
 
 OLIVER HOWARD. 
 L. W. CANADY. 
 Ross DEFORRIS. 
 
 "Little Goo." 
 Rio de las Animas Perditas. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 Palmer Lake. 
 
 Claudian. 
 
 Introspection. 
 
 In Retrospect. 
 
 Fate or God. 
 
 Eventide. 
 
 Nobody Knows. 
 
 Colorado. 
 
 The Bachelor's Lament. 
 
 The First Funeral at Nuggetsville. 
 
 Reverend John. 
 
 Biographical Notes. 
 
 Great Divide. 
 
 Common-wealth. 
 
 Great Divide. 
 Common-wealth . 
 
 107 
 208 
 210 
 212 
 214 
 214 
 216 
 218 
 219 
 220 
 221 
 222 
 223 
 214 
 
 227 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 HELEN HUNT JACKSON 
 
 VIRGINIA DONAGHE MCLURG 
 
 J. ERNEST WHITNEY 
 
 CY WARMAN 
 
 ROBERT M.C!NTYRE 
 
 HARRIET LANCASTER WESTCOTT 
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL 
 
 DAVID BOYD 
 
 EMMA GHENT CURTIS 
 
 ALICE POLK HILL 
 
 SURVILLE J. DE LAN 
 
 ETHELYN ALICE STODDARD 
 
 WILLIAM L. BURDICK 
 
 FRANK GRAIN SCHOFIELD 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 16 
 24 
 50 
 72 
 96 
 112 
 128 
 144 
 152 
 
 - 160 
 176 
 
 - 188 
 204
 
 preface. 
 
 Tne dfsign of this work is to afford the reader a general view of 
 Colorado's contributions to poetical literature, as well as to present in 
 one volume such productions of our poets as are especially worthy of 
 preservation. We have aimed to include selections as widely representa 
 tive as a reasonable standard of excellence would permit; to quote so 
 much from our best authors as would give the reader a comprehensive 
 view of their attainments in poetry, and to do this, so far as possible, 
 without note of comment, leaving to others the field of criticism. 
 
 It was believed that such a work would have interest for Colorado 
 lovers of literature, outside the circle of friends each author represented, 
 and that in view of the large' number of excellent verse- writers of our 
 state, selections of poems could be made having sufficient Hterary value 
 to commend the volume to the attention of careful readers. 
 
 tf our design has been skillfully executed, the work should have some 
 additional value from the nature of the enterprise itself. If much can be 
 said in favor of compilations from well known authors, whose works are 
 to be found in every public library, certainly a service worthy of the labor 
 is rendered in gathering and preserving what is worthy of preservation 
 from writers who would otherwise be lost from public view. 
 
 The general reader in Colorado who turns from the news matter of 
 the daily press to seek out such literature as reflects the more refined part 
 of the intellectual and emotional life of our people, will be surprised at 
 the large number of excellent verse-writers of the state. Doubtless the 
 atmosphere of freedom peculiar to western life, and which belongs 
 especially to the mining camp, has lent its share of inspiration to writers. 
 Perhaps the exceptional grandeur of our highland scenery has done much 
 to awaken the poetic instinct which exists partly dormant in nearly all 
 human hearts.' But added to these things is the fact that our population 
 includes many persons whose active intellects and refined natures have 
 
 VII
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 been united, as such natures usually are. with a delicate constitution, and 
 who have been led by ill health to seek the new life offered in Colorado's- 
 invigorating climate. It was for the reason just named that this state 
 became the home of Helen Hunt Jackson, J. Ernest Whitney, Mrs. 
 McClurg, Miss Paden, Prof. Haskell and other poets less widely known r 
 yet worthy of being remembered, and whose writings it is the special mis 
 sion of this little volume to help preserve. 
 
 In a work dealing with poets of the state in general, it will not be out 
 of place to notice the number of books in verse which have been published 
 by Colorado authors. Aside from the works of Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. 
 McClurg and Mr. Field, which already are familiar to most readers, the 
 others may be named as follows : ' ' King Sham and Other Atrocities in 
 Verse," 1868. Lawrence N. Greenleaf ; ''Black Mammy and Other Poems," 
 1885, Will L. Visscher; "Poems," 1885, Jessie A. Cole; "Immortalles,' r 
 1887, Cora M. A. Davis; "Letters from Colorado," 1887, H. L. Wason; 
 "Star Dust," 1888, Fannie Isabel Sherrick; "Crude Ore from the Rocky 
 Mountains," 1889, 8. J. De Lan; "Young Konkaput, King of the Utes" 
 and "Occasional Poems," 1889, Thomas Nelson Haskell: "The Cowboy 
 Po8," 1890, "Sam" Brown; "Pictures and Poems of the Pike's Peak 
 Region," 1891, J. Ernest Whitney: " Women of the Bible." 1892, Thomas 
 Nelson Haskell ; " Sweet Summer Land," 1892, Florence Watson ; "Dixie 
 Poems," 1893, Orie Bower; "Mountain Melodies," 189-, Cy Warman. 
 The list is probably incomplete aside from its ommission of dramas and 
 numerous poems published singly in pamphlet form. 
 
 In our undertaking we have had the kind assistance of many of our 
 poets in furnishing, or directing us to their writings. The books of Colorado 
 poetry, already referred to, have been examined: literary journals and 
 magazines, local and national, have been scanned, and the arduous work 
 of searching through the files of the daily papers was not slighted as being 
 useless. The mass of material to be passed upon was very great ; but we 
 believe no poetical writer of special merit has been overlooked. 
 
 As the work progressed it became evident that some biographical 
 notice of the more prominent poets would be a desirable addition to the 
 
 VIII
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 volume. Accordingly there were prepared short sketches of all, excepting 
 those included in the division of Miscellaneous and Anonymous Poems. 
 These sketches will be found at the end of the volume. 
 
 We take pleasure in acknowledging obligations to those of our poets 
 who have cheerfully granted us the free use of their copyrighted works, 
 and to all others for assistance and the good natured acceptance of our 
 judgment and reliance on our fairness; also to many kind friends out 
 side the group of authors, for favors in connection with the enterprise. 
 
 To Messrs. Roberts Bros., of Boston, for permission to use selections 
 from Mrs. Jackson's works; to the publishers of the Century Magazine tor 
 the use of two of Mrs. McClurg's sonnets and Mr. Whitney's beautiful 
 chant royal, ' % The Glory of the Year;" to LippincoW s Magazine for 
 poems of Miss Paden ; to the Cosmopolitan for those of Mrs. McClurg and 
 Mr. Allen, quoted from that magazine, our sincere thanks are due ; also 
 to Mr. H. W. Comstock, founder of the Commonwealth ; to Mr. S. K. Hooper, 
 publisher of " Rhymes of the Rockies." and to the Great Divide, for the 
 privilege of many selections. We are indebted to Mr. F. S. Thayer for 
 the portrait of Mrs. Jackson, and also to McClure's Magazine for that 
 of Mr. Warman. We have aimed to give proper credit in our table 
 of contents, for all copyrighted matter, and if this has not been done in 
 any case, it has been through oversight or failure to discover the rightful 
 proprietor. 
 
 Having referred to so many who have lent aid, it is only fair to exon 
 erate them from all responsibility for the errors which doubtless, in spite 
 of the greatest care, have crept in. It is a pleasure to believe, notwith 
 standing our own shortcomings, that the charm of so many of the poems 
 will endear the volume to a large number of readers. As citizens cherish 
 ing a certain state pride, we may express the hope that the work will help 
 toward a fuller appreciation of the literary attainments of our people. 
 
 FRANCIS S. KINDER, 
 F. CLARENCE SPENCER. 
 
 IX
 
 Evening with Colombo (poets
 
 Ibelcn 1bunt 
 
 RETURN TO THE HILLS. 
 
 Like a music of triumph and joy 
 
 Sounds the roll of the wheels, 
 And the breath of the engine laughs out 
 
 In loud chuckles and peals, 
 Like the laugh of a man that is glad 
 
 Coming homeward at night; 
 I lean out of the window and nod 
 
 To the left and the right, 
 To my friends in the fields and the woods; 
 
 Not a face do I miss; 
 The sweet asters and browned golden-rod, 
 
 And that stray clematis, 
 Of all vagabonds dearest and best, 
 
 In most seedy estate; 
 I am sure they all recognize me; 
 
 If I only coxild wait, 
 I should hear all the welcome which now 
 
 In their faces I read, 
 "O true lover of us and our kin, 
 
 We all bid thee God speed !" 
 
 O my mountains, no wisdom can teach 
 
 Me to think that ye care 
 Nothing more for my steps than the rest; 
 
 Or that they can have share
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Such as mine in your royal crown-lands, 
 
 Unencumbered of fee; 
 In your temples with altars unhewn, 
 
 Where redemption is free; 
 In your houses of treasure, which gold 
 
 Cannot buy if it seeks; 
 And your oracles, mystic with words, 
 
 Which men lose if they speak ! 
 
 Ah ! with boldness of lovers who wed 
 
 I make haste to your feet, 
 And as constant as lovers who die, 
 
 My surrender repeat; 
 And 1 take as the right of my love, 
 
 And I keep as its sign, 
 An ineffable joy in each sense 
 
 And new strength as from wine, 
 A seal for all purpose and hope, 
 
 And a pledge of full light, 
 Like a pillar of cloud for my day. 
 
 And of fire for my night. 
 
 BEST. 
 
 Mother, I see you, with your nursery light, 
 Leading your babies, all in white, 
 
 To their sweet rest; 
 Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night, 
 
 And that is best.
 
 HELEN HUNT JA CKSON. 
 
 I can not help tears, when I see them twine 
 Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine 
 
 On your warm breast; 
 But the Savior's is purer than yours or mine, 
 
 He can love best ! 
 
 You tremble each hour because your arms 
 Are weak; your heart is wrung with alarms 
 
 And sore opprest; 
 My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms, 
 
 And that is best. 
 
 You know, over yours may hang even now 
 Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow 
 
 Naught can arrest; 
 Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 
 
 And that is best. 
 
 You know that of yours, your feeblest one 
 And dearest may live long years alone, 
 
 Unloved, unblest; 
 Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne, 
 
 And that is best. 
 
 You must dread for yours the crime that sears. 
 Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears, 
 
 And un confessed; 
 Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 
 
 O, how much the best !
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 But grief is selfish; I cannot see 
 Always why I should so stricken be, 
 
 More than the rest: 
 But I know that, as well as for them, for me 
 
 God did the best ! 
 
 "NOT AS I WILL." 
 
 Blindfolded and alone I stand 
 With unknown thresholds on each hand; 
 The darkness deepens as 1 grope, 
 Afraid to fear, afraid to hope; 
 Yet this one thing I learn to know 
 Each day more surely as I go, 
 That doors are opened, ways are made, 
 Burdens are lifted or are laid, 
 By some great law unseen and still, 
 Unfathomed purpose to fulfill. 
 "Not as I will." 
 
 Blindfolded and alone I wait; 
 Loss seems too bitter, gain too late; 
 Too heavy burdens in the load 
 And too few helpers on the road; 
 And joy is weak and grief is strong. 
 And years and days so long, so long. 
 Yet this one thing I learn to know 
 Each day more surely as I go, 
 That I am glad the good and ill 
 By changeless law are ordered still. 
 "Not as I will."
 
 HELEN HUNT JA CKSON. 
 
 "Not as I will:" the sound grows sweet 
 Each time my lips the words repeat. 
 ''Not as I will:" the darkness feels 
 More safe than light when this thought steals 
 Like whispered voice to calm and bless 
 All unrest and all loneliness. 
 "Not as I will," because the One 
 Who loved us first and best has gone 
 Before us on the road, and still 
 For us must all his love fulfil, 
 "Not as I will." 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 messenger, art thou the king, or I? 
 Thou dalliest outside the palace gate 
 Till on thine idle armor lie the the late 
 
 And heavy dews: the morn's bright, scornful eye 
 
 Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery, 
 
 Thou smilest at the window where I wait, 
 
 Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state 
 
 My days go on, while false hours prophesy 
 
 Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair, 
 
 1 cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air; 
 When lp, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, 
 And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet 
 Ah ! messenger, thy royal blood to buy, 
 
 I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 MY STRAWBERRY. 
 
 marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause 
 To reckon thee. I ask what cause 
 Set free so much of red from heats 
 
 At core of earth, and mixed such sweets 
 With sour and spice; what was that strength 
 Which out of darkness, length by length, 
 Spun all thy shining thread of vine, 
 Netting the fields in bond as thine. 
 
 1 see thy tendrils drink by sips 
 From grass and clover's smiling lips; 
 I hear thy roots dig down for wells, 
 Tapping the meadow's hidden cells; 
 Whole generations of green things, 
 Descended from long lines of springs, 
 I see make room for thee to bide 
 
 A quiet comrade by their side: 
 I see the creeping peoples go 
 iuysterious journeys to and fro, 
 Treading to right and left of thee, 
 Doing thee homage wouderingly. 
 I see the wild bees, as they fare, 
 Thy cups of honey drink, but spare. 
 I mark thee bathe and bathe again 
 In sweet uncalendared spring rain. 
 I watch how all May has of sun 
 Makes haste to have thy ripeness done, 
 While all her nights let dews escape 
 To set and cool thy perfect shape. 
 
 8
 
 HELEN HUNT JA CKSON. 
 
 Ah, fruit of fruits, no more 1 pause 
 To dream and seek thy hidden laws ! 
 I stretch my hand and dare to taste, 
 In instant of delicious waste 
 On single feast, all things that went 
 To make the empire thou hast spent. 
 
 LAST WOKDS. 
 
 Dear hearts, whose love has been so sweet to know, 
 
 That I am looking backward as I go, 
 
 Ain lingering while I haste, and in this rain 
 
 Of tears of joy am mingling tears of pain; 
 
 Do not adorn with costly shrub, or tree, 
 
 Or flower, the little grave which shelters me. 
 
 Let the wild wind -sown seeds grow up unharmed, 
 
 And back and forth all summer, unalarmed, 
 
 Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep; 
 
 Let the sweet grass its last year's tangles keep; 
 
 And when, remembering me, you come some day 
 
 And stand there, speak no praise, but only say, 
 
 "How she loved us ! 'Twas that which made her dear!' 
 
 Those are the words that I shall joy to hear. 
 
 HABEAS CORPUS. 
 
 My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? 
 
 Why all this tedious pomp of writ? 
 Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow 
 
 For half a century bit by bit.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 In faith thou knowest more to-day 
 Than I do, where it can be found ! 
 
 This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, 
 To which I now ain chained and bound, 
 
 Has not of kith or kin a trace 
 
 To the good body once I bore; 
 Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: 
 
 Didst ever see that face before? 
 
 Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; 
 
 Thy only fault thy lagging gait, 
 Mistaken pity in thy heart 
 
 For timorous ones that bid thee wait. 
 
 Do quickly all thou hast to do., 
 Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; 
 
 I shall be free when thou are through; 
 I grudge thee nought that thou must take ! 
 
 Stay ! I have lied; I grudge thee one, 
 
 Yes, two I grudge thee at this last- 
 Two members which have faithful done 
 My will and bidding in the past. 
 
 I grudge thee this right hand of mine; 
 
 I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; 
 They never gave me coward sign. 
 
 Nor played me once a traitor's part. 
 
 I see now why in olden days 
 
 Men in barbaric love or hate 
 Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways, 
 
 Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state. 
 
 10
 
 HELEN HUNT JA CKSON. 
 
 The symbol, sign and instrument 
 Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, 
 
 Of fires in which are poured and spent 
 Their all of love, their all of life. 
 
 O feeble, mighty human hand ! 
 
 fragile, dauntless human heart ! 
 The universe holds nothing planned 
 
 With such sublime, transcendent art ! 
 
 Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine- 
 Poor little hand, so feeble now; 
 
 Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, 
 Its veins so pallid and so' slow 
 
 * * * * (Unfinished here.} 
 
 Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; 
 
 1 shall be free when thou are through. 
 Take all there is take hand and heart; 
 
 There must be somewhere work to do.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Dircjtnia Donagbe 
 
 COLORADO. 
 
 "Colored Land !" beneath a turquoise sky, 
 Sun-kissed from dazzling peaks to opal plains, 
 What pulses throb within thy silver veins, 
 What forces strove in thee for mastery ! 
 The Manitou here dwelt in days gone by 
 In crystal springs, to cleanse all mortal stains; 
 Here the swart Spaniard strove for golden gains; 
 Lone hunters saw thy virgin purity. 
 Now plenty's garners gild the quiet fields, 
 And marts are swayed by olive-seep tered peace; 
 To mighty multitudes her wealth she yields, 
 As shifting seasons pass and years increase; 
 For fair "Columbia," bending towards the west, 
 Now wears this crimson rose upon her breast. 
 
 INTO THE VALLEY, OVER THE RANGE. 
 
 Into the valley, over the range, the pioneer must go, 
 Where the dark pines moan a requiem mass, o'er the spotless 
 
 lands of snow, 
 And hearth-fires bright, and the true love-light, lie far on the 
 
 plains below.
 
 VIRGINIA DONAGHE McCLURG. 
 
 Into the valley, over the range, I cannot see my way, 
 
 For the mists cling thick to the stony steeps, ere the breaking 
 
 of the day; 
 Faint voices cry, and pale ghosts glide by, till I scarcely dare 
 
 to pray. 
 
 Into the valley, over the range, we went, my wife and I, 
 
 For a home upon the fair green earth, arched o'er by the clear 
 
 blue sky, 
 When life was new, and hearts were true, in the days that 
 
 are long gone by. 
 
 Into the valley, over the range, there came our angel child; 
 He brightened the homely cabin with his presence undented, 
 And work was rest, and we were blest for his sunny face 
 that smiled. 
 
 Out from the valley, over the range, they wandered, and 
 
 were gone 
 
 Mother and child together and I was left alone 
 Beneath the sky, so fair and high, where they could not hear 
 
 me moan! 
 
 In the heart of the valley, over the range, my friends, you'll 
 
 find a claim, 
 A shining lode of pure pay-rock 'twas staked in the dead 
 
 boy's name: 
 Yours is the dross, w r hen I pass across, to use without stint 
 
 or blame. 
 
 Into the valley, over the range, dim grow my fading eyes, 
 Yet see the shining bulwarks of the range everlasting rise, 
 The valley is fair and two wait me there my guides to par 
 adise ! 
 
 13
 
 EVEIW'GS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 COLORADO ANEMONES. 
 
 (The leaf of the Anemone does not appear till the blossoms have withered.) 
 
 Yes ! it is just a year ago, 
 
 I watched these fragile blossoms grow; 
 
 The soft grey buds in silkeu sheath, 
 
 Their tender petals hid beneath, 
 
 Broke from the earth, where darkness reigns, 
 
 To nestle on these western plains. 
 
 And then pale, lilac stars unrolled 
 
 Their royal-hearted wealth of gold; 
 
 But when the sunny summer tide 
 
 Came in its glow the flowers died ! 
 
 Yet where their shrivelled stems had been. 
 
 Grew clustered leaves of glossy green. 
 
 A resurrection crown was laid 
 
 On that dark grave where flowers fade. 
 
 Yes, it was just one year ago, 
 I watched another flower grow 
 A flower of love that, fair and sweet, 
 Bloomed at the spot where two ways meet; 
 But, when the future opened wide, 
 And promised fair, that blossom died. 
 Yet whisper, flowers, softly tell 
 You who know nature's secrets well 
 If, from that dead and silent past, 
 A friendship shall not rise at last, 
 Which, ever green through coining years. 
 Shall recompense for toil and tears? 
 I know not. Wait for fate's decrees, 
 But hope; I hope, anemones! 
 
 '4
 
 VIRGINIA DONAGHE McCLURG. 
 
 A HEART OF GOLD. 
 
 ( Rondeau. ) 
 
 (TO MARGARET H. D. H., WITH A SOUVENIR SPOON, 
 A GOLD HEART WITH DAISIES.) 
 
 A heart oj gold the daisy shows, 
 As summer winds blow down the close. 
 Each slim white petal's starry ray 
 Shrinks from the royal disk away, 
 Its golden glory to disclose. 
 
 My Marguerite, her lover knows, 
 Is like the fairest flower that blows 
 Hers (like the daisy's in the May) 
 A heart of gold. 
 
 Thus, in a world so full of woes, 
 
 Of faithless friends and fatal foes, 
 
 Where flowers fade, and Mays betray, 
 Her royal truth is strength and stay 
 
 White shrine ! where rests in pure repose, 
 A heart of gold. 
 
 EASTER CHIMES. 
 San Juan Capistrano. (California.) 
 
 In the church of Capistrano, tarnished, voiceless, 
 In their old adobe arches swing the bells; 
 
 Along ancient aisles the ghostly years slip, noiseless, 
 By void altars where no prayer or psalm e'er swells. 
 
 15
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Fervent Fathers, iu the. days now long forgotten, 
 To the docile, soft-eyed children of the sun, 
 
 When the almond and the vine began to blossom, 
 Told of Death deep-buried, and Life's victory woii. 
 
 And the bells of Capistrano chimed out, joyous, 
 Solemn-deep and sweetly clear on Easter morn, 
 
 Priest and people swelled the resurrection chorus, 
 "Christ is risen and the spring-time now is born !" 
 
 "Padres" "penitentes" sleep within the Mission, 
 Girt about by cactus with its guardian thorn 
 
 Chimes, in echo, peal beyond long years' demission, 
 "Christ is risen and the spring-time now is born!" 
 
 HELEN HUNT'S GRAVE. 
 
 God, for the man who knew Him fa^e to face 
 Prepared a grave apart, a tomb unknown, 
 Where dews drop tears, and only winds make moan, 
 
 And white archangels guard the narrow space. 
 
 God gives to His beloved sleep; the pl:i<-<> 
 
 Where His seer slept was set remote, for rest, 
 After the forty years of desert quest, 
 
 The Sinai terrors, and the Pisgah grace. 
 
 So, clear-eyed priestess, sleep ! remembering not 
 The fiery scathe of life, nor trackless years; 
 
 Not even Canaan's sun-kissed, flowery meads. 
 
 God shields, within His hollowed hand, the spot 
 Where brooding peace rebukes unquiet tears. 
 
 She sleepeth well who hath wrought such noble deeds! 
 
 16
 
 VIRGINIA DONAGHE McCLURG.
 
 VIRGINIA DONAGHE McCLURG. 
 
 THE QUESTIONER OF THE SPHINX. 
 
 Behold me! with swift foot across the land, 
 Where desert winds are sleeping, I am come 
 To wrest a secret from thee; O thou, dumb, 
 
 And careless of my puny lips' command. 
 
 Cold orbs ! mine eyes a weary world have scanned. 
 Slow ear ! in mine rings ever a vexed hum 
 Of sobs and strife. Of joy, mine earthly sum 
 
 Is buried as thy form in burning sand. 
 
 The wisdom of the ages thou hast heard; 
 
 The circling courses of the stars hast known. 
 
 Awake ! Thrill ! By my feverish presence stirred, 
 Open thy lips to still my human moan, 
 
 Breathe forth one glorious and mysterious word, 
 
 Though I should stand, in turn, transfixed, a stone ! 
 
 INAUGURAL VERSES FOR THE WOMAN'S 
 CLUB, OF DENVER 1894. 
 
 PART I. CREATION. 
 
 O, the glory and the gleaming, of that early, primal, morning, 
 When from out dim depths of chaos rose the radiant, new-born 
 
 earth, 
 With the sun's gold shield on azure blazoned on the sky at 
 
 dawning, 
 And the unbreathed air repeating the soft secrets of its birth. 
 
 17
 
 EVE. \I.\GS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 II. 
 
 Verdant freshness of the verdure where wild creatures roam 
 
 at pleasure, 
 
 Bird and insect winging upward, in air spaces clear and free 
 And the fishes, skimming, darting, where the deep reveals its 
 
 treasure 
 Beryl foam-crests curling over depths of crystal-hearted sea ! 
 
 III. 
 
 In that garden, east in Eden, god-like man, of all the centre, 
 In his kingdom-world exulted, with strong heartleaps, and was 
 
 glad- 
 But when evening stars shine trembling, and the falling shad 
 ows enter, 
 And the pale moon rides in heaven, wistful yearns he, and is sad. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Best of all the gifts from heaven, then she came, God-given 
 
 Woman, 
 
 With the Eden roses blushing at the passing of her feet, 
 Queenly-statured, angel-featured, and her eyes so tender, 
 
 human, 
 That strong man long therein gazing, found his rounded world 
 
 complete. 
 
 18
 
 VIRGINIA DON AC HE McCLURG. 
 
 V. 
 
 Iii that green arid glorious garden, she was queen of all the 
 
 splendour; 
 
 Of the flowers and the fruitage, blissful blooms of Paradise ! 
 Then among the thorns and thistles, she, in sadness of 
 
 surrender, 
 Wandering, sin-barred, saw before her, angel-guarded portals 
 
 rise. 
 
 VI. 
 
 So, the old, oiu world has k-nown her; now in joy, and now in 
 sorrow, 
 
 Since that archetypal morning, when all living things had birth; 
 
 And strong man her presence blesses, with each varying to 
 morrow, 
 
 He still finds, through time's mutations, Woman, God's best gift 
 to Earth ! 
 
 PART II. LIFE. 
 
 I. HOME. 
 
 With the bright hearth fires burning, and the love-light never 
 
 failing, 
 Birth and death are mysteries holy, and serene peace-angels 
 
 come; 
 Joy and duty guard the threshold, whence rude cares shrink 
 
 unassailing, 
 When the gentle woman presence makes the sunshine of the 
 
 Home. 
 
 19
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 II. EDUCATION. 
 
 Who shall educate the children, train and tune melodious voices, 
 
 In the swelling diapason of the beautiful and true? 
 
 Here the woman's hands are busy, all the while her heart 
 
 rejoices, 
 As she rears that noble temple whence the wakened soul 
 
 looks through. 
 
 III. PHILANTHROPY. 
 
 To the sorrowing and suffering, giving in unstinted measure, 
 Of the care that never faileth in the wisdom of its plan; 
 Lady Bountiful is standing, with the largess of her treasure, 
 Pulses chiming with the heavenly heart of Love that beats 
 for Man! 
 
 IV. ART AND LITERATURE. 
 
 Art has caught the fleeting rainbow, set the colors of its glory 
 Far adown the pictured vistas where stand statues fair and cold; 
 And soft strains of music breathing, through the realm of 
 
 Song and Story, 
 Charm fair woman as she wanders midst Ideals manifold. 
 
 V. REFORM. 
 
 For the battle that needs fighting; for the wrong that wants 
 
 the righting; 
 Where the shams and sins are surging in the stress and In 
 
 the storm; 
 
 20
 
 VIRGINIA DONAGHE McCLURG. 
 
 White-armed woman holds her torch-flame toward the Dark 
 ened that lack lighting, 
 
 And triumphant thrills her war-cry "Justice ! Honour ! and 
 Reform !" 
 
 VI. SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 O, to learn the mighty secrets of the knowing and the being, 
 From the shimmering, sparkling star-dust, to the crumbling 
 
 of the clod ! 
 Heights of Science and of Wisdom, where stands Woman rapt, 
 
 and seeing, 
 All the schemes of spheres revolving round the central throne 
 
 of God! 
 
 L' ENVOI. 
 I. 
 
 Virgin plains of Colorado, mountain silences unbroken 
 
 Lie before queen-regnant Woman, as she westward takes her 
 
 way. 
 
 While -the sunset's benediction gilds her pathway as a token, 
 That New West, like old world's dawning, bows before her 
 
 sovereign sway. 
 
 II. 
 
 O, my sisters, for the harvest lo ! a thousand fields lie 
 whitening; 
 
 And the bands of faithful reapers span the great earth's giant 
 girth. 
 
 Hands and hearts we join the number, till th' Eternal Morn 
 ing brightening, 
 
 Higher voices hail with paeans Woman ! God's best gift to 
 Earth !
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 THE LIFE MASK. 
 
 Lo ! one wayfaring on a devious track, 
 
 The while a changeful mask concealed his face- 
 Sometimes it smiled with all compelling grace, 
 Or lowered with a frown of thunderous black, 
 Was flushed with hope, or lingeringly looked back. 
 But none beneath that plastic mask could trace 
 The truthful features of the traveller's face- 
 Know if his soul were fed or suffered lack. 
 
 One day men found liim wrapt in pale repose; 
 His face, before unseen, effulged with light, 
 
 And flxed eyes with a deep gladness rife, 
 As his, who sees at length the way he goes- 
 Dead brow upturned to tlfc red Kast, dawu-bright- 
 A shattered mask beside, that had been life.
 
 j. ERNEST WHITNEY. 
 
 3. Ernest 
 
 THE GLORY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 When Spring came softly breathing o'er the land, 
 With warmer sunshine and sweet April shower; 
 
 Bidding the silken willow leaves expand; 
 Calling to hill and meadow, bee and flower, 
 
 Bright with new life and beauty; on light wing 
 
 Bringing the birds again to love and sing; 
 And waking in the heart its joy amain, 
 With old fond hopes and memories in its train; 
 
 Childishly glad mid universal cheer, 
 How oft we sang the half-forgotten strain: 
 
 "Now we behold the glory of the year !" 
 
 When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned, 
 
 With footstep free and proud in restless power. 
 With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned, 
 
 In blooming loveliness came to her bower, 
 Her golden tresses loosely wandering 
 In wild "luxuriance. then pretty Spring 
 
 Seemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain. 
 
 How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign ! 
 How day by day our empress grew more dear ! 
 
 "Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain? 
 Now we behold the glory of the year !" 
 
 23
 
 E VENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous hand 
 Poured round our feet the riches of her dower: 
 
 The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland, 
 The largess free to gleaner and to plower, 
 
 And all the Summer sought in vain to bring; 
 
 When stood the hills in glorious garmenting; 
 Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain, 
 No more could our ennobled thoughts sustain 
 
 Regretful memory of Summer sere, 
 "What of the past !" we cried in quick disdain; 
 
 11 Now we behold the glory of the year !" 
 
 Then before mighty Winter, stern and grand, 
 We saw defenseless Autumn shivering, cower, 
 
 Changed to Duessa by his potent wand, 
 Shorn of her loveliness, in Fortune's lower 
 
 Naked for Winter's scourge to smite and sting. 
 
 How godlike came the world's new sceptered King ! 
 He fettered fast her torrents with his chain, 
 Bound with his manacles the moaning main, 
 
 Yea, wrought his will with all things far and near. 
 "At last," we said, "what more can Time attain? 
 
 Now .we behold the glory of the year !" 
 
 Neglected Spring, despised, insulted, banned ! 
 
 Poor weakling ! came again one April hour, 
 The tyrant struck his tent at her command; 
 
 She laughed, down tumbling fell his frosty tower; 
 At one light finger-touch his captives fling 
 Their shackles off and make the valleys ring 
 
 With praises to the conqueror of pain. 
 
 24
 
 J. ERNEST WHITNEY.
 
 J. ERNEST WHITNEY. 
 
 All the lost lives that languishing have lain, 
 Leaves, grasses, buds, and birds again appear, 
 
 "O now !" we cried again and yet again, 
 "Now we behold the glory of the year !" 
 
 Prince, while Spring sports with sunbeam, flower, and 
 
 rain, 
 
 While wanton Summer riots on the plain, 
 'Neath Autumn's calm, or Winter's frown severe, 
 Change only clearer chants the old refrain, 
 "Now we behold the glory of the year !" 
 
 PIKE'S PEAK. 
 
 Lone, hoary monarch of the Titan peaks, 
 Offspring of heaven and earth in planet jars, 
 Bare-bodied savage, grim with unhealed scars, 
 To thy wild band thy voice in thunder speaks; 
 
 Thy sword stroke is the avalanche that wreaks 
 Quick vengeance on thy kneeling victim. Wars 
 Come but to yield thee homage, and the stars 
 Visit thee nightly, yet thy long gaze seeks 
 
 Unsatisfied the playmate of thy prime 
 O longing like to mine ! that goddess bright, 
 The ocean stream. O deep embrace ! that time 
 
 Forgets not, ere stern gods beyond thy sight 
 
 Her dungeons sunk. Thy memory that; thy hope 
 
 This ocean-seeking stream that cheers thy slope. 
 
 25
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 ASLEEP. 
 
 When nrst we beard in early spring 
 The tender, plaintive bluebird sing, 
 She fell asleep while listening. 
 
 A slumber dreamless, calm, and deep, 
 O'er all her senses seemed to creep. 
 Day 'after day she holds her sleep. 
 
 We laid her, for her restful hours, 
 
 Within the fairest of her bowers 
 
 Where brightest grew her chosen flowers. 
 
 The green grass o'er her threw his cloak, 
 Above her bed the crocus woke, 
 A hundred buds in blossom broke. 
 
 The little birds she loved so well 
 Sing softer for a peaceful spell 
 That round her pillow seems to dwell. 
 
 Soft summer breezes murmur' nigh, 
 The crickets chirp there drowsily, 
 All Nature sings her lullaby. 
 
 Her slumber is too sweet to break. 
 She cannot know life's wrong and ache, 
 And yet O would that she could wake ! 
 
 26
 
 J. ERNEST WHITNEY. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE LARK. 
 
 When the fairies are all for their dances drest, 
 
 When day's discords in the distance fail, 
 When the robin and- wren are asleep in the nest, 
 
 Then list to the note of the nightingale ! 
 
 But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale, 
 When star-tires are fading spark by spark, 
 
 And the little birds all the dawning hail, 
 O hark to the song of the merry lark ! 
 
 When over the hills the silver crest 
 
 Is pouring enchantment on mere and vale, 
 And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest, 
 
 Then list to the note of the nightingale ! 
 
 But when the bright sun dight iii golden mail 
 Flames over the tree tops in the park, 
 
 And the world goes again on its busy trail, 
 O hark to the song of the merry lark ! 
 
 When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast, 
 
 And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale, 
 As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed, 
 
 Then list to the note of the nightingale ! 
 
 But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale, 
 And Phillis is met where no one may mark, 
 
 And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale, 
 O hark to the song of the merry lark ! 
 
 ENVOI. 
 If II Penseroso's mood prevail. 
 
 Then list to the note of the nightingale ! 
 But whenever L' Allegro woos. then hark. 
 
 O hark to the song of the merry lark ! 
 
 27
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 COLORADO. 
 
 Land of the undimmed heaven ! where the earth 
 Hath reared her noblest altar to the sun, 
 A continent its basis, and when done 
 Gapt with the navel of creation's birth. 
 
 Here the new light first burst the world-cloud's girth; 
 Here through the sky a bluer woof is spun; 
 A kindlier heat is from the day-god won, 
 Danae's boon freed from its curse of dearth. 
 
 The land of beauty and sublimity, 
 
 The land of color, the world's wonderland; 
 
 Earth's teeming mint where orient ores expand; 
 
 The haunted home of ancient mystery; 
 
 And in this world of death, disease, and strife, 
 
 The one true home of peace and hope and life. 
 
 GATEWAY OF THE GARDEN OF THE GODS. 
 
 'TIs the gate of the mountains, the gate to the plains, 
 The gate to a world of new, unknown domains; 
 And the hosts of the east throng through it, wide ope, 
 For they read on its portals "The haven of hope." 
 
 'Twas the gate of the dawn of the first morning bright, 
 And still feels the glow of creation's new light. 
 Wide swung on the marge of the sea and the land, 
 Through it crawled the monsters that haunted the strand 
 
 28
 
 J. ERNEST WHITNEY. 
 
 In primeval ages. Its threshold was worn 
 By life's long processions while Eden, forlorn, 
 Still waited life's promises. Under its arch 
 Passed race after race in humanity's march 
 
 When the bound of the west, to the mind of the east, 
 Was the gate where Alcides his wandering ceased. 
 What wonder the poet who under it trod 
 Deemed he walked through the gate of the garden of God. 
 
 For it rose in a glory of transcendent gleams 
 Like the vision which shone on the prophet in dreams; 
 And he saw through its portals, through vistas sublime, 
 The wonders God works in earth's happiest clime. 
 
 THE MOURNERS ON CHEYENNE. 
 
 (AT THE GRAVE OF H H.) 
 
 There Summer cometh, shuddering at death, 
 Bowing her regal beauty in her dread 
 
 Long bitterness of loss, and scattereth 
 
 Dust, dust and bitter ashes o'er the dead. 
 
 There sobered Autumn in funereal weed, 
 
 With locks dishevelled, leaves her ripest sheaf. 
 
 And while low winds a solemn requiem lead, 
 
 She, lingering, weeps her fill of wasting grief. 
 
 And Winter, from the battle fields of storm, 
 
 Scarred, worn, and woe-racked, yearly bringeth there 
 
 His calm white shroud, to spread above that form, 
 Keeping unjarred the peace he cannot share. 
 
 29
 
 WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 And Spring, with dew-bright eyes gladdened with hope, 
 Brings hither all the first flowers of the lea; 
 
 And while with brow toward heaven her eye-lids ope, 
 She softly whispers "Immortality !" 
 
 IN MONUMENT PARK. 
 
 v 
 
 Read the story of the stones ! 
 We are in the house of thrones, 
 On the graves of empires dead 
 When the earth but giants bred, 
 
 And our race of petty men 
 Lived but in the prophet's ken. 
 Crumbled are their palace walls, 
 Roofless lie their empty halls. 
 
 And the pillars stand in vain 
 Bowed beneath their ancient strain. 
 Dust are all the kings to-day 
 Who amid these courts held sway; 
 
 Humbled are the temple gods, 
 And the broken idol nods 
 O'er the altar, bare and cold, 
 Where the victim knelt of old; 
 
 But the groups of regal forms, 
 Changeless through a thousand storms, 
 Mute historians of the past, 
 Tell the ancient tales at last. 
 
 3
 
 /. ERNEST WHITNEY. 
 
 Nay, what grace can artifice 
 Add to such a scene as this ! 
 Then away with fancy's guess ! 
 Better Nature's truthfulness, 
 
 Simple, beautiful, sincere, 
 She hath nobler history here, 
 Eloquent to every heart 
 More than utterance of art. 
 
 Solemn as a chanted hymn 
 In cathedral cloister dim. 
 Even the savage in this dell 
 
 Felt the soul within him swell 
 With the sense of higher things 
 Which the best of nature brings.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Stanley Wooix 
 
 TELLOCHA'S DELIGHT. 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE DAYS OF MONTEZUMA. 
 
 Faint are the flowers, for the sunbeams fall with the 
 flash of a sword, 
 
 Sad are the hearts in Tellocha that mourn for the loss 
 of their lord. 
 
 Fierce in their foray the foe were, swift as the lightning, 
 at night 
 
 Struck they and vanished, but with them vanished Tel 
 locha' s delight 
 
 Brave was the lord of Tellocha, stalwart of soul and of 
 
 limb, 
 Oounciling wise as the serpent, in battle as catamount 
 
 grim; 
 Far to the front was he fighting, leading the van of the 
 
 fight; 
 The foe struck and vanished, but with them vanished Tel- 
 
 locha's delight 
 Loud laughed the foe, for the Chalcas well knew the prize 
 
 they had won; 
 
 Brother to great Montezuma, "Prince of the Land of Sun." 
 Planned they and plotted to win him, proffered him wealth 
 
 and renown, 
 Would he but lead them In battle, tendered him kingdom 
 
 and crown. 
 
 32
 
 STANLEY WOOD. 
 
 Fierce burned the heart of the warrior, serpentwise twisted 
 
 his speech: 
 "Build me a temple whose tower high over ramparts shall 
 
 reach, 
 
 When it is finished and from it gazing, I speak to you all, 
 Then, and not till then, I promise, the pride of Tellocha 
 
 shall fall." 
 
 Gladly the Chalcas obeyed him, builded was temple with 
 
 tower; 
 While it was building Tellocha mustered with purpose and 
 
 power, 
 Camped before Chalco they waited, waited for sign from 
 
 their lord, 
 Waited the sign for the onset, waited with hand upon 
 
 sword. 
 
 Builded the tower and the temple, clad in his armor, the 
 chief 
 
 Stood in the court-yard a moment, bowed was his head as 
 in grief; 
 
 Sternly he spoke to the serried ranks of the Chalcas, "Re 
 call 
 
 The promise I gave you, oh, soldiers ! the pride of Tello 
 cha shall fall." 
 
 Loudly the warriors applauded, clashing their shields with 
 
 their spears, 
 Loudly the war drums re-echoed, proudly re-echoed their 
 
 cheers; 
 
 Slowly the Lord of Tellocha climbs to the uttermost spire, 
 Stands there, the sun on his armor gleaming, a statue of 
 
 fire. 
 
 33
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Stands there a moment suspended between the earth and 
 
 the sky, 
 
 Glances a moment beneath him, glances a moment on high, 
 Then with a shout of defiance, drawing his glittering blade, 
 Flings it far over the ramparts the sign for the onset is 
 
 made. 
 
 "Charge, Oh Tellochas !" he shouted. "Tis I, your chief 
 tain, commands; 
 
 Yonder the wall is the weakest, the fortress I give to your 
 hands." 
 
 Then turning in scorn to the Chalcas: "Cravens, my prom 
 ise recall, 
 
 Sacred my compact, I keep it. the pride of Tellocha shall 
 fall." 
 
 One look to his battling warriors, one prayer to the mon 
 arch of fire, 
 
 One sigh for the life he is leaving, he leaps from the utter 
 most spire. 
 
 He falls as a star from the heavens, his daring the bravest 
 appalls; 
 
 O ! sacred his promise, he keeps it, the pride of Tellocha 
 thus falls. 
 
 Fierce at the sight of his falling, fierce as siroccas' fierce 
 
 breath, 
 The warriors burst into the fortress, the Chalcas are put 
 
 to the death. 
 No stone is left of the city when gathered the shadows 
 
 of night 
 Save the temple, made sacred by sorrow, the tomb of 
 
 Tellocha's delight. 
 
 34
 
 STANLEY WOOD. 
 
 Faint are the flowers, for the sunbeams fall with the flash 
 
 of a sword; 
 Sad are the hearts in Tellocha that inourn for the loss of 
 
 their lord; 
 But bright as the stars which illumine the heavens with 
 
 their splendor at night 
 Shines the fame of the hero whose glory is ever Tellocha's 
 
 delight. 
 
 CHEYENNE CANON. 
 
 Oh, Cheyenne canon ! in thy dim defiles, 
 Where glooms the light, as through cathedral aisles, 
 Where flash and fall bright waters, pure as air, 
 Where wild birds brood, wild blossoms bloom, and where 
 The wind sings anthems through the darkling trees, 
 A presence breathes the tenderest melodies, 
 
 Songs that the finer ears of poets feel 
 But do not hear, ethereal chords that steal 
 Upon the soul, as fragrance of the flowers, 
 Unseen, unknown, from undiscovered bowers, 
 Enwraps the senses with a deep delight, 
 Pure as the stars and tender as the night. 
 
 For here in Nature's arms there lies asleep 
 One who loved Nature with a passion deep, 
 Who knew her language and who read her book, 
 Who sang her music, which the bird, the brook, 
 The winds, the woods, the mountains and the seas 
 Chant ever, in commingling harmonies. 
 
 35
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Oh, Cheyenne cauoii ! through thy dim denies 
 
 The music floats as through cathedral aisles; 
 
 The singer silent, but the song is heard 
 
 In sigh of wind and carolling of bird. 
 
 All these the poet's melodies prolong, 
 
 For Nature now sings o'er her loved one's song. 
 
 DAINTY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Dainty daughter, hail to thee! 
 
 Fair in thy fragility. 
 
 Fair are peach blooms on a spray, 
 
 Fair art thou, as fair as they, 
 
 While the pink of yonder shell 
 
 Mantles in thy cheek as well. 
 
 Sea-waves have an azure hue, 
 
 Eyes hast thou as sea- waves blue; 
 
 Soft thy hair as thistle-down, 
 
 As the comely chestnut brown. 
 
 All thy motions wild and free 
 
 As the wild waves of the sea 
 
 Of the sea whose tossing waves 
 
 Ploughed like furrows, heaped like graves, 
 
 Cast upon the waiting shore 
 
 Sea-drift now and ever more. 
 
 'Tis not long since thou didst reach 
 Earth's rock-bound and hostile beach. 
 Thou must still remember well 
 How the billows rose and fell 
 On the shore, beyond the sea 
 Whence thou comest weepingly. 
 
 36
 
 STANLEY WOOD. 
 
 Didst thou weep to find the earth 
 Cold, and hard and little worth? 
 Like some wanderer in a town 
 When the shadows hover down, 
 When the lamp-lights glimmer white 
 Blooming lilies of the night 
 And the myriad-peopled street 
 Echoes with the sullen beat 
 Of the restless tramping feet; 
 
 Didst thou find thyself alone? 
 Couldst thou catch no kindred tone? 
 Like this wand'rer as he stands 
 On the shore with folded hands, 
 Moistened eye and saddened lip. 
 Stands to watch the stately ship 
 Dropping down into the night; 
 Ship, that sailing down the bay, 
 Bears his only friend away, 
 While behind him roars the town 
 As the gloaming settles down; 
 Like this wand'rer couldst thou find 
 Ne'er a friend in human kind? 
 
 Thou hast sailed the clouded sea 
 Of the unknown, can it be 
 That blown outward by the gale, 
 Thou hast seen some foreign sail 
 From this cold, sad world of ours, 
 Sailing to the Land of Flowers? 
 Didst thou speak the ghostly barque 
 As thou sailedst through the dark, 
 
 37
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Asking news of that strange shore 
 Earth, thy spirit's labrador? 
 Didst thou catch the answering hail, 
 Warning thee of woe and bale- 
 Warning thee of rock and shoal 
 That awaits the untried soul? 
 Vain the question, do not I 
 Know thou canst not make reply? 
 
 Thy sweet lips a rosebud each 
 Have not bloomed in rose of speech; 
 And when thou hast learned the tone 
 Of this world, this world alone, 
 Wilt engage thy spirit, then 
 Thou wilt speak the speech of men. 
 But couldst thou in angel tongue 
 Tell me what the boatman sung. 
 Voyaging through the vast profound, 
 Happy sailors, homeward bound 
 From this cold, sad world of ours, 
 Sailing to the Land of Flowers, 
 Tell me of the golden street 
 Trod by white angelic feet, 
 Tell me of the brightest gem 
 In the new Jerusalem, 
 Thou couldst never dearer be; 
 Dainty daughter, hail to thee!
 
 STANLEY WOOD. 
 
 HOMES OF THE CLIFF-DWELLERS. 
 
 Headlands of Hoven-Weep. 
 
 In the sad Southwest, in the mystical Sunland, 
 
 Far from the toil and the turmoil of gain; 
 Hid in the heart of the only the one land 
 
 Beloved of the Sun, and bereft of the rain; 
 The one weird land where the wild winds blowing, 
 
 Sweep with a wail o'er the plains of the dead, 
 A ruin ancient beyond all knowing, 
 
 Rears its head. 
 
 On the* canon's side, in the ample hollow, 
 
 That the keen winds carved in ages past, 
 The Castle walls, like the nest of a swallow, 
 
 Have clung and have crumbled to this at last. 
 The ages since man's foot has rested 
 
 Within these walls, no man may know; 
 I For here the fierce grey eagle nested 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Above those walls the crags lean over, 
 
 Below, they dip to the river's bed; 
 
 Between, fierce- winged creatures hover; 
 
 Beyond, the plain's wild waste is spread. 
 No foot has climbed the pathway dizzy, 
 
 That crawls away from the blasted heath, 
 Since last it felt the ever busy 
 
 Foot of Death. 
 
 39
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS 
 
 In that haunted castle it must be haunted, 
 
 For rnen have lived here, and men have died, 
 And maidens loved, and lovers daunted, 
 
 Have hoped and feared, have laughed and sighed- 
 In that haunted Castle the dust lias drifted, 
 But the eagles only may hope to see 
 What shattered Shrines and what Altars rifted, 
 There may be. 
 
 The white, bright rays of the sunbeam sought it; 
 
 The cold, clear light of the moon fell here; 
 The west wind sighed, and the south wind brought it 
 
 Songs of Summer year after year. 
 Runes of Summer, but mute aiid runeless, 
 
 The Castle stood; no voice was heard, 
 Save the harsh, discordant, wild and tuneless 
 
 Cry of bird. 
 
 The spring rains poured, and the torrent rifted 
 
 A deeper way the foam-flakes fell, 
 Held for a moment poised and lifted, 
 
 Down to a fiercer whirlpool's hell. 
 On the Castle tower no guard, in wonder, 
 
 Paused in his marching to and fro, 
 For on the turret the mighty thunder 
 Found no foe. 
 
 No voice of Spring no Summer glories 
 May wake the warders from their sleep, 
 
 Their graves are made by the sad Dolores, 
 And the barren headlands of Hoven-weep. 
 
 40
 
 STANLEY WOOD. 
 
 Their graves are nameless their race forgotten. 
 Their deeds, their words, their fate, are one 
 
 With the mist, long ages past begotten, 
 Of the Sun. 
 
 Those castled cliffs they made their dwelling; 
 
 They lived and loved, they fought and fell; 
 No faint, far voice comes to us telling 
 
 More than those crumbling walls can tell. 
 They lived their life, their fate fulfilling, 
 
 Then drew their last faint, faltering breath, 
 Their hearts, congealed, clutched by the chilling 
 
 Hand of Death. 
 
 Dismantled towers, and turrets broken, 
 
 Like grim and war-worn braves who keep 
 A silent guard, with grief unspoken 
 
 Watch o'er the graves by the Hoven-weep. 
 The nameless graves of a race forgotten; 
 
 Whose deeds, whose words, whose fate are one 
 With the mist, long ages past begotten, 
 
 Of the Sun.
 
 Eugene jftelfc. 
 
 CASEY'S TABLE D'HOTE. 
 
 Oh, them days on Ked Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz 
 
 fair 'nd blue, 
 When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 
 
 'nd trne! 
 When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz 
 
 all astir, 
 
 With the joints all throwed wide open 'nd no sheriff to demur! 
 Oh, them times on Red Hoss Mountain in the Rockies fur away 
 There's no sich place nor times like them as I kin find to-day! 
 What though the camp hez busted? I seem to see it still 
 A-lyin', like it loved it, on that big 'nd warty hill; 
 And I feel a sort of yearnin' 'nd a chokin' in my throat 
 When I think of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote! 
 
 Wall, yes; it's true I struck it rich, but that don't cut a show 
 When one is old 'nd feeble 'nd it's nigh his time to go; 
 The money that he's got in bonds or carries to invest 
 Don't figger with a codger who has lived a life out West; 
 Us old chaps like to set around, away from folks 'nd noise, 
 'Nd think about the sights we seen and things we done when 
 
 boys; 
 
 The which is why I love to set 'nd think of them old days 
 When all us Western fellers got the Colorado craze, 
 And that is why I love to set around all day 'ud gloat 
 On thoughts of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote. 
 
 42
 
 EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 This Casey wuz an Irishman you'd know it by his name 
 
 And by the facial features appertainin' to the same. 
 
 He'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things, 
 
 From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings, 
 
 But, somehow, hadn't caught on; so, driftiu' with the rest, 
 
 He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West, 
 
 And he come to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp 
 
 wuz new, 
 When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 
 
 'nd true; 
 
 And, havin' been a Stewart on a Mississippi boat, 
 He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote. 
 
 The bar wuz long 'nd raugey, with a mirrer on the shelf, 
 
 'Nd a pistol, so that Casey, when required, could help himself; 
 
 Down underneath there wuz a row of bottled beer 'nd wine, 
 
 'Nd a kag of Burbun whiskey of the run of '59; 
 
 Upon the walls wuz pictures of bosses 'ud of girls, 
 
 Not much on dress, perhaps, but strong on records 'nd on curls! 
 
 The which had been identified with Casey in the past, 
 
 The bosses 'nd the girls, I mean, and both wuz mlgnty fast ! 
 
 But all these fine attractions wuz of precious, little note 
 
 By the side of what wuz offered at Casey's tabble dote. 
 
 There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place, 
 And the tax you had to pay upon your vitals wuz a case; 
 The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 'twuz a shame 
 To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same! 
 .They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal; 
 But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal; 
 
 43
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 And presently the boardin'-houses all began to bust, 
 While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layiu' in the dust; 
 And oncet a trav'lin' editor from Denver City wrote 
 A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote. 
 
 A tabble dote is different from orderiu' aller cart: 
 
 In one case you git all there is, in father, only part ! 
 
 And Casey's tabble dote began in French as all begin, 
 
 And Casey's ended with the same, which is to say, with "viu;" 
 
 But in between wuz every kind of reptile, bird, 'nd beast, 
 
 The same like you can git in high-toned restauraws down east; 
 
 'Nd windin' up wuz cake or pie, with coffee demy tass, 
 
 Or, sometimes, floatin' Ireland in a soothin' kind of sass 
 
 That left a sort of pleasant ticklin' in a feller's throat, 
 
 'Nd made him hanker after more of Casey's tabble dote. 
 
 The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies 
 
 Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes; 
 
 'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays aint what it used to be 
 
 In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63; 
 
 But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame 
 
 I'd like to be a livin' in the mountains jest the same 
 
 I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue. 
 
 When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true; 
 
 When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote 
 
 For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote. 
 
 And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' way out west, 
 With Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast, 
 Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we use to do, 
 Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you? 
 
 44
 
 EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face, 
 Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place; 
 And so you wuz, 'nd I'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so. 
 But, bein' how a brother's love aint for, the world to know, 
 Whenever I've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat, 
 I lay it all to thiukin' of Casey's tabble dote. 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 The little toy dog is covered with dust, 
 
 But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
 And the little toy soldier is red Avith rust, 
 
 And his musket moulds in his hands. 
 Time \vas when the little toy dog was new 
 
 And the soldier was passing fair, 
 And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
 
 Kissed them and put them there. 
 
 "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 
 
 "And don't you make any noise !" 
 So toddling off to his trundle-bed 
 
 He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
 And as he was dreaming, an angel song 
 Awakened our Little Boy Blue, 
 Oh, the years are many, the years are long, 
 
 But the little toy friends are true. 
 
 Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 
 
 Each in the same old place, 
 Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 
 
 The smile of a little face. 
 
 45
 
 EVE.\/.\GS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, 
 
 In the dust of that little chair, 
 What has become of our Little Boy Blue 
 
 Since he kissed them and put them there. 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, 
 
 I found a shell, 
 
 And to my listening ear the lonely thing 
 Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, 
 
 Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. 
 
 How came the shell upon that mountain height? 
 
 Ah, who can say 
 
 Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, 
 Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, 
 
 Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day? 
 
 Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, 
 
 One song it sang 
 
 Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, 
 Sang of the misty sea. profound and wide 
 
 Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. 
 
 And as the shell upon the mountain height 
 Sings of the sea, 
 
 So do I ever, leagues and leagues away 
 
 So do I ever, wandering where I may- 
 Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee. 
 
 46
 
 EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 MARTHY'S YOUNKIT. 
 
 The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way 
 Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play; 
 The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hear 
 The music uv the little feet that had somehow grown so dear; 
 The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' fro 
 Among the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below; 
 The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) 
 
 and made 
 
 Soft, solluni music on the slope where he had often played; 
 But for these lonesome, sollum voices on the mountain-side, 
 There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's Youiikit died. 
 
 We called him Marthy's Younkit, for Marthy wuz the name 
 Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife uv Sorry Tom the same 
 Ez taught the school-house on the hill, way back in '69, 
 When she marr'd Sorry Tom, wich owned the Gosh-all-Hem- 
 
 lock mine! 
 
 And Marthy's Younkit wuz their first, wich, being how it meant 
 The first on Red Hoss Mountain, wuz truly a event ! 
 The miners sawed off short on work ez soon ez they got word 
 That Dock Devine allowed to Casey what has just occurred; 
 We loaded up an' whooped aroun until we all wuz hoarse 
 Salutin' the arrival, which weighed ten pounds, uv course ! 
 
 Three years, and seen a pretty child! his mother's counterpart! 
 Three years, and sech a holt ez he had got on every heart! 
 A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold, 
 A laughin', toddlin' everywhere 'nd only three years old! 
 
 47
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hill 
 He kited (boys is boys, you know you couldn't keep him still!) 
 An' there he'd play beside the brook where purpul wild- 
 flowers grew, 
 
 An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw, 
 An' sung soft, sollum toons to him, while in the gulch below 
 The magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro. 
 
 Three years, an' then the fever come it wuzn't right, 
 
 you know, 
 
 With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go; 
 It's right the old should die, but that a harmless little child 
 Should miss the joy uv life an' love that can't be reconciled! 
 That's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what 
 
 we said 
 
 Kz we looned upon the piteous face uv Marthy's Younkit dead. 
 But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still, 
 An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill, 
 To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used 
 
 to play, 
 An' the mountain brook sung lonesomellke an' loitered on 
 
 its way. 
 
 A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray, 
 *Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day; 
 A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn, 
 An' we jined in the chorus big, husky men an* grim 
 Sung "Jesus. Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed, 
 An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laid 
 
 48
 
 EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 Among them other flowers he loved wich sermon set sech 
 
 weight 
 
 On sinners bein' always heeled against the future state, 
 That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak, 
 There warnt no sweariu' in the camp for pretty nigh a week ! 
 
 Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little load 
 
 An' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road, 
 
 To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook, 
 
 In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' look 
 
 An' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide, 
 
 Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that wuz empty at her side; 
 
 An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' then 
 
 Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies she'd never sing again, 
 
 'Nd if the bosom uv the earth in wich he lay at rest 
 
 Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast. 
 
 The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly head, 
 An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead; 
 'Nd I reckon-that, through all the years, that little boy wich died 
 Sleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side; 
 That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their 
 
 heads to hear 
 
 The footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near; 
 That the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutterin' shad- 
 
 ders make, 
 
 An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake; 
 That the mountain ^rook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on 
 
 Its way 
 Ez if it waited for a child to jiiie it in its play. 
 
 49
 
 Warman. 
 
 1 WALK ALONE. 
 
 Who sent you here? Just when uiy heart was torn 
 And tortured by love's latest agony; 
 
 When to myself I solemnly had sworn 
 
 To walk life's ways alone, you come to me, 
 
 With those big eyes, mysterious and strange, 
 
 And sweet sad face as solemn as the grave; 
 What I had thought the end was but a change- 
 Again I find myself a woman's slave. 
 
 Please do not frown don't take away those eyes, 
 Whose lightest look seems to intoxicate. 
 
 Must leave me now? Yes, yes, the hour flies; 
 
 But thou hast brought me nearer heaven's gate. 
 
 Thy gentle hand thy loving hand, has led 
 
 Me from the shores of sin. From stone to stone 
 
 Has taught my faltering feet to tread 
 
 The path that leads to peace I walk alone. 
 
 So
 
 CY. WARMAN.
 
 CY WARM AN. 
 
 BE NEAK ME. 
 
 Be near me, dearest, till my task is done, 
 This picture must be best I've ever made. 
 
 How can you help? you ask. Ah, little one, 
 Without your eyes to look at could I shade 
 
 The eyes on this canvas I've begun 1 ? 
 
 Be near me, dearest, till my task is done. 
 
 .Looks like you say like some one you have seen? 
 
 Impossible; that never can be true. 
 This painting is a portrait of my queen, 
 
 Whose face you could not see as I see you; 
 And all the world has like it only one. 
 Be near me, dearest, till my task is done. 
 
 THE WAY WE WALKED. 
 
 I met a woman on life's way, 
 
 A woman fair to see, 
 Or caught up with her, I should say, 
 
 Or she caught up with me. 
 "The way is long when one's alone," 
 
 I said, "and dangerous, too; 
 I'll help you by each stumbling stone, 
 
 If I may walk with you." 
 
 I saw her hang her head and blush, 
 
 And I could plainly see 
 The fire that caused the fevered flush. 
 
 I whispered: "Walk with me. 
 
 51
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Thou art of all the very maid 
 A brave heart wants to woo, 
 
 And I'll remember long," I said, 
 "The way I walk with you." 
 
 Then on we went. Her laughing eyes 
 
 And sunny smiles were sweet 
 Above us blue and burnished skies, 
 
 And roses 'neath our feet. 
 "I'm glad your sunny face I've seen," 
 
 I said, "When life is through, 
 I'll own the best of it has been 
 
 The waj r I walked with you." 
 
 And on we went; we watched the day 
 
 Into the darkness merge; 
 My fair companion paused to say, 
 
 "Here's where our paths diverge." 
 I answered: "Yes, and one more mile 
 
 Is fading from our view, 
 And all the while lit by your smile 
 
 This way I've walked with you. 
 
 "I do not say my love, my life, 
 
 Will all be given to grief 
 When you are gone; the ceaseless strife 
 
 Will bring me much relief. 
 When death's cold hand the curtain draws, 
 
 When life's long journey's through, 
 'Twill not have all been bad, because 
 
 I came part way with you." 
 
 52
 
 CY IV ARM AN. 
 
 NEARER MY GOD AND THEE. 
 
 Go make your mark far above me, 
 
 Near the top of the temple of fame; 
 Say you'll endeavor to love me, 
 
 When there I have written my name. 
 Think not of the hearts that have fainted 
 
 While striving for what I would be; 
 For I shall be better for striving, 
 
 And nearer my God, and thee. 
 
 No burden could be too heavy, 
 
 No task ever seem too great; 
 No journey too long or too lonely, 
 
 No hour too early or late; 
 For my matchless love would be thriving 
 
 On the hope of the bliss to be, 
 And I should be better for striving, 
 
 And nearer my God, and thee. 
 
 All the long way from noontime till midnight, 
 
 And back from the midnight till noon, 
 By the bright light of love I'd be toiling, 
 
 And hoping the end would be soon. 
 And when time of hope had bereft me, 
 
 Tossed wildly on life's troubled sea, 
 I should know that the struggle had left me 
 
 Still nearer my God, and thee. 
 
 53
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE FLYER. 
 
 Near where the hill-girt Hudsoii lay, 
 Down the steel track the engineer 
 
 Reined his swift steed at close of day, 
 As, leaping like a frightened deer, 
 
 At each wild surge she seemed to say: 
 
 Away ! Away ! Away ! Away ! 
 
 The slow team toiling up the hill, 
 
 The light boat drifting with the breeze, 
 
 The swiftest trains seemed standing still. 
 Red vines were twining round the trees, 
 
 Whose leaves made golden by the frost 
 
 Gained more of lustre than they lost. 
 
 The trackman tamping up the rail, 
 Felt the perfume of dying flowers; 
 
 The shadows lengthened in the vale; 
 
 And watchmen watched from out the towers 
 
 The little cloud of dust behind, 
 
 As we went whistling down the wind. 
 
 Night's curtain falls; and here and there 
 The housewife lights the evening lamp; 
 
 And where the fields are cold and bare 
 His fire Is kindled by the tramp. 
 
 Down through the midnight, dark and deep. 
 
 The world goes by us, fast asleep. 
 
 54
 
 CY WARM AN. 
 
 Up through the morning, on and on ! 
 
 The red sun rising from the sea, 
 As we go quivering through the dawn, 
 
 Lights up the earth, reveals to me 
 In the first ruddy flush of morn, 
 The golden pumpkins in the corn. 
 
 From east to west, from shore to shore, 
 
 The black steed tramples through the night, 
 
 And with a mighty rush and roar 
 
 Breaks through the dawn; and in their flight, 
 
 Wild birds, bewildered by the train, 
 
 Dash dead against the window pane. 
 
 "Be swift," I cried, "Oh, matchless steed, 
 The world is watching, do your best !" 
 
 With quick and ever quickening speed, 
 The hot fire burning in her breast, 
 
 With flowing mane and proud neck bent, 
 
 She laughed across the Continent. 
 
 6 s ' 
 
 55
 
 Silvester pafcen. 
 
 "MY BOY." 
 
 They will crown thee with white lilies, 
 
 They will bind them round thy brow; 
 To thy noble, fearless spirit 
 
 All in fear and love shall bow. 
 They will crown thee with white lilies, 
 
 Pure as thine own boyish heart; 
 Thou wilt ne'er know pain or sorrow; 
 
 Thou and they be far apart 
 
 They will crown thee with the laurel. 
 
 In the lofty paths of fame, 
 Wisdom's seven-pillared temple. 
 
 Proudest, noblest be thy name. 
 And the hearts of men shall tremble 
 
 As tho' pierced with sharpest lance, 
 When thou read'st their hidden secrets 
 
 With thy deep eyes' searching glance. 
 
 They will place the classic bay wreath 
 
 On thy noble brow, my boy; 
 Thou wilt move god-like among them, 
 
 Thou wilt be thy Nation's joy. 
 And these tokens of thy victories 
 
 Thou wilt bring them all to me, 
 And will kneeling say, "My Mother, 
 
 I have won all these for thee." 
 
 56
 
 MARY SYLVESTER PA DEN. 
 
 But they crowned him with the cypress, 
 
 Laid the myrtle on his breast, 
 And they shut him from the sunshine, 
 
 Ever more to be at rest. 
 Yet I hear the lingering music 
 
 Of his voice when soft winds sigh, 
 And it seems he still is with me 
 
 O, I dreamed not he could die ! 
 
 And I cry in bitter anguish, 
 
 "Oh, forsake me not, my God!" 
 But He answers, '''Child, I love thee, 
 
 Thou must pass beneath the rod." 
 Vain my wild dreams of ambition, 
 
 Faded every earthly joy, 
 And I only wait the summons 
 
 That will call me to my boy. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 Poor, patient, plodding, plain Marie 
 An humbler soul you might not see, 
 Praying, "Thy will be done to me," 
 
 As hungry child who wept and said: 
 "Oh give me, Father, daily bread," 
 And toiled for it, yet went unfed; 
 
 As maid whose starved heart pining lay, 
 For love the careless threw away, 
 Yet lived unloved her dreary day; 
 
 57
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 As woman murmuring falteringly 
 "If 'tis Thy will O, rest, with thee. 
 Death would be very sweet to me." 
 
 And when at last she was to die, 
 
 Look you a tardy joy crept nigh. 
 
 "Thy will," she prayed, "let death pass by." 
 
 Too late ! Her little chance was past; 
 
 Still prayed she, with meek eyes downcast 
 
 "Thy will. O, give me heaven at last" 
 
 She was so poor, scant prayers were sped, 
 Scant rite, scant grave for pauper dead, 
 "The end of old Marie," they said. 
 
 The end? Nay, but it could not be ! 
 'Twould never solve for you and me 
 Half of this sad world's mystery. 
 
 Did all the shining saints that stand 
 In heaven take her by the hand 
 And place her highest in their band? 
 
 Did gentle Christ come grandly down 
 Her life-long woes in bliss to drown, 
 And crown her with a chosen crown?
 
 MARY SYLVESTER PA DEN. 
 
 I know not, nay, nor did she pray 
 For this, but patiently, each day, 
 "Thy will in life and death alway." 
 
 Less are my sorrows, blest Marie; 
 Thrice poor as thou I needs must be 
 Till I can pray and trust like thee. 
 
 DUSK IN THE DESERT. 
 
 The wind of the Desert is calling me. 
 Oho, for a comrade so wild and free; 
 I would that my laggard feet might fly 
 As the scurrying clouds in the darkening sky 
 To the wide, brown spaces that stretch afar, 
 Unmarred by a trodden roadway's scar; 
 Unsmirched by the smoke from labor's den, 
 And the struggling breath of toil-strangled men; 
 With their silence deep as the calm of death, 
 Save for racing winds' exultant breath. 
 
 I drink, O Desert, this breath of thine, 
 
 As an eager Sybarite quaffs his wine; 
 
 And I lift my weary lids to gaze, 
 
 Wide-eyed and glad, o'er thy boundless ways, 
 
 To where I can step from thine utmost rim 
 
 Into the skylands, gray and dim; 
 
 59
 
 EVENINGS ll'ITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Man's dull old world, more dim and gray, 
 Fading behind me far away. 
 Thought and trouble and care fade, too; 
 I live, O Desert and Wind, with you. 
 
 Oh, follow, follow, and ne'er turn back 
 On .a trail that winds as a serpent's track, 
 Where the dry brown grasses rustle and break 
 With the subtle z-z of the rattlesnake, 
 But the yellow curls of the gramma there 
 Wave like the rings of a lost love's hair. 
 
 Whirling along in goblin glee. 
 
 A gray-polled tumble-weed challenges me; 
 
 I follow its gnomelike lead to where 
 
 The cactus offers its dull-red pear, 
 
 That gives me thought of a chalice grim, 
 
 Filled with blood to its thorny rim; 
 
 Of the Desert's vanished sons? Who knows? 
 
 Of trespassers in her sacred close, 
 
 Who marked with their whitening bones, the curse 
 
 That Nature's heart against man doth nurse? 
 
 O thou Sphinx Desert, if savage dearth 
 
 Of softer graces mark lowly birth, 
 
 What of thy silence proud, serene 
 
 As the mocking calm of a musing queen? 
 
 Death to thy serfs or life, what then? 
 
 Long may they sue thee, gods or men ! 
 
 Lo, where they stepped are their hidden graves ! 
 
 Ix>, where they dwelt, the dry grass waves 
 
 60
 
 MARY SYLVESTER PA DEN. 
 
 With a rustle of laughter, scarce a sigh, 
 E'en when the soft south wind steals by. 
 Hark ! Cry of the coyote, or craven world 
 Out of our fearless kingdom whirled? 
 As low on the Desert the gray night lies, 
 And the light of the love in my collie's eyes 
 Is all that may guide me back again 
 To the grinding, groaning world of men. 
 
 A vision goes with me, O friends of mine, 
 
 O restful Desert and wind like wine. 
 
 Of the stealthy hosts of gathering snow 
 
 On the gray cloud-deserts lying low, 
 
 Till the blasts that blow east, west and north 
 
 Shall sound the whistling signal forth 
 
 For the silent, swift advance. Oho ! 
 
 To be compassed round by the whirling snow, 
 
 With the world and the sky and the desert gone, 
 
 To move in a white dream on and on, 
 
 Till straggling's bravado, and yielding, love 
 
 For the soft, white foes from the plains above. 
 
 A draught of their blessed anodyne, 
 
 And the pain of their death-thrust is peace benign. 
 
 Life and death in a circle fly. 
 Hot suns whiten and parched winds dry; 
 And lo ! Once more is the human clod 
 Quick with the life of the desert sod. 
 
 61
 
 El'E.\i.VGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 
 
 "Lead me from the fleeting into the everlasting, from darkness in light, 
 from death into immortality." -Jnankanda of the Hindu Shastras. 
 
 Comes the same cry from where gray Himalay 
 Leans thoughtful o'er the earliest nation's grave. 
 As from the land the utmost sunsets lave? 
 
 The soul's own language, be the tongue what may'.' 
 
 O this indeed the prayer the world might pray, 
 The prayer that surges up in one wild wave 
 From heart of heathen, Christian, king or slave, 
 
 Intensest longing, deepest hope each day 
 
 Of this sad life roots deeper in each heart ! 
 
 O men, in union strong, stand not apart. 
 
 Crowd not like sheep within your small creed-fold, 
 
 Nor make it breast-work betwixt brothers' strife. 
 Together, the one grand way seek and hold 
 
 From darkness into light, from death to life. 
 
 LOT'S WIFE. 
 
 The woe of woman's life in four small words: 
 "And she looked back." 
 
 Poor soul ! 
 
 I see her heed the warning. Lo ! she girds 
 Her for the journey straightway, first to obey. 
 I note her patient care, as for the way 
 
 62
 
 MARY SYLVESTER PA DEN. 
 
 Of travel she prepares the unthinking men 
 And the weak children. Bravely tries she then 
 The strange new track, 
 New goal ! 
 
 The path lies straight before them. Men of God 
 
 Promise new lands, 
 
 New lives. 
 
 Light steps the foot with goodly promise shod ! 
 The eager men look forward; gay and glad, 
 The children bound along; she, only, sad 
 At thought of the old home-nooks, the old places 
 That echoed these dear voices, framed these faces, 
 
 Where ruin stands 
 And strives. 
 
 Poor, yearning woman-heart ! One glance she craved, 
 
 And she "looked back." 
 
 Poor soul ! 
 
 Though from the weary journey surely saved. 
 "O cruel God ! I would have looked back, too !" 
 I used to cry, not understanding. True, 
 Deep wisdom read I in the legend now 
 When change commands thee, in obedience bow. 
 Take the new path that waits thee. Looking back 
 Upon the loss, the ruin and the wrack, 
 Dreading the changing new, availeth naught, 
 But turns thee, frozen-hearted and o'erwrought, 
 Into a statue by thy life's Dead Sea; 
 A warning unto those who wiser be, 
 Who, lost the old, seek, wiser still, the new, 
 
 And ne'er look back.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 AFTER EASTER. 
 
 I have arisen, O my Christ, 
 
 Christ with the nail-scarred hands and feet ! 
 It was half sorrowful, rising thus; 
 
 Always I thought, in the old time sweet, 
 Resurrection was fair and new, 
 
 Resurrection was strong and whole. 
 Never, I know, can rise with me 
 
 All of my crucified heart and soul. 
 
 Yet even so. I have risen. Christ. 
 
 Reading thine Easter story o'er, 
 Listlessly, hopelessly, brokenly, 
 
 Sudden I found in it something more 
 Than the old garish joy that seems 
 
 Blaze of sunlight on tear-worn eyes, 
 Mocking glory of baseless dreams, 
 
 Fleeting echo of song that dies. 
 
 If thou had'st risen in youth's lost grace, 
 
 Or in thy manhood's promise-glory, 
 Scarless victor, triumphant king, 
 
 Heart would havo sighed: "O vain, vague story! 
 Not for me not for me !" But to see 
 
 Print of the nail on foot and hand. 
 Spear-pierced side as the signs that be 
 
 For thy disciples to understand ! 
 
 64
 
 MARY SYLVESTER PA DEN. 
 
 Rising to thy few chosen ones 
 
 Though they failed thee and calmly slept 
 Through thy vigil; though they, so few, 
 
 Room for denier and doubter kept 
 And betrayer ! O courage, heart ! 
 
 This is no miracle far away, 
 Vague, impossible. This is part 
 
 Of the stoiy of every day. 
 
 Easter morning hath meaning new. 
 
 Every morning may Easter be, 
 Ye who can never be whole again 
 
 Rise in your wounds as did even he !
 
 EYENLVGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 patience Stapleton. 
 
 TOLTEC GORGE. 
 
 Against the snows of cloud hills high, 
 Majestic mountains, centuries old, 
 
 Reach rugged heights far up the sky, 
 Like Babel's tower in story old. 
 
 The winds of night in furious rage 
 
 Beat 'gainst the wall 'twixt earth and heaven; 
 Each element tireless war did wage; 
 
 Backward, defeated each was driven. 
 
 The warm Chinook o'er the prairie sighed; 
 
 The north wind fled to frozen seas; 
 The chill east wind in coast fogs died; 
 
 The avalanche crashed amid the trees. 
 
 Furrowed and tortured, in silent woe, 
 
 One mountain bore the storms of ages, 
 
 And sun of summer or winter's snow 
 Left no trace on its mystic pages. 
 
 But a drift of snow that lay long hidden 
 In creviced niche on a lean peak's crest, 
 
 Wept bitter tears that crept unchidden 
 
 Far down the mountain's unyielding breast. 
 
 66
 
 PATIENCE STAPLETON. 
 
 The river down in the valley knew, 
 
 For the stream whispered when they met 
 
 The brook and river and, laughing, too, 
 The hills had never a thought as yet. 
 
 In years the mountain's heart of rock 
 Yields to the subtle brook, and fast, 
 
 With thunder peal and earthquake shock, 
 Crashed chasm open defeat at last. 
 
 Centuries pass. The deep drifted snows 
 
 Fade 'neath summers suns, and the stream 
 
 Widens the gorge, and misty breath throws 
 High up black walls that silvery gleam. 
 
 But a web is cast of iron strong, 
 
 Like a spider's home of thread-like coil. 
 
 The brook is tamed, and its echoing song 
 Praises the power of human toil. 
 
 SIERRA BLANCA. 
 
 North star o'er seas of land, 
 Mountain, serene and grand, 
 Sentinel of the Rockies stand, 
 
 Sierra Blanca; 
 Dial of recorded time 
 Reared in solitude sublime. 
 
 67
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Poets, 'raptured, long have told 
 Of the crown of sunset gold 
 Resting on thy crest so old, 
 
 Sierra Blauca; 
 In all this land is given 
 Thee to be nighest Heaven. 
 
 Vision to the artist rare 
 
 Is the purple robe so fair 
 
 Thou with kingly grace doth wear, 
 
 Sierra Blauca; 
 
 And thy velvet pall of night, 
 Crown stars deck with jewels bright. 
 
 Once the waves of oceans past- 
 Silver waves rolling fast- 
 Sunny spray o'er thee cast, 
 
 Sierra Blanca; 
 
 Forests green crept up thy side, 
 Followed close the ebbing tide. 
 
 In the light of that far day 
 
 What strange races, who shall say, 
 
 Lived their lives and went their way? 
 
 Sierra Blanca; 
 
 What strange monsters of the deep 
 Went to dust in death's last sleep? 
 
 Ere that exile on him fell 
 Once the Indian loved him well, 
 Happy in thy shades to dwell, 
 
 Sierra Blanca; 
 Now the wolf in hiddeu lair 
 Unmolested scents the air. 
 
 68
 
 PATIENCE STAPLETON. 
 
 Once the Spanish cavalier 
 Held thee in his heart so dear, 
 Half in love, half in fear, 
 
 Sierra Blanca; 
 
 Martyr priests might happy sigh 
 At thy glorious feet to die. 
 
 Over all the green plains wide 
 Peace and joy do now abide, 
 Happy homes below thee hide, 
 
 Sierra Blanca; 
 High uplifted childish eyes 
 Liken thee to Paradise. 
 
 69
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 IRobert 
 
 SASSAFRAS. 
 
 Faint as the sighing winds which fret 
 With sweet and subtle harmonies 
 The silken strands aeolian, set 
 In mullious old, come memories 
 
 That thrill, and pass, 
 Of thy wild bole which warder stood 
 Of bygone bournes. Our sandal wood, 
 Slim sassafras. 
 
 Like that green tree of life thou sprang 
 
 From out the turf of Paradise. 
 The heaven of boyhood, but thy tang 
 Of bark and root among the wise 
 
 Tall trees, alas ! 
 With leafy laughter did infect 
 The woods at thy quaint dialect. 
 Rude sassafras. 
 
 Thy spicy root had blessings great 
 The blood to purge and purify. 
 But now, O homely Hippocrate, 
 My mind hath medicine, for I 
 
 Feel all the crass 
 And evil humors of my soul 
 Cast off, and thou hast made me whole, 
 Rare sassafras. 
 
 70
 
 ROBERT McINTYRE 
 
 If some blest day when I shall rove 
 By God's great river, all alone. 
 Thy breath from out heaven's healing grove 
 O'er amaranth hills is softly blown 
 
 Across the grass, 
 
 The tears that blur my sight shall be 
 Love's tribute then to youth and thee, 
 O sassafras. 
 
 THE OLD TRAIL. 
 
 I. 
 
 Through columns of cedars begirt with ferns, 
 
 Over peaks where the pinons climb together 
 In the crimson glow, where the sunset burn? 
 
 And the purple fringe of mountain heather, 
 Where the otter's pelt, in the emerald pool, 
 
 'Mid dancing foam bells dives and glistens, 
 And the ousel flutes in the aspens cool, 
 
 Where the dappled doe affrighted listens 
 When she hears our hoof-beats, far away, 
 Runs the famed old trail of the Santa Fe. 
 
 II. 
 
 I see thee stretching toward the sky, 
 
 And I crack my whip o'er the weary cattle. 
 
 And hear my partners shout "Good bye !" 
 As they went down in the Indian battle,
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Struck thro' by the red Apaches' spears. 
 
 In clumps of cactus they now ure sleeping, 
 Strewn with the skeletons of their steers, 
 
 V.'hile a rattlesnake in the white ribs creeping 
 Makes a gruesome epitaph, Mate ! I say. 
 
 For a freighter who fought on the "Santa Fe." 
 
 III. 
 
 Those pioneer pathfinders were clear grit, 
 
 And I reckon their women were even stanncher 
 Of soul, when you come to cipher it 
 
 You mind that home of the murdered rancher? 
 In the crumbling corner the rifle stands, 
 
 With a rotten strap and a rusty buckle, 
 But where is the wife, whose loving hands 
 
 Trained over the porch that honeysuckle? 
 And where the children who used to play 
 'Neath its scented shade, on the Santa Fe? 
 
 IV. 
 
 You can never forget the ford, I know. 
 
 That wagon corral and the log-fires in it, 
 "Old Baldy," lifting his brow of snow, 
 
 As white as my foolish head this minute. 
 Oh, the yarns we spun, the songs we sung, 
 
 Of "Home, Sweet Home." and "Blue Juniata !' 
 
 72
 
 ROBERT MclNTYRE.
 
 ROBERT McINTYRE. 
 
 , While up in the pines the new moon hung; 
 
 And pshaw ! old partner, what's the matter? 
 Does it hurt you now, when your hair is grey, 
 What she said that night on the Santa Fe? 
 
 V. 
 
 Well, he went down at your elbow, Dave, 
 
 In that midnight melee, across the carry. 
 You helped us heap up the lonely grave, 
 
 In the cottonwood grove, over handsome Harry. 
 We found him dead underneath his steed, 
 
 With his empty sixes and stained serape, 
 Just as he fell when the mad stampede 
 
 Flung far from him these two unhappy 
 Old chums, who tell of that red affray 
 With tears as they think of the Santa Fe. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Gone stirrup, riata and rowel and bell ! 
 
 The bellowing herd, in its wild commotion, 
 The breathless rush from the chapparel, 
 
 Over the sweep of that grassy ocean. 
 But yet, my comrade, that road is etched 
 
 On the flowery prairie, fresh and vernal; 
 And, dear old friend, when we are fetched 
 
 By death beyond the range eternal, 
 We will climb to the realms of endless day, 
 Up the dear old trail of the Santa Fe. 
 
 73
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS 
 
 HIS SWEETHEART'S THROAT. 
 
 That reminds me ! I reckon I never told 
 
 This cauip how "Wes" won a medal of gold. 
 
 I can hear to-night the Chancellor say, 
 
 In the dear old school down Georgia way, 
 
 "Whoever" these beans are about the stuff, 
 
 But this bull-beef is so blamed tough, 
 
 The gravy's a chore to chew it and 
 
 This coffee is hot as a Texas brand 
 
 "Whoever is first on the final vote 
 
 Will hang his prize at his sweetheart's throat." 
 
 Men ! I kept the tally, and I tell you 
 He roped that crowd as clever, and threw 
 It as clean as a steer that hits the sky, 
 In just two minutes from stirrup to tie. 
 I can see in this crackling mesquite blaze 
 The scene as it was in those old days; 
 The handsome girls, high born and rich, 
 Who beamed on the orators, wondering which 
 Would gain the glory, and then devote 
 His prize to hang at his sweetheart's throat 
 
 He's no stucco saint; he can bite a word 
 Into blazing brimstone when his herd 
 Is mavericked, and he told "Kid's" breed 
 That whimpering wolves would on them feed, 
 
 74
 
 ROBERT McINTYRE. 
 
 If they lifted his. But I wish you all 
 Had seen that ancient college hall, 
 With fine old jewels and fine new frocks, 
 And the boys in buckles, and bushy locks, 
 When "Wes" came out in his home-made coat, 
 To win the prize for his sweetheart's throat. 
 
 He cleared the corral, and took the track, 
 And we stood up and shook the shack. 
 With shouts for "Wes" with his curly hair. 
 And his eye like the eye of a Pinto mare, 
 For fire, and as slim as a yucca stem. 
 Stars ! how he turned and swept at them 
 With his voice as sweet as the tinkling bell 
 On a Taos spur, and a speech that fell 
 Like a silver riata, coiled to tote 
 Away that prize for his sweetheart's throat. 
 
 He pulled all the picket-pins, took the lead 
 Of that beautiful bunch in a wild stampede 
 Up the coulee of heaven, and back again. 
 Well ! I've seen women weep, and men, 
 But I say now, when he marched down, 
 To his mother in her linsey gown, 
 Who stood there waiting for his kiss, 
 And took her thin old hands in his, 
 We cried, and cheered, and howled to note 
 He hung his prize at his sweetheart's throat. 
 
 75
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 "KNEE DEEP." 
 
 They are calling "Knee deep, knee deep," to-night in the 
 
 marsh below. 
 Down by the bank, where the rank sword grasses and 
 
 calamus grow. 
 They are the toilers who make the bells for the winter 
 
 sprites, 
 
 And keeping time to a rhyme, they work thro' the sum 
 mer nights, 
 And up from the swampy forge, the sparks of the fireflies 
 
 rise. 
 O'er the pool where wading lilies, make love thro' half 
 
 shut eyes, 
 To the whip-poor-will who scolds, at the wide eyed fluffy 
 
 owl 
 
 While the night hawk shuffles by, a monk in a velvet cowl, 
 And the bat weaves inky weft, thro' the white star beams 
 
 that peep, 
 Down thro' the cypress boughs, where the frogs all sing 
 
 "Knee deep." 
 
 'Tis strange this chant should call, an elderly man like me. 
 Back to the by-gone years, and the scenes that used to be, 
 When the world was fenced from heaven, by one rose 
 
 hedge, and thro' 
 This bourne the blessed angels looked, and asphodel odors 
 
 blew. 
 
 But listening to the lilt of the singers among the reeds, 
 I can hear the kine bells tinkle over the clover meads,. 
 
 76
 
 ROBERT McINTYRE. 
 
 And see the storm king ride, the summer clouds in state, 
 
 With his chariot whip of livid flame, and thunder bil 
 lingsgate, 
 
 And I watch the swollen tide, thro' the reeds like a pan 
 ther creep 
 
 Where the frighted arnphibeans cling to the rushes, and 
 sing "Knee deep." 
 
 "Knee deep" I bend in the rippled brook, with buttercup 
 
 drift overblown. 
 Like gold on beauty's billowy breast, its sheen half hid, 
 
 half shown, 
 "Knee deep" in the saffron marigold flowers, which prank 
 
 the meadows fair, 
 Like a troop of Saxon children, blue eyed and with yellow 
 
 hair, 
 "Knee deep" where bubbles of clover spring, up from the 
 
 summer sea, 
 Thick as bubbles of stars that bloom, on the breast of 
 
 Eternity. 
 "Knee deep" in the topaz poplar leaves, I rustle toward the 
 
 place. 
 
 Where the pert and upright rabbit sits, washing her inno 
 cent face, 
 Song of the quivering culms and osiers, I am wading again, 
 
 in truth, 
 "Knee deep" in the stream of Memory, which flows from 
 
 the land of Youth. 
 
 77
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 ffannie Sberricfe Martell. 
 
 SUTRO HEIGHTS. 
 
 Tamalpais leans o'er thee dreamily; 
 
 Shadows of purple clouds nod, 
 There, where the old ocean mightily 
 
 Sings to the mountains of God. 
 Up from the East and its dawning 
 
 Rises the gold-eyed day, 
 Spreading her wings like the summer 
 
 Over the violet bay. 
 
 Flowers rise upward like spirit dreams, 
 Born of the dust at thy feet; 
 
 Songs from the far wind harps heavenly 
 Echo the sea-music sweet. 
 
 Oh, that the hand of a Sappho 
 
 Here on these lawns might trace 
 
 Sonnets to make thee immortal- 
 Touched by the old Greek grace. 
 
 Seaward, the Golden Gate tenderly 
 
 Guardeth the Child-Queen State; 
 Sunward the noon-day slips mistily, 
 
 Laden with golden-barred freight. 
 
 * Near Tamalpais, one of the mountains which guard the Golden Gate. 
 
 78
 
 FANNIE SHERR1CK WARDELL. 
 
 There, in the West dies the sun-god, 
 
 Shrouded in dun and gold- 
 Cometh the night-queen in mourning, 
 
 Stars in each sable fold. 
 
 Dreaming, the heart reaches longingly 
 
 Up from the wind-beaten sod, 
 Unto the star-flowers, blossoming, 
 
 Pale in the garden of God. 
 Upward the hills and the mountains 
 
 Reach in the solemn night; 
 Thrilling, the soul follows after, 
 
 Hushed in its trackless flight. 
 
 Tamalpais leans o'er thee dreamily; 
 
 Shadows of purple clouds nod, 
 There, where the old ocean mightily 
 
 Sings to the mountains of God. 
 Joy, like a star, leads the morning, 
 
 Hope, with her smile, crowns the West; 
 Peace folds her white wings, forever, 
 
 Here in this Eden to rest. 
 
 LOVE'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 The violets slept on my breast, sAveetheart, 
 
 And your soft eyes held their hue; 
 Violet youth with its budding spring 
 Was touched and revealed by you ! 
 It AA r as not summer, nor was there snow, 
 For nothing of seasons do lovers know. 
 Dear, I was all women and you all men, 
 And Ave lived all life in that timeless Then ! 
 
 79
 
 EYEN1NGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 Silence is the mantle of each star, 
 
 Woven on the mountain heights of snow. 
 
 Silence is the mantle of our woe, 
 When to men our inmost souls we bar, 
 Standing from their ways apart and far. 
 
 In its wordless spell pure souls atone. 
 Voiceless, at their Maker's heavenly throne, 
 For the thoughts that holy deeds do mar. 
 God is Silence, and His works of might, 
 
 Wrought in silence now and ever-more, 
 
 Stand within the soul's white gallery, 
 Mutely eloquent; and in death's -night, 
 
 Carved, we see, upon His temple door, 
 
 Silence ! Symbol of Eternity. 
 
 THE BLACK CANON. 
 
 The midday sun, in this deep gorge, 
 
 Resigns his old time splendor, 
 His palace walls of dreamy gold, 
 The rose-hues warm and tender. 
 
 The cleft is dark below, 
 Where foaming flows the Sumbre river; 
 The wild winds sigh and blossoms shiver, 
 And violets mist ascending, 
 
 Obscure the Orient glow. 
 
 80
 
 FANNIE SHERRICK WARDELL. 
 
 O ! rushing river, eruerald-hued, 
 
 How mad them art and fearless, 
 No frowning gates, though granite barred, 
 Can curb thy waters peerless ! 
 
 The silent gods of stone 
 Revoke their ancient laws of might 
 When through ihe gorge, with wing-swift flight, 
 Thy wind-tossed waves are speeding, 
 Each moment wilder grown. 
 
 The faint stars shine in broad midday 
 
 Through twilight mists, gold-rifted, 
 Where opal streams make dizzy leaps 
 O'er jasper walls blue-rifted. 
 Below, no naiad's dream. 
 'Neath dim arcades, through sunless deeps, 
 The nomad river lonely leaps, 
 Where castled crags rise skyward 
 
 Like watch-towers o'er the stream. 
 
 On massive cliff-walls Nature's hand 
 
 Has turned time's sun-worn pages; 
 In faces carved and figures hewn 
 We trace the work of ages. 
 
 The gold-tipped spires sublime 
 That pierce the sky like shafts of light, 
 But mark the measureless, heavenward height 
 Of Nature's own cathedral, 
 
 Whose stern High Priest is Time. 
 
 81
 
 EVEN/NGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 In this grand temple, aeons old, 
 
 Her organ notes are pealing; 
 In gold-flecked arch and wave-worn aisles 
 The flower-nuns are kneeling; 
 
 Her altars echo prayer, 
 And when at dusk the cold moon shines. 
 Oh, awful are the far white shrines, 
 From earth to God upreaching, 
 Through spirit-flooded air. 
 
 CHORDS. 
 
 We stand like children on the shores 
 
 Of night's illumined sea; 
 And tho' our eyes search countless orbs 
 
 We know not what they be. 
 Our thoughts are like the sounding shells. 
 
 We gather on the beach; 
 They symbol tideless mysteries, 
 
 Beyond our ken and reach. 
 
 And yet I think we never turn 
 
 To things divinely wrought, 
 But to our soul there ever speeds 
 
 Some bright immortal thought; 
 Some truth of God's eternal love 
 
 That keeps the stars in place; 
 That we may know the soul sleeps not. 
 
 But treads the trackless space. 
 
 82
 
 FANNIE SHERRICK WARDELL. 
 
 GOLDEN-ROD. 
 
 Beautiful golden-rod ! 
 
 Up from the half-burned sod, 
 When the August fires have died away 
 You rise, gold-tipped like the sun's last ray, 
 Born of the summer's after-glow, 
 Reaching heaven, though prisoned below: 
 
 Beautiful golden-rod ! 
 
 Fire-kissed golden-rod ! 
 
 There, where the grasses nod, 
 Waving their yellow plumes of death, 
 Touched by the frost-king's keen, swift breath, 
 Your slender spires of reddened gold 
 Like the meadows grown brown and cold: 
 
 Fire-kissed golden-rod. 
 
 "Lo ! pass under the rod !" 
 Soft-spoken words of God. 
 One by one through the long-life day 
 Strewing with tears the grief-grown way- 
 God's erring children pass slowly by, 
 Stilling the heart with their passoniate cry: 
 Lo ! pass under the rod ! 
 
 83
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Beautiful golden-rod. 
 
 Chosen flower of God ! 
 Under the shade of your spears of pain 
 Many a heart in the dusk has lain; 
 But the cruel barbs wear the dust of peace, 
 God's love it bringeth the sore heart ease: 
 
 Beautiful golden-rod ! 
 
 84
 
 HARRIET L. WASON. 
 
 Ibarriet X, Mason. 
 
 TO EUGENE FIELD. 
 
 If I could know that thought of mine 
 Had power to start a sudden tear 
 In other eyes, and bring more near 
 
 Some dear one by a single line, 
 
 If I could know a chord unstrung, 
 
 Beneath my touch would lightly break 
 To quivering song, and tender wake 
 
 The music left so long unsung 
 
 Should I not feel it power enough 
 
 And fame, for one? Lo ! it is thine, 
 
 This wond'rous thing; heart chords of mine 
 
 Take up their old strains, crude and rough, 
 To pattern on a broken string, 
 After the cadence thou dost sing. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Who will may laud the April time, her glances shy and 
 
 tender, 
 
 That deluge the expectant earth with promises of splendor; 
 Where tears are so entwined with smiles, each but the 
 
 other seeming 
 To fulfill her erratic moods to serve for restful dreaming. 
 
 85
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Better September's winsome smiles tinged with pathetic 
 
 sadness, 
 Thrilling the heart with subtle power than all the summer's 
 
 gladness, 
 Those Spartan smiles that hide a pang to see insidious 
 
 creeping, 
 The treacherous beauty of decay on all within her keeping. 
 
 The lull that falls on eager life when rush of strife is over 
 Edges the mist against the hills, drapes copes and sedgy 
 
 cover; 
 And like the shadows in a dream the swaying sunbeams 
 
 glitter, 
 'Tis luxury to simply live, all sweet without the bitter. 
 
 The aster and the golden-rod stand nodding in the bushes 
 For them she tones the chilly wind that o'er the prairie 
 
 rushes; 
 And speeds where the stately pines are flinging out 
 
 defiance, 
 To every smaller monarchy that dares to claim alliance. 
 
 The noisy river at their feet subsides to faint complaining; 
 
 Forgets the prodigal delight that welcomed April's 
 reigning, 
 
 It owns the chill of Autumn's breath, no more itself de 
 ceiving; 
 
 September holds the warp and woof that gauge the sum 
 mer's weaving. 
 
 86
 
 HARRIET L. WASON. 
 
 September with her gorgeous hues, caressing touch and 
 
 tender, 
 
 Foreshadowing no coming joys but fast departing splendor, 
 Hiding the form of ruthless change in robes of gayest 
 
 seeming, 
 And filling every nook with peace; this is the time for 
 
 dreaming. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 ALFRED LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 "And may there be no moaning at the bar. 
 When I drift out to sea." - Tennyson. 
 
 A pilot he who many a craft hath steered 
 To the unknown, and learned the way to bliss, 
 
 The rest which he to weary hearts endeared, 
 Of laborer's right is his. 
 
 On death's unfatliomed vast he saileth lone 
 Whose helm has guided others into peace. 
 
 We dare not follow him with wail and moan 
 Who bade our moans to cease. 
 
 His song is hushed; the singer is not dead 
 W T ho fashioned song like this for us to keep. 
 
 Its import like a rose leaf, summer shed, 
 Across life's storms will creep. 
 
 87
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POE7S. 
 
 That peace he brought to us will reach afar 
 To guide him on, how lone his voyage be, 
 
 And there shall be no moaning at the bar 
 As he drifts out to sea. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 COLONEL JOHN ARKINS, 
 FOR MANY YEARS EDITOR OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS. 
 
 Ignoble seems the fashion of our day 
 
 That stabs the living and applauds the dead, 
 
 Gives to crude wit too broad, unlicensed play, 
 All themes alike on its vile missions sped. 
 
 Heedless where fall the points, full often set 
 
 Only to round a column for the hour- 
 Forgotten soon as fashioned; worthless, yet 
 
 Barbed with a cancerous and malignant power. 
 
 Ye who so lately wounded, come ye now 
 
 Heaping your bay leaves on his happy bier? 
 
 Chaplet with laurel his unruffled brow, 
 
 For his unswerving silence drop a tear? 
 
 Do ye not know this tribute stintless strewn, 
 Even yesterday as rightfully was his? 
 
 Why feared ye lest some honor should be shown? 
 Of all this wealth what atom would ye miss? 
 
 To-day his eyes in death's sweet peace are sealed, 
 See not your graceful turns in wordy gem; 
 
 Your paeans of applause are idly pealed 
 
 On ears that once had priceless valued them. 
 
 88
 
 HARRIET L. WASON. 
 
 "Always a cheerful giver" one tells o'er; 
 
 "God loves a cheerful giver," saith another. 
 "Called to decide between the rich and poor 
 
 His soul reached ever to his poorer brother. 
 
 "His charities were blazoned not abroad." 
 
 "Let not your left know what your right hand 
 doeth," 
 
 Cautioned the Nazarene. This brave soul heard, 
 Nor needs that human judge his cause revieweth. 
 
 'Twas in the flesh he did these gracious deeds. 
 
 Ye could not spare a pause to praise him then. 
 Because your grief is true believe he pleads, 
 
 Turn to the living Avorld with living men 
 
 Ready to fall beneath their weight of strife, 
 
 Soul-sick of jest primed full of cautering darts; 
 
 And fit a broader code into your life, 
 
 Since even public men have private hearts. 
 
 DENVER HIGH SCHOOL CADETS. 
 
 Attention ! Forward ! looking left nor right, 
 Soldiers in jest, yet training for a fight 
 Which shapes to earnest as the years unroll 
 For you to stamp the future's mystic scroll; 
 Youth's joyous pulses thrumming double quick 
 To clash of swords or rifle's stirring click; 
 
 89
 
 -EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Eyes looking o'er the field without a fear, 
 Failure so far and all success so near. 
 Attention ! Forward ! Looking left nor right, 
 Soldiers in jest, yet training for the tight. 
 
 Among your ranks perchance a "silent man" 
 In embryo waits his life's maturer plan; 
 Or second Lincoln, whom his country's need 
 Shall instant teach to do subliiuest deed; 
 Or unfledged orator, with soul of fire, 
 "To wake to ecstacy the living lyre." 
 Each fits a place. The picket's vantage post 
 Holds in its care the trusting centered host. 
 The privates as battalions force a way 
 Where skill alone would perish in the fray. 
 Attention ! Forward ! Looking left nor right 
 Who cannot lead can follow in the fight. 
 
 Soldiers in jest, beneath the coats of blue, 
 The boyish hearts beat loyally and true. 
 Full well we know should foreign foe be nigh, 
 And earnest take the place of mimicry; 
 Should civil discord with her furnace breath 
 Invite you to a carnival of death; 
 By danger moulded suddenly to men, 
 Heroes in truth your bearing would be then, 
 Your battle cry outsurging o'er the fight- 
 Attention ! Forward ! Looking left nor right. 
 
 90
 
 HARRIET LANCASTER WESTCOTT. 
 
 Ibarriet OLancaster Westcott 
 
 NIGHT COMETH. 
 
 " For the night cometh when no man can work." 
 
 Night cometb from over the mountains. 
 
 Its shadowy feet 
 To the forests, the fields, and the fountains 
 
 Come faintly but fleet. 
 
 Night cometh and one hath his labor half done, 
 As he waits by the roadside at setting of sun. 
 
 Night cometh, and over the meadow 
 
 It quietly flows 
 And hides in the wave of its shadow; 
 
 The clover the rose. 
 
 Night cometh, and one with his spade in his hand, 
 Sits weeping in darkness he can't understand. 
 
 Night cometh. The waves of the ocean 
 
 That shone in the sun 
 Are heavy and sombre in motion; 
 
 Their glory is gone; 
 
 Night cometh, and one there is wringing his hands 
 And sighing "too late," as he sits on the sands.
 
 EVENINGS WJTH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Night corueth, and with it the riot 
 
 Of daylight goes down; 
 The stars in their shining give quiet 
 
 To village and town. 
 
 Night cometh; how many in Held or in street 
 Lie down with the work of their life complete? 
 
 THE WOELD WAS ALL BEFORE ME. 
 
 When the world was all before me, 
 Life was like a summer day; 
 
 With Its sunshine streaming o'er me, 
 With its roses by the way. 
 
 And I fancied that its sweetness 
 
 Like a river, flowing by, 
 Would run on in its completeness, 
 
 Under an unclouded sky. 
 
 There was Youth, with Hope, the charmer, 
 
 Ever whispering in the ear; 
 Never heart than mine beat calmer, 
 
 In this Spring time of Life's year. 
 
 And I walked as if the meadow 
 
 Where the summer flowers did grow 
 
 Had no knowledge of the shadow, 
 Or the winter, or the snow. 
 
 92
 
 HARRIET LANCASTER WESTCOTT. 
 
 But alas ! the bowers have faded 
 And the cold wind sweeps along 
 
 And rny heart by sorrow shaded 
 Sings no more its happy song. 
 
 I am but an atom, drifting 
 
 On the ever-swelling tide; 
 Over sands forever shifting 
 
 To the other, unknown side. 
 
 Hope has fled, and memories find me 
 As, with folded hands I stand 
 
 (Thinking of what lies behind me) 
 Lone and lonely in Life's land. 
 
 IN SUN AND STORM. 
 
 In sun and storm I watch the shore 
 For ventures sent out long ago, 
 
 In shallops that return no more 
 
 From lands beyond the cold and snow. 
 
 Such precious freight they bore, as hope 
 And trusting innocence might find 
 
 Along the blossom-laden slope 
 
 The years of childhood leave behind. 
 
 93
 
 EVENLVGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 I watch and wait; and in the night 
 I question all the twinkling stars, 
 
 If in their shining they may sight 
 
 Some home-bound ship beyond the bars. 
 
 But never answer they return 
 
 The silence and the night are one; 
 
 The moonbeams chill, the sunbeams burn, 
 As round and round the seasons run, 
 
 And never, never bring me back 
 The ventures sent out long ago, 
 
 Across the treacherous ocean's track, 
 To realms beyond the cold and snow. 
 
 PERCHANCE. 
 
 Still looking forward to my hope 
 
 I watch the white snows on the slope, 
 
 Of mountain ranges; 
 And think perchance the breeze of May 
 Will bring with bloom of hawthorn spray 
 
 Some sweeter changes. 
 
 The morning glories white and red, 
 Of last year's planting, all are dead 
 
 Lilies have lost their glory, 
 And yet I know the pulse of spring 
 Will open them to blossoming 
 
 With May's returning story. 
 
 94
 
 HARRIET LANCASTER WESTCOTT. 
 
 Perchance the May will bring to me 
 The visions that in dreams I see, 
 
 And make its coming real. 
 But in this winter of my woe 
 I only see the falling snow, 
 
 And not my heart's ideal. 
 
 Oh ! speed, ye wheels of coming time, 
 And bring me to that sunny clime 
 
 Where shadow cometh never; 
 Where blossoms blooming never fall, 
 But hang in glory on the wall 
 
 Forever and forever. 
 
 HEKE AND THERE. 
 
 " Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees." Stone-wall 
 Jackson's last -words, 
 
 On this side we stand so lonely, 
 
 On this side we linger only 
 Till the parting summons calls; 
 
 As we gaze out over yonder 
 
 Of its rest we all grow fonder, 
 Heedless of what here befalls. 
 
 Where eternal sunbeams quiver 
 
 In the land beyond the river, 
 Calm content forever rolls; 
 
 There are trees whose cooling shadow 
 
 Lies across the emerald meadow, 
 Giving rest to weary souls. 
 
 95
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 White sands 011 the beach are lying, 
 Wave to wave is still replying, 
 
 But iu silence or ill sound, 
 
 There are those who, crossing over, 
 Father, mother, child or lover 
 
 Leave no footprints that are found. 
 
 Soldier, statesman, minstrel, maiden, 
 Each heart light or heavy laden, 
 
 Waits, at last its turn to cross 
 In the sunlight or star shining, 
 With souls joyous or repining, 
 
 Laying down life's gain or loss. 
 
 Oh ! the sad procession, proving 
 We are only human, moving 
 In its silence to the shore. 
 
 There are links that now lie broken 
 Words on lips and yet unspoken- 
 Songs that can be sung no more. 
 
 All life's smiling, all life's weeping, 
 
 All life's waking, all life's sleeping 
 End when once we touch this tide. 
 
 Thou! whose love our sins can cover, 
 
 Lead us gently, kindly over, 
 Where in rest we shall abide. 
 
 96
 
 HARRIET LANCASTER WESTCOTT.
 
 HARRIET LANCASTER WESTCOTT. 
 
 AN AUTUMN REVEKIE. 
 
 The autumn leaves are falling, the summer days have fled, 
 Each faded leaf recalling some summer long since dead. 
 The wind sweeps o'er the stubble and down the valley road, 
 And life is full of trouble and heavier grows life's load. 
 
 If lilies and if roses would only never fade, 
 
 If violets and daisies forever with us stayed, 
 
 If emerald vale and meadow would wear eternal green, 
 
 Ah, never would a shadow come o'er the summer scene. 
 
 If life were always changeless and love forever true, 
 
 If hope for each new comer, and joy we only knew, 
 
 If never any sorrow came o'er the human heart 
 
 There'd never be a morrow when friends would need to part. 
 
 Beyond us and above us we hear an echo fall; 
 It reaches those who love us in palace or in hall, 
 It sings the song of ages that were and are to be 
 And opens wide the pages that some may never see. 
 
 We listen and we linger, and still the days go by; 
 We watch the Sybil's finger beneath a darkening sky, 
 We hear the whispered warning but still we do not heed 
 The lesson night or morning, though hearts may break or 
 bleed. 
 
 97
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Oh, sunshine in the meadow this pleasant afternoon, 
 Why is it that the shadow must follow on so soon? 
 Why is it that the flowers, the white, the blue, the red, 
 Are falling on earth's bosom, their fragile beauty dead? 
 
 A type, alas ! of mortals that come on earth to bloom. 
 Then pass beyond the portals that open to the tomb ! 
 Life hath its meed of gladness, but oh ! so brief its stay, 
 It leaves behind it sadness that never goes away.
 
 MA Y SPENCER PARK AND. 
 
 flDa\> Spencer ifarranfc. 
 
 A VACANT PLACE. 
 
 There's a song whose notes are slow and sweet 
 
 And the words are sad and tender, 
 Though my heart it seems to throb and beat 
 
 With a wave of departed splendor. 
 There's a face that never in mortal ken 
 
 Shall smile on the loved left lonely, 
 And feet that walk not the ways of men, 
 
 And a voice that in dreams comes only. 
 
 There's a harp that lies with a broken string, 
 And a leaf turned down, of a story; 
 
 A song on the rack that she used to sing, 
 Who sings now in the realms of glory. 
 
 There's a chair left vacant, where mem'ry shows, 
 As the twilight around us closes, 
 
 A form that lieth in soft repose 
 
 And a face that is 'neath the roses. 
 
 There's a piece of work in the basket dropped, 
 
 'Twas designed as a loving token, 
 It lies unfinished, the needle stopped 
 
 When the thread of her life was broken; 
 There's an angel now on the other side 
 
 And on this a home left lonely; 
 There's a vacant chair by the fireside 
 
 And a voice that in dreams comes only. 
 
 99
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 OUTCAST. 
 
 Flaunting the tinsel of shame in your face, 
 
 Heeding no warning, 
 Living and trading on her disgrace, 
 When has she seen in the look of a face, 
 
 Pity, not scorning? 
 Matron, with children who flee to your breast 
 
 When griefs assail them. 
 
 What if your hands were crossed dumbly in rest, 
 If you could guard not the birds in your nest, 
 
 If you should fail them? 
 
 Has she had ever to cheer her and guide, 
 
 Mother's affection? 
 
 Holding her back when she faltered aside, 
 Softly to praise her, or gently to chide, 
 
 For her protection ? 
 Looking in scorn upon all that she hath, 
 
 Her degradation ; 
 
 Spurning the sinner, astray from the path, 
 Judge not, ye know not. ye righteous in wrath, 
 
 What her temptation ! 
 
 What wiles have lured her to falter and fall, 
 
 Poor sister woman ! 
 Is there between ye so mighty a wall, 
 Barrier iron, impassable, tall? 
 
 Is she not human?
 
 MA Y SPENCER FARRAND. 
 
 When has a 1 hand been outstretched her to save, 
 
 Not to degrade her? 
 
 Erring, as human, she took what ye gave, 
 And she will go to her rest in the grave, 
 
 What man hath made her ! 
 
 Turn then and scoff at the wreck if ye will, 
 
 (Sin-hardened features), 
 
 Turn, but while scorn doth your scrutiny fill, 
 Know that for all of her faults she is still 
 
 One of God's creatures ! 
 And in the day when all things shall be known, 
 
 By our temptation, 
 
 Not by our failures and erring alone 
 When we stand up, face to face at God's throne, 
 
 Be our salvation ! 
 
 THE HAUNTED CASTLE. 
 
 It stands with crumbling walls decayed, 
 
 By bats and rooks tenanted, 
 And village wight and peasant maid 
 Recount the tale, as half afraid 
 The tale of halls enchanted; 
 How thro' that ruin flits the shade 
 Of many a form that once hath strayed 
 Within that castle haunted. 
 
 101
 
 EYEN1NGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Each stranger doth the legend hear, 
 
 Doth list the oft' told story, 
 Of ghostly figures that appear, 
 Of knights whose spur-clank frights the ear, 
 
 And chieftains, old and hoary, 
 Who come again with lance and spear, 
 To gather there at midnight drear 
 In all their old time glory. 
 
 That stately pile, a ruin old, 
 
 A wreck of by-gone splendor, 
 Hath witnessed many a love tale told, 
 The vow of knightly lover bold, 
 And glances fond and tender. 
 The lips that spoke the pledge are cold, 
 But still those halls its echo hold, 
 That saw a heart's surrender. 
 
 Within those rooms full mau3' a knight 
 
 Hath sued his lady's token, 
 And worn it forth in valiant fight 
 With clinking mail and shield bedight; 
 
 And now the gloom is broken 
 By sounds of revelry at night, 
 By toasts and laughter gay and light, 
 
 Where gallant words were spoken. 
 
 Some lady fair of high estate 
 
 Did near yon lattice hover, 
 And there with blushing cheek await 
 The prancing steed pass thro' the gate, 
 
 That bore her lordly lover.
 
 MA Y SPENCER FAR RAND. 
 
 And now, when evening's hour grows late, 
 A face behind that crumbling grate 
 These village folk discover. 
 
 No more those halls are gay with song, 
 
 By throbbing hearts tenanted, 
 No more those knights assail the wrong, 
 And ride with gallant mien and strong, 
 
 From out those gates enchanted. 
 But as night's shadow groweth long 
 They gather there, that spectral throng 
 Within that castle haunted. 
 
 IN ANGELS' SONGS. 
 
 You came to my life like a fragrant bloom 
 
 In a desert's green oasis, 
 Like a star that gleams through the night of gloom 
 
 And shines on the shadowed places; 
 
 As a low, sweet cord with a tender air, 
 
 Steals over the hush of even, 
 And raises the heart from its earthly care 
 
 To a dim forecast of Heaven. 
 
 You left my life as the summer flies, 
 
 At touch of the frost king's fingers, 
 As the star recedes in the darkened skies 
 
 And only a mem'ry lingers. 
 I list for the sound of the chord in vain, 
 
 In the twilight hush of even, 
 But I know it will steal on my ear again, 
 
 In the angels' songs in Heaven. 
 
 103
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Emma p. 
 
 OLD WINTER IN COLORADO. 
 
 Old winter ! at thy name what visions rise 
 
 Of fields outstretched, bewildering brown and bare, 
 Of ice and chill, and snowdrifts everywhere, 
 Or mists and rain and lowering cloudy skies. 
 Thou hast thy sunny side, thy gloomy guise 
 Is not for us; upon this ambient air 
 Thy breath is sweet as May, and thou dost wear 
 Such smiles ! Each morn unfolds some new surprise. 
 O'er Colorado's mountains thou dost trail 
 Thy days so sun-bespangled that they seem 
 
 Steps to the infinite, and whirl on whirl 
 They circle westward like a golden sail 
 Upon the billowy blue, a radiant dream 
 
 Which nightward drifts upon their gates of pearl. 
 
 BEAUTY OF SIN. 
 
 They told me the story over and over, 
 
 That sin was hateful to mortal eyes. 
 I looked for a monster; how could I know, 
 
 When she came in beautiful radiant guise, 
 My strength of purpose to overthrow, 
 
 That she was the temptress? Ah, sin is fair; 
 The thistle bloom is sweet as the clover, 
 
 Till you feel the sting of its prick, beware. 
 
 104
 
 EMMA P. SEA BURY. 
 
 ONLY A SLIP OF THE PEN. 
 
 Did I write that I loved you? Ah, never; 
 
 It was only a slip of the pen, 
 For loving means giving forever, 
 
 And asking for nothing again; 
 
 Means souls that life cannot sever, 
 
 And death blends in harmony. When 
 
 Did I say that I loved you? Ah, never; 
 It was only a slip of the pen. 
 
 I could give you life's sweetest endeavor, 
 Myself and my frailties but then 
 
 Love means so much more ! You are clever, 
 But you're often mistaken, you men. 
 
 Did I write that I loved you? Ah, never; 
 It was only a slip of the pen. 
 
 FIDES. 
 
 Yes, I forgive you, dearest; you must see 
 
 That this is love's sweet mission every day, 
 And yet I can but own, it startles me 
 
 To feel you might have frightened me away. 
 When once a tempest tears and rends a tree, 
 
 It quivers when it hears its voice alway, 
 Till wooing breeze and loving skies and glee 
 
 Of stars have kissed and wooed it back thro' many 
 a May, 
 
 105
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Nature and love are patient, and you know 
 They never wait the sunshine all in vain; 
 
 You will not chide me, dearest, if I say, 
 Please wait awhile, the gladness and the glow, 
 That came and went with you, before the pain 
 Through all my being, rent and thrilled its way. 
 
 Under the snow, the arbustus' sweet leaves 
 
 Reach with true instinct for the hand of spring; 
 Under the snow the woodland violet weaves 
 
 The dainty texture of its covering. 
 Under the mossy stone the tendril cleaves 
 
 Its sinewy way to light; on restless wing 
 The birds, whose spirit in the shadow grieves, 
 
 Mount up to Heaven and circle, soar and sing. 
 No spring so late that flowers lose their trust, 
 
 No Joy so long delayed but love may see 
 
 Some hidden germ unfolding in the gloom. 
 Nature interprets love, as flowers, dust. 
 
 Our souls are like the waiting buds to me; 
 
 In God's own time they have their perfect bloom. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 Always just outside the conflict, 
 Watchman on the outer wall; 
 
 Gonfalon in which I glory 
 
 Swaying, seized, about to fall; 
 
 106
 
 EMMA P. SEABURY 
 
 Eager, restless, anxious, burning 
 For the fray, with flying feet; 
 
 But a sentinel returning 
 
 With his folded arms, his beat. 
 From the General at the gate 
 Comes the order "Stand and wait.' 
 
 Always hearing in the distance 
 Roll of fife and beat of drum; 
 
 Always feeling fate's resistance; 
 Siren voices calling, "Come, 
 
 Walk the mountain paths with beauty, 
 Scale the height, the glory glean;" 
 
 Always fettered close to duty, 
 
 Groping through the black ravine; 
 Love and life and light innate, 
 But the Master orders "Wait !" 
 
 Always toiling and aspiring 
 For the vague ideal goal; 
 
 Hope, ambition, purpose firing 
 Every impulse of my soul. 
 
 Always by a hair's-breadth missing 
 Bitter, sour, importunate, 
 
 Hearing the successful, hissing 
 "Always just a little late !" 
 Patience I can ne'er create, 
 Still I hear the mandate "Wait !" 
 
 Hope and dreams and youth evanish, 
 Pain and care are passing hard; 
 
 Still the wish I cannot banish, 
 For the toil and its reward. 
 
 107
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 Still iny prize is won by others; 
 
 Weak I grow, disconsolate. 
 Oh ! the heaviest cross, my brothers, 
 
 In this Cavalry of fate, 
 . Is not early work and late, 
 
 But with folded hands to wait. 
 
 By-aud-by, I often wonder 
 
 What the Master's will may be, 
 
 When the spirit bursts asunder, 
 From its mortal fetters free, 
 
 Will Time still have its dominion? 
 Shall I always feel its bond? 
 
 Or on light ethereal pinion 
 
 Shall I range the heights beyond? 
 Warder, at the heavenly gate, 
 Wilt thou echo still "Too late?" 
 Wilt thou bid my spirit wait? 
 
 108
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL. 
 
 IRelson 
 
 HYMN ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT 
 LINCOLN. 
 
 With awe profound this day, 
 The Nation bows to pray 
 
 In bitter grief; 
 
 And through the stricken land 
 The broken-hearted stand 
 And mourn on every hand 
 
 Their martyred chief. 
 
 The Almighty ruler hears 
 His sorrowing people's tears 
 
 Fall at His feet; 
 Makes our just cause His eare, 
 Indites and hears our prayer, 
 And for us still makes bare 
 
 His mercy seat. 
 
 O, Thou who hast removed 
 "Him whom the people loved" 
 
 Thy servant rare 
 Who gavest him strength and light 
 To see and guard the right, 
 Still grant Thy holy might 
 
 To men of prayer. 
 
 109
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Bless still our Nation' head- 
 Successor of the dead 
 
 And keep his life; 
 While armies cease their tread, 
 And those who fought and bled 
 Rest on their peaceful bed, 
 Heal all our strife. 
 
 Comfort each stricken one, 
 O, God, the Father, Son 
 
 And Holy Ghost; 
 While in our hearts we own 
 That here Thy love is known 
 And Thine the only throne 
 
 Of which we boast. 
 
 KING KONKAPUT'S APOSTROPHE UPON 
 PIKE'S PEAK. 
 
 I seem as nothing, Source of Nature, now; 
 
 Foot-hills, and plains and peaks in beauty vie, 
 While from above the bending heavens bow 
 
 To blend as one' thy blessed majesty, 
 
 And halo all the human eye can see, 
 With the best glory of the sun's glad beam, 
 
 Into one most amazing mystery 
 Where sights so grand are grander than they seem. 
 And strains of silent music most melodious stream. 
 
 no
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL. 
 
 Yet what I see, yon eagle looks upon 
 
 More grandly, o'er the tallest mountain height; 
 
 He soars above the distant, dazzling sun, 
 As if to live on its affluent light, 
 And of the sun's own eye to catch the sight; 
 
 Then on, and on, he soars and sails away, 
 Defying height in all his daring flight, 
 
 Till, like a speck he seems of the sun's ray. 
 
 And dies of distance in the depths of uudim'd day ! 
 
 O that I might thus soar above the earth; 
 
 In my uplifting seem myself the less, . 
 And lead the world to long for loftier worth; 
 
 On sires and sons this princely scene impress, 
 
 So blend with sunbeams this sad earth to bless; 
 Soaring away from every wanton sight, 
 
 And, drenched in sunlight as my living dress, 
 Or, losing self in the surpassing light, 
 
 Illume earth's darkness and allay distress; 
 So, sinking self from sight in light and height, 
 As thus to make earth's chill and breadth more cheer and 
 bright. 
 
 Behold I stand now 'bove my native hills ! 
 
 I view once more their varied landscapes o'er; 
 My throbbing brain enthralled in beauty thrills 
 
 While memory weeps o'er men I'll meet no more ! 
 
 Here Ca-Ni-Ah-Che stood in days of yore; 
 Here Clark, Kit Carson and kind Fremont came; 
 
 Here famous leaders stood, full long before, 
 With him who conjured first my kingly name;
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Aye, in this place stood he whom I deplore, 
 Whose warrior name was iiot unknown to fame: 
 His race I haste to bless, rather than curse or blame ! 
 
 I would now lead 1'rom nature up to God 
 
 My wicked race of wayward, war-like men, 
 Along the paths the Prince of Peace hath trod, 
 
 And consecrate to Him each mount and glen. 
 
 My steps, O Lord, I bend where thou hast been, 
 And give my life, with every gain and loss; 
 
 And if I fail, would fall in some such scene 
 As this, or that where thou hast laid thy Cross 
 
 So high and clear, so holy and so clean, 
 As driven snow, with not a speck of dross: 
 So, into Heaven from Pizgah's heights I'd pass across ! 
 
 NED'S VALENTINE. 
 
 To fain a forgetting with hope to succeed, 
 
 Like regrets for regretting, still pays the more heed; 
 
 I fained to forget thee; for thus I agreed; 
 
 But kind fates would not let me effect the false deed; 
 
 For each leisure hour, with love on its wing, 
 
 Possessed the strange power bright visions to bring 
 
 From the fields of the past; and each time where we met, 
 
 From the first to the last, lives vividly yet; 
 
 And honest affection for thee still for thee 
 
 Forbids the reflection She thinks not of me ! 
 
 112
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL.
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL. 
 
 O, the sweet sunny hours, the deep vernal skies, 
 The forests and flowers, where love-lighted eyes 
 Together were glancing joys mutual and true 
 When the night air, advancing through tAvilight and dew, 
 Waved gently beside us as we sat confiding, 
 No mortal to chide us, where small trees were hiding 
 Our sacred retreat but the woodman had been 
 And made us a seat, so suited just then; 
 When you left in my power you do not forget- 
 To prolong yet the hour I would it were yet ! 
 
 Rare moments like those with the one I most love, 
 
 Will cheer life to its close, and make sweeter above 
 
 The glorified air where glad angels reside, 
 
 With communion their care, pure affection their pride; 
 
 While dear saints we have known, in their services here, 
 
 Bent down from their throne to hark to our cheer, 
 
 In our utterances true of emotions as pure 
 
 As the hearts where they grew and the hopes they ensure, 
 
 So chaste and so choice they'll be e'er chanted o'er 
 
 By sweet daughters of voice, the swift echoes of yore ! 
 
 Aye, 'twere easier far, to rob a clear night 
 
 Of its most brilliant star, than steal thee from my sight; 
 
 And on this day of mating, when the beasts and the birds 
 
 Their proposals are stating in their most loving words, 
 
 I would not forget thee, but void my rash vow; 
 
 For thy words will not let me I'm hearing them now 
 
 And whate'er betide me on life's tossing sea, 
 
 Three guerdons shall guide me God, duty and thee; 
 
 And the joy of my life (could that joy but be mine) 
 
 Would be: Thee for my .By Saint Valentine.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING HYMN FOR HARD TIMES. 
 
 We come to worship Thee, 
 God of eternity, 
 
 With grateful song; 
 With thanks for daily bread, 
 For place to lay our head, 
 For love that still hath led 
 
 Our lives along. 
 
 We thank Thy thoughtful will 
 For all things needful still, 
 
 For public peace; 
 For seasons and for rains, 
 For fruitage and for grains, 
 For all Thy love ordains, 
 
 Nor let them cease. 
 
 We ask Thine aid to bear 
 Each crushing load of care, 
 
 So like Thy cross; 
 To walk in wisdom's way, 
 In all we do or say, 
 "Thy will be done," to pray, 
 
 In spite of loss. 
 
 And as we try to do 
 What to all truth is true, 
 
 Hence from this hour, 
 God of eternity, 
 Do help us worship Thee 
 In sweet serenity. 
 
 Great Source of Power. 
 
 f'4
 
 S. MARIE TALBOT. 
 
 ic Galbot 
 
 WATCHMAN ! WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 
 
 "Tell me, watchman ! what thou seest 
 
 Scanning all the sullen main, 
 Where my argosies are sailing, 
 
 Tell me, will they come again, 
 Heavy laden with the treasures 
 
 Which at home I sought in vain 
 Gems from India's sunlit tropics, 
 
 Priceless stores of hoarded grain?" 
 
 And he answered from his tower: 
 
 "Naught I see of ships of thine; 
 O'er the sky the storm rack flieth, 
 
 Churns in wrath the angry brine; 
 Shrieks the North-wind from his cavern, 
 
 And from every starry sign 
 Gleams but portent of disaster, 
 
 Woe to-night for ships of thine !" 
 
 Then I thought of wife and children 
 
 For whose sake I ventured all, 
 And my soul grew sick and fainting 
 
 Lest the dreaded blow should fall. 
 But behold ! across the cloud rack 
 
 Shining bright a starlet small, 
 Message sent across the spaces, 
 
 "Let there naught thy heart appall !
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 "He who hollowed out the ocean, 
 Set each star upon its throne, 
 
 He will neither sleep nor slumber, 
 Watching o'er his very own." 
 
 Then I knew iny ships would enter 
 Into harbor, one by one, 
 
 With the wealth for wife and babies, 
 That had been so hardly won. 
 
 "Tell me, watchman ! what thou seest?" 
 
 We were on the sullen sea, 
 And again the cloud rock drifted, 
 
 While my darlings flung to me. 
 Raged the tempest, roared the storm-fiend, 
 
 And the land was far a-lee, 
 "Woe to thee with thy heart treasures !" 
 
 Cried the watchman out to me. 
 
 When the morning dawned in splendor, 
 
 And the storm was over past, 
 I, a shipwrecked man and sailor 
 
 On an ocean rock was fast, 
 But I found nor wife nor children 
 
 Throughout all the dreary waste, 
 And my soul was sick within me, 
 
 And I prayed for death at last. 
 
 Then the sound of distant watch-cry, 
 
 Heard but by the inner ear, 
 "Safe in harbor !" "Landed safely !" 
 
 "Cease thy cry of anguished fear ! 
 
 116
 
 S. MARIE TALBOT. 
 
 There shall be no sea nor sailing 
 After shores that disappear, 
 
 Anchored safe in Heaven's harbor, 
 They are sharing angels' cheer." 
 
 "Watchman ! tell me by what journey 
 
 I may follow in their wake? 
 By what perils, through what dangers, 
 
 I that heavenly shore may make?" 
 "Christ," he said, "must be the pilot, 
 
 He'll not leave thee, nor forsake, 
 Till across the waste of waters 
 
 Heaven's beacon lights shall break.' 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 'INSCRIBED TO THE AUTHOR'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Where Aves are ringing 
 
 From altar to dome, 
 Where woman is worshipped 
 
 In palace and home, 
 Supremest and sweetest 
 
 And brightest and best, 
 Belov'd with a passion 
 
 No words have expressed 
 'Tis Mary unto whom 
 
 The world's heart has turned 
 'Tis many unto whom 
 
 Its incense has burned. 
 
 117
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 But thou, of all Mary's 
 
 The world has adored, 
 For thee Love's libation 
 
 Is richest outpoured. 
 In darkness our angel, 
 
 Our life's latest flow'r, 
 We own thy dominion, 
 
 Thy sovereign pow'r; 
 And could we but wrest 
 
 From the earth, air or sea, 
 Its choicest of treasures, 
 
 'Twould be but for thee. 
 
 While life holds its throne, 
 Either here or beyond, 
 
 'Tis to Mary, sweet Mary, 
 Our hearts will respond. 
 
 EARLY AND LATE. 
 I. 
 
 A gladsome girl a summer's morn, 
 A springing step an eye of light, 
 
 A breeze that sang 'mid tass'led corn, 
 
 And mead aglint with dew gems bright. 
 
 Adown the years the maiden's eyes 
 
 With wistful question bent their blue, 
 
 And asked the tender opal skies 
 
 If Life were fair and Love were true. 
 
 118
 
 S. MARIE TALBOT. 
 
 And ev'ry bird its mate that wooed, 
 And ev'ry sound that stirred the air, 
 
 Joined in the chorus: "All is good ! 
 And Love is true and Life is fair." 
 
 II. 
 
 An afternoon of grey and gloom, 
 A leaden sky with clouds o'ercast, 
 
 A woman in her darkened room, 
 Back looking to a youth o'erpast. 
 
 Adown the western slope of life 
 
 She sees from out her window's square, 
 And all her days with sorrow rife 
 
 Forbid her say that Life is fair. 
 
 A churchyard stone, a mound of grass, 
 A lock of hair untouched by grey, 
 
 Are all that's left her now, alas ! 
 
 Of that far distant springtime day. 
 
 The azure eyes that time has paled, 
 
 Look now with trust "beyond these tears," 
 
 Nor grief has wrought nor woe prevailed 
 To slay the faith of early years. 
 
 To quench the spirit's deathless glow, 
 That sings until its journey's through, 
 
 Though tempests toss and wild winds blow, 
 That "Life was fair, and Love is true." 
 
 119
 
 ElEN/NGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Sarab E. 1bowart>. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Again the orchards hold to view 
 
 A tempting, luscious prize, 
 A wealth of fruit that ruddy grew 
 
 Beneath the summer skies. 
 The grape leaves, curling, crisp and brown. 
 Display the vineyard's purpling crown. 
 
 A sharpness in the morning air, 
 
 A beauty new that thrills- 
 Rich gleams of gold and scarlet where 
 
 Are wooded vales and hills; 
 And by the roadside yellow plumes 
 Of golden-rod, and aster blooms. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE ROSES. 
 
 I slept, and the mystical beings of dreamland. 
 
 Wove fancies to charm me, so life-like and dear, 
 I wandered delighted through magical seem-land. 
 
 And all was as naught that encompassed me here. 
 The snow hid the prairies there grasses were waving, 
 
 The storm-wind was moaning there birds were in tune, 
 And flower-fringed river-banks, waters were laving, 
 
 For midnight in winter was morning in June.
 
 SARAH E. HOWARD. 
 
 I stood by the home of rny childhood ; the roses 
 
 Still over the windows and roof clambered free; 
 The wide open door to. my vision discloses 
 
 My mother's loved face beaming welcomes to me 
 The white picket fence by the roses half hidden, 
 
 The bushes of "cinnamon," yellow and white, 
 The "old-fashioned roses" gold-hearted unchidden 
 
 Ran over their boundaries and blossomed in sight. 
 
 I stood as one gazing entranced at a painting; 
 
 To look on the scene was a pleasure was bliss. 
 I plucked not the roses, I claimed not, through fainting 
 
 With longings to gain it, my mother's fond kiss. 
 The pictures in life may be fleeting and fading 
 
 The scene in my dream is still vivid and clear, 
 I cherish in mind, every line, every shading 
 
 In all of my wand'rings that picture is dear. 
 
 The white picket fence with the roses half hidden, 
 The bushes of "cinnamon," yellow and white, 
 
 The "old-fashioned roses" gold-hearted unchidden, 
 That out-ran their boundaries and blossomed in sight; 
 
 The hundred-leafed rose, and the rose of the prairie, 
 The rose-covered cottage I always shall see; 
 
 The form of my mother the home-making fairy- 
 All, all make a picture that fades not with me.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Thou, Life, art not a dream; 
 Nor yet a wavering light 
 That goeth out in night 
 
 Stern, rugged places seam 
 
 Thy way. Still from it gleam 
 Prophetic rays, too bright 
 To perish. To our sight 
 
 Thou art a flowing stream 
 
 With chances freighted. He 
 Who bravely takes a stand, 
 
 And dares to strive and be, 
 Builds not upon the sand- 
 But chances great and grand, 
 
 He finds, dear Life, in thee. 
 
 TO A BABY. 
 
 "Upon life's tossing, stormy sea, 
 Whereon to sailor brave, or bold, 
 No chart or compass, way has told, 
 
 Frail, tiny bark, we welcome thee. 
 
 With rocks and shoals on bow and lea. 
 No sight prophetic, course can take, 
 Nor tell what harbor thou shalt make, 
 
 Save his. who bade thee, child, to be. 
 
 122
 
 SARAH E. HOWARD. 
 
 The good and true are in thy heart; 
 
 List to their voices; they shall guide; 
 Be of their very souls a part, 
 
 And clouds shall fade and sorrows hide, 
 And human love, and Love Divine, 
 Shall hold and keep thee; they are thine. 
 
 "OUT OF THE DEPTHS." 
 
 Out of the depths of my soul a voice is calling, entreating, 
 Oh, Mother Nature, make thou some of thy mysteries mine ! 
 Lend me thy guidance; thy laws, the beauty and power in 
 
 thee meeting, 
 Open my vision to see; I would be student of thine. 
 
 O'er me the beautiful heavens with myriad planets are 
 glowing; 
 
 'Neath me the bountiful earth, teeming with wonders un 
 told; 
 
 Out of the depths of the sea come voices thy awfulness 
 showing; 
 
 Even the least of thy works, pages of marvels unfold. 
 
 Oh that my ears had the gift to the soul of thy music to 
 
 listen; 
 Oh that my heart had the power thy teachings of love to 
 
 enfold; 
 Then would my vision grow clear, and through the dark 
 
 shadows would glisten 
 Truths that would help me to live that are old as the 
 
 mountains are old. 
 
 123
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Who can declare but a tree has a language and voice in 
 
 its growing? 
 Who can declare that the grass has never a song as it 
 
 springs? 
 Ears we may have but we hear not; eyes that are bright, 
 
 yet not knowing 
 Half of the truth of our lives, so many the dim, hidden 
 
 things. 
 
 The morning stars sang all together, ages ago, it is told us; 
 Little can we understand; dull are our earthly-filled ears; 
 Not till the mortal is dropped and the spiritual senses en 
 fold us, 
 Can we expect to awake awake to the music of spheres. 
 
 124
 
 DAVID BOYD. 
 
 THE LEUCOCRINUM.* 
 
 Fair Leucocrinum, lilly of the plain, 
 How modestly your virgin sepals peep 
 
 Between your leaves refreshed with recent rain 
 Your fine nerved leaves that lowly creep ! 
 
 Around your steniless blossoms pure and bright 
 As if to spread a carpet rich and rare 
 
 To keep your snowy calyx perfect white 
 For golden anthers wrought a chalice fair. 
 
 What virtue lurks in graceful form of thine, 
 And colors mingled gold and green and white, 
 
 To make these strong affections round thee twine, 
 As soothed the lingering eye drinks fresh delights? 
 
 I know thee well, a harbinger of spring, 
 A bringer of glad tidings from the fields 
 
 Where other buds in prudent waiting cling 
 Within their gummy scales, last winter's shields. 
 
 *Leucocrintitn is the botancial name of what is commonly called the 
 "white crocus." It belongs to the lily and not the crocus family Leucocri 
 num means "white petaled" but it is apetalous, the sepals colored as petals. 
 
 125
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Nor this, nor dearer hint you seem to bring, 
 That death for us is but a wintry chill, 
 
 Dissolved at last by some returning spring, 
 Renewing consciousness and regnant will. 
 
 Perennial as thy root and crown appear, 
 Fair Leucocrinum, yet there comes a May 
 
 When spring in vain for thee unlocks the year, 
 No sup of thine shall feel its quickening ray. 
 
 Nor at thy personal ending soul repine; 
 
 In gen'rous self-forgetfullness rejoice 
 That kindred hearts will throb to love as thine 
 
 And other ears shall gladden at her voice. 
 
 From nature's overflowing heart shall well 
 A stream of love, perennial as the tide 
 
 Which has its never ceasing fall and swell 
 While sun and moon its liquid atoms guide. 
 
 No false illusions lure my heart to thee; 
 
 I love thee for thy beauty's sake alone, 
 Though, all unconscious of this off'ring free, 
 
 You can no rnoi-e respond than lifeless stone. 
 
 And why may not the love that's offered up 
 To yonder maiden's beauty, be the same 
 
 As this I breathe into the lilly's cup? 
 Since she is all unconscious of a flame 
 
 126
 
 DAVID BOYD. 
 
 That glows without a hope that any day 
 Responsive love may own the kindred spell. 
 
 Such love nor asks nor thinks of other pay, 
 Its rich reward the pulse's fuller swell. 
 
 Disinterested love, as pure from dross 
 As native gold which crystal rocks embed, 
 
 By no corrosive care may suffer loss, 
 Until in throbbing heart the beat is dead. 
 
 IN MEMOBIAM. 
 
 As time sweeps by and robs you of the faces 
 That erst enriched your life with smiles and graces, 
 May these sweet pictures which the sunbeam traces, 
 Keep warm their memories for the soul's embraces. 
 
 THE ABOVE LINES WERE WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR IN HIS 
 DAUGHTER EVANTHIE'S PHOTOGRAPH ALBUM ON PRESENTING IT 
 TO HBR, NEW YEAR'S MORNING OF 1 888. ON HER DEATH THE 
 ENSUING OCTOBER, HE WROTE THE FOLLOWING : 
 
 The lines above betray illusive hopes 
 The May-morn promise of a sunny day. 
 Remote to me appeared the western slopes 
 On which its brilliant light would fade away. 
 
 The first of all those youthful faces thine 
 To lose its bloom, to wither, pine and waste; 
 
 To lose affection's tracings, free and fine, 
 To have its bright intelligence erased. 
 
 127
 
 EYENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 The first of all that brilliant sisterhood * 
 Whose highest honors crowned thy proud young head, 
 
 To sink beneath the all-engulfing flood, 
 Life's feast, just tasted, full before thee spread. 
 
 One hour supreme of glorious gladness thine, 
 When borne on thought's and feeling's currents strong 
 
 You quaffed the spirit's bright ethereal wine 
 The joy of face-transfigured list'niug throng. 
 
 This hour was worth an age of listless life; 
 
 A long, dull, dragging life you did not crave. 
 You fancied that your beck'uing years were rife 
 
 With stimuli that lead to early grave. 
 
 But this grand hour seemed morn to many more 
 
 A promise of the noontide's fuller light; 
 Foretaste of moments more intense in store, 
 
 When ripened powers achieve the summit's height. 
 
 "The baseless fabric of a dream" appears, 
 The splendid purpose beaming in those eyes: 
 
 The future hark'uing of those wistful ears, 
 A phantasy that lures an hour and dies. 
 
 We sat and watched the lips grow thin and pale, 
 The speech come painful to the numbed tongue. 
 
 But could not think that strength and tone would fail 
 To come again to one so brave and young. 
 
 *The Greeley High School class of 1887 was composed of ten girls and only one 
 boy. 
 
 128
 
 DAViD BOYD.
 
 DAVID BOYD. 
 
 The ear grew dull and caught our voice with pain, 
 The eyes grew dim and felt a failing light; 
 
 They told of worn and weary wasted brain, 
 Of consciousness fast sinking into night. 
 
 At last the slow and slower hard-drawn breath, 
 The languid pulse, the cold sweat on the brow, 
 
 The sense of touch extinct showed hovering death 
 Was slowly settling o'er its victim now. 
 
 The clinging hand responds to mine no more, 
 A silent last farewell it feebly said; 
 
 Faint recognition ling'ring on the shore 
 Within that clasp, from palm and fingers fled. 
 
 Soon all is o'er. The last long breath exhaled, 
 The pulse is still, the heart has ceased to beat, 
 
 The glassy eyes the ether waves assailed 
 In vain. There was no spirit there to greet. 
 
 With weary, sleepless brain and sad, sore heart, 
 
 I bow before death's stem reality. 
 The inner life pines for its severed part, 
 But wails in vain to deaf mortality. 
 
 The All is heartless, bleak inanity; 
 
 It hears no prayers, is blind to falling tears; 
 To praise or blame it were insanity, 
 
 For what to it our few or many years ! 
 
 129
 
 EVEXINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 I know it were a pleasing thought indeed 
 To think of spirit clothed in warmth and light, 
 
 Its movement rapid as the sunbeam's speed, 
 Its course as dazzling as the lightning's flight. 
 
 Its contact with the thing it loves complete 
 
 An iuterpenetration each in each. 
 No fatal consequences to defeat 
 
 Love's raptures ere the goal we reach. 
 
 To think that universal thought indwells- 
 Its vesture these pulsating ether waves 
 
 Which penetrate the brain's gray cells 
 Can feel the wants our "inner being craves, 
 
 Can ht'lp us to the utmost in our need. 
 And wills our highest weal as father kind, 
 And loves to grant us what we wisely plead 
 Such thought were succor to a grief-struck mind. 
 
 This fond, illusive fancy once was mine 
 The child's inheritance from childish age, 
 
 But universal Father, named divine, 
 Now seems but fetich of the twilight sage. 
 
 Birth of the fancy of the dreamy East, 
 Brahm, phantom spirit of the cosmic whole, 
 
 Still lingers in the vision of the priest 
 And mystic, fount of life, and thought, and soul. 
 
 The Kosmos owes its form and attitude to-day 
 
 To unbeginning. all-persistent force; 
 Behind the scene I see no free will's play, 
 
 No pilot's hand or eye to guide its course. 
 
 130
 
 DAVID BOYD. 
 
 This ceaseless change, this flux and flow of form, 
 
 Is outcome of the atoms' energy; 
 It shapes the clouds that frown above the storm 
 
 And plies the loom that weaves life's tragedy. 
 
 To us no help can come from yonder sky, 
 No spirits hovering round can hear our cry. 
 
 No heart save human feel our sorrow's sigh, 
 No hand save human wipe a weeping eye. 
 
 In human sympathy is found alone 
 Such solace as may come to life's sad lot; 
 
 By kindly eyes, by speech's balmy tone, 
 By clinging hands up-holding, strength is brought. 
 
 "Is this life all? Then let us pitch it high."* 
 What beauty, sweetness, strength the germs enclose 
 
 Let each unfold in blossom ere we die, 
 And leave a fragrance like the withered rose. 
 
 *Matthew Arnold.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 William 
 
 THE SILENT SONG. 
 
 O, ask me not to sing to-night 
 
 The song I sung in happier years. 
 The words would only come in sobs, 
 
 Each note would be all wet with tears; 
 These fingers could not touch the harp 
 
 Now, but to win from every string 
 Such music as the lark might breathe, 
 
 Drooped o'er its nest with broken wing. 
 There is no joy, not memory e'en 
 
 No sunny days night's starry shine 
 Not fondly linked to that sweet song, 
 
 Thro' all this lonely life of mine. 
 
 But bid me sing some gladsome song, 
 
 All full of laughter, careless, free- 
 Some gleeful thing all breeze, and light 
 
 As sunshine o'er the summer sea 
 Or some gay song that mocks at life 
 
 And laughs at tears and eare and pain, 
 And scoffs at love and woman's smiles 
 
 I'll sing it in a merry vein. 
 Or bid me join the joyous dance, 
 . Where hearts are glad and feet are light, 
 And music throbs and jests are blithe 
 
 I cannot sing that song to-night 
 
 132
 
 WILLIAM GLENDINNING. 
 
 Here in this self-same brilliant hall, 
 
 'Mid dazzling lights and bloom of flowers, 
 And flashing smiles from crimson lips, 
 
 While music sped the fleeting hours, 
 I last sang that old tender song, 
 
 My lost, fair darling sitting there. 
 The light lay o'er her bonnie face, 
 
 And gleamed bright on her red gold hair, 
 While in her dusky eyes methought 
 
 There lingered love that was all mine. 
 Ah ! as well might you poor foolish heart 
 
 Put trusting faith in false red wine. 
 
 And ever since that old sweet song 
 
 Lies buried in my heart's deep core, 
 'Mong memories of a golden dream 
 
 That comes to bless my days no more; 
 The only relic of that dream, 
 
 And which I hoard with "miser care," 
 Is this wee bit of ribbon blue, 
 
 Tied round this tress of gold bronze hair. 
 That song shall never pass these lips, 
 
 'Tis sacred to that hollowed past, 
 And to a gladness dead for aye 
 
 A joy that was too sweet to last. 
 
 Oh ! we may laugh and we may sing, 
 And we may join in the festive dance; 
 
 And hand may warmly clasp a hand, 
 
 E'en lip touch lip and glance meet glance, 
 
 133
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Yet never know bow hard it is 
 
 For each to hide u pain iii this. 
 Each knows not what the other's siuile 
 
 May cost to shield a broken bliss; 
 The heart its sorrow silent knows, 
 
 And to itself 'tis only known, 
 Nor dreams that e'er another may 
 
 Have griefs far deeper than its own. 
 
 OH, MENTION NOT! 
 
 Oh! mention not her name to me, 
 
 Tho' to my heart 'tis sweet; 
 It only adds a deeper pain 
 
 To every anguished beat; 
 Not only now, but evermore. 
 
 That name must silent be. 
 A world of wordless thoughts and dreams 
 
 Lie in it aye for me; 
 You would not wake a resting heart 
 
 Just but to give it pain? 
 Oh ! peace be still ! to me no more 
 
 E'er breathe that name again. 
 
 And she was fair so very fair- 
 Love seemed in every grace 
 
 In touch of that wee jeweled hand- 
 All o'er that glad, sweet face 
 
 134
 
 WILLIAM GLENDINNING. 
 
 Iii glance of that dear eye of blue, 
 
 Bright as the sheen of sea 
 In every tress of silken hair 
 
 And all, methought for me; 
 I could not think 1 never dreamt 
 
 That in that winsome smile 
 Could e'er hide aught that was not mine, 
 
 Or aught that was of guile. 
 
 Why should the fairest oft be false! 
 
 The dearest prove untrue? 
 Why should a poison often lurk 
 
 In blooms of brightest hue? 
 But so it is and many a heart 
 
 Thro' lone years wonders why 
 That all its wealth was rendered up 
 
 To hopes born but to die; 
 Oh ! pray be still, that name is dear 
 
 So wondrous dear to me! 
 I love it yet, but speak it not 
 
 Thro' all the days to be. 
 
 SING TO ME, MOTHER. 
 
 Sing to me, mother, I'm weary to-night, 
 
 Sing once again the old lullaby songs, 
 Your hand 'mong the tangled threads of my hair, 
 
 Gray, ah, so soon, with life's sorrows and wrongs. 
 Croon the old cradle songs softly and low, 
 
 Your lips near my cheek, my head on your breast, 
 In the old tender voice the sweet Scottish tongue 
 
 That lulled all the storms of my boyhood to rest;
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 I'm tired oh, so tired ! the day has been long. 
 
 And lonely the care and thankless the toil; 
 How brain has throbbed and heart weary grown, 
 
 To find but a frown where I hoped for a smile. 
 
 Sing let there coine o'er the waste of years lone, 
 
 Like a perfume forgotten, one lullaby song, 
 The mother-love-light in your own bonuie eyes, 
 
 In tones that the daisies have hidden so long; 
 'Twill bring back the golden grace of dead days, 
 
 That else will never return to me, 
 When earth owned naught sweeter than i-arol of bird, 
 
 Bright bloom of heather and glad hum of bee. 
 Sing to me, mother, and let me forget 
 
 The day's hollow shams its battle for gold- 
 Its ruthless ambition its scorn of the good 
 
 Its falsehood of smiles its friendship grown cold. 
 
 Sing to me, mother, my eager eyes close 
 
 Just for this once let me dream without care; 
 Your kiss on my brow will hush haunting thoughts, 
 
 And bring back the glossy brown curls to my hair; 
 Ah, mother ! since last your touch lingering lay 
 
 Like scented blossom so light on my head, 
 Life has been hard my trust oft betrayed 
 
 Fair hopes have faded love laid with the dead; 
 Clasp me yet closer no heart that e'er beat 
 
 Pressed close to mine, was so tender and leal; 
 No kiss like your own that kept faith thro' it all, 
 
 In storm and in shine in woe and in weal. 
 
 136
 
 WILLIAM GLENDINNING. 
 
 My heart cries aloud for you, mother, to-night, 
 
 Shadows within and without darkly fall; 
 There comes no reply, but your pictured face 
 
 In the firelight shines on my dusky wall; 
 Oh, wise wistful lips, with their wordless love, 
 
 Breathing from every curve and line ! 
 Oh, gentle eyes, with a prayer in them now, 
 
 For restful days that can never be mine ! 
 Where does that loved face hallow to-night, 
 
 As star-kissed gloaming creeps over the lawn? 
 Beyond the far blue or the glittering stars? 
 
 Or beyond the home of the golden dawn?
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Cbarles jfletcbcr Hllen, 
 
 BEFORE SEDAN THE UHLAN'S DREAM. 
 
 "The falling of darkness has covered the sea 
 
 That lies by the Swabian land; 
 I fancy the rustle of leaf aud tree, 
 The rush and roar and the tuneful glee 
 
 Of waters along the strand; 
 The broad Seefelden are still in gloom, 
 
 Save when at times in the moon's white glare, 
 The bittern's voice like a distant boom, 
 
 Rolls hoarsely by on the westward air. 
 
 "I dream this all with closed eyes, 
 No more resounds the sentry's tread, 
 Pale moonlight crouches o'er the dead, 
 
 And fairest Peace rules all the skies; 
 
 My comrades hear the distant fray 
 
 I know they sometimes watch and start; 
 
 And yet the sound is far away. 
 
 
 I only hear my beating heart; 
 
 "The campfires burning far below 
 
 Fade ever on my sight; 
 Mine eyes grow dimmer in their glow. 
 And louder still the billows flow 
 
 Beneath the Swabian height. 
 
 138
 
 CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN. 
 
 Sweet dreams of bright and blessed things, 
 Of home and love and flashing wine 
 Of dewy lips half raised to mine 
 
 Press down my head with snowy wings. 
 
 And yet there is one sweetest dream, 
 That deepest thrills my longing soul; 
 
 I fancy then by Argen's stream 
 
 I hear its waters downward roll; 
 
 I feel the warmth of her fair hand 
 
 Whose love is all of heaven I crave; 
 
 We sit again beside the strand 
 
 We watch the ships along the wave. 
 
 "Sometimes it seems our love is like 
 
 A dimly stretching sea, 
 Whereon all sailors launch alike. 
 
 Their port a mystery; 
 'Tis strange with what a ready hand 
 
 They set the surging sail; 
 They smile and vanish from the land, 
 
 And bless the swifter gale. 
 So like a sea ! we hear the flood 
 
 Come pushing at our feet; 
 We float away from where we stood, 
 
 Yet still we hear it beat. 
 We sail two ships my love and I, 
 
 Mine here we sail alone; 
 I may not guide the swaying helm, 
 
 I know our port is one: 
 
 T39
 
 E YEN INGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Somewhere within the coming laud 
 That yet I cannot plainly see 
 We two shall sail upon the strand, 
 And leapiug out pass hand in hand 
 
 Through years, oh happy years ! to be." 
 
 So ceased the voice the chilly dew 
 
 Had pressed his eyelids into sleep; 
 The cold night wind that hoarsely blew, 
 
 And Availed as sometimes men may weep, 
 Had nought of cold nor care for him 
 
 Who heard it from his mountain bed, 
 As some great choral, far and dim. 
 
 That spirits chant above the dead; 
 And through the dark and bloody fray, 
 
 That crowned the gleam of German arms. 
 His dream was ever as the day 
 
 That breaks upon the night's alarms; 
 A guardian angel robed in white, 
 
 That led him ever safe and free 
 Sweet spirit of the battle night, 
 
 We praise the God that giveth thee ! 
 
 INTER VIAS. 
 
 I fear the mount that grimly lies 
 
 Before my worn and weary feet, 
 Where only mockingly the skies 
 Stoop low as if elated eyes, 
 
 Beyond the roseate cirrous streak 
 Whose fire englows the awful peak, 
 Might see the gates of heaven meet. 
 
 140
 
 CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN. 
 
 For I have climbed such heights before, 
 
 Athirst and faint, but heart afire 
 To see some blest, enchanted shore 
 Of rest, and rest forever more; 
 
 Yet always, when the cliff I scaled, 
 The hopeless path but stretched and failed 
 Where other mountains lifted higher. 
 
 Eternal mountains ! restful vales ! 
 
 Where fortune rules a doubtful land, 
 Some height perchance the traveller scales 
 Where life leads on in flowery trails; 
 
 Ah ! then the grinning fates are kind 
 If haply death be far behind, 
 And youth still linger hand in hand. 
 
 MANON LESCAULT. 
 
 Here at the midway gates of night 
 My love lies in the dimming sun, 
 
 Her radiant face grown sad and white, 
 
 And her fair hair in blending light, 
 
 Like some tired, careless angel's crown, 
 
 Showered on the sand in tresses bright. 
 
 Dear weary feet that vainly tried 
 In faith and love the desert gray; 
 
 And sweetest eyes that only spied 
 
 Kind flowers where sullen serpents lay; 
 It may be better you should rest 
 
 To-night, and never know the day. 
 
 141
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 The brazen portals of the world 
 
 Were closed behind our wandering feet; 
 
 The wild Atlantic's billows curled 
 About \is like a winding sheet- 
 Here was the wrath of man complete; 
 
 The gates of God are opened wide 
 
 For one to priestly aid denied. 
 
 To-night the Southern Cross will lift 
 Above thy head its holy riaine; 
 
 If this be not than earthly shrift 
 
 More potent, thou are free from blame; 
 There is no cloud of stain or shame 
 
 About thy fleeting soul to drift. 
 
 Here is thy grave, my angel dead, 
 
 Trenched in the widening desert sands; 
 
 Here will I lay thy peerless head, 
 Here fold thy unresponsive hands; 
 Thou rarest flower of sunny lauds, 
 
 I would be rather in thy stead. 
 
 I who have kissed these tender eyes 
 
 Behold them closed at last; 
 How. then, shall one so stricken rise 
 
 When this black, lingering night is past? 
 
 My soul is bound in fetters fast 
 Where all her mortal beauty lies. 
 
 142
 
 CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN 
 
 I heap the sand upon her breast, 
 And on her shining hair; 
 
 On every silent hour of rest, 
 On every hopeless prayer; 
 And in my darkness and despair 
 
 I know God's gift is best. 
 
 A COLORADO PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 He stood by the fence of a mountain ranch, 
 
 A pitiful, sad-eyed burro; 
 There wasn't an edible leaf or branch, 
 And the alkali ground 
 For miles around 
 
 Had never a sign of furrow. 
 "Ah, me !" he sighed, "I am sad it's so, 
 
 But life is an endless tussle; 
 They have let me go in the storm and snow 
 
 For they know I am used to rustle ! 
 
 "I can go a day on a sardine can, 
 And two on a scrap of leather; 
 And it's even plain 
 That I sometimes gain 
 On only a change of weather. 
 The lazy ones feed on hay indeed; 
 
 But I who have nerve and muscle 
 
 They say, "He'll do; he will worry Through; 
 
 He's a wonderful brute to rustle."
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 O, sorrowful burro ! Thin and sad ! 
 
 I feel to you like a brother, 
 With the human race it is just as bad; 
 For the tramp and shirk 
 Must escape from work 
 
 By the bountiful sweat of another. 
 There are some that stand with glove in hand 
 
 In the infinite toil and bustle; 
 They sing and play, but they've lots of hay 
 
 They have never learned to rustle. 
 
 144
 
 EMMA GHENT CURTIS.
 
 EMMA GHENT CURTIS. 
 
 Emma <5bent Curtis, 
 
 BUCKHORN CACTUS. 
 
 I ride to-day 
 
 Long miles away 
 
 Where buckhorn tall and spreading grows; 
 
 And iu her crimson bloom I see 
 The rival of the hot-house rose. 
 
 Her heart of gold 
 
 Its wealth untold 
 
 Deep in her glowing tunic hides; 
 
 And in her waxen, dew-damp cup 
 The charm of endless grace abides. 
 
 O, bloom so fair! 
 
 Breathe to the air 
 
 The story of your lonely home, 
 
 Where mountains shade and sunlight dreams 
 And cattle low and coyotes roam. 
 
 Noon after noon 
 You sadly croon 
 Since no admiring eye you see; 
 
 But beauty tempts. O, foolish one, 
 Beware the eye that looks on thee! 
 
 He's riding near, 
 
 O, list, and hear 
 
 The jingling of the cowboy's spur; 
 
 His day dream holds a lady fair- 
 He deems the mountains bloom for her. 
 
 U5
 
 EyENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 The glowing sun 
 
 His course will run. 
 
 The lazy afternoon will wane; 
 
 And withering on the lady's breast 
 You'll tell your captor's crime in vain. 
 
 O, bloom so fair! 
 
 Breathe to the air 
 
 Your sad, unheeded, fainting sigh; 
 
 And hope the human love you bind 
 May not so early fade and die. 
 
 You deemed your thorn 
 Would check and warn 
 The hand that wrought your heavy grief; 
 
 But blades shield not such grace as yours 
 Ah, sad your story is so brief ! 
 
 MESTEZO'S SADDLE SONG. 
 
 Oh, blue is the mountain 
 
 And blue is the sky, 
 Bright green spreads the vale 
 
 Where our low casas lie; 
 The mesa is brown 
 
 Where my burros range free 
 Fit scene for the love 
 
 Of Joseph a and me. 
 
 146
 
 EMMA GHENT CURTIS. 
 
 In a gorge of the mountains 
 
 The doe hides her fawn, 
 But where will I hide 
 
 When to-morrow shall dawn? 
 For Benito has sworn 
 
 To set my soul free 
 He is mad for the love 
 
 That Josepha gives me. 
 
 Oh, Donna Josepha 
 
 Recks not of my faults, 
 And to-night she has promised 
 
 To give me a waltz. 
 His virtue is wealth, 
 
 My one crime poverty 
 He is mad for the love 
 
 That Josepha gives me. 
 
 He has sworn that at midnight 
 
 The sky shall be red 
 With the flames of my home 
 
 While I cower in dread; 
 But come ruin and death, 
 
 Come weal or come woe, 
 To the waltz, to the waltz, 
 
 With Josepha I'll go. 
 
 He has sworn that to-morrow 
 Shall witness my fall; 
 
 That vultures shall find me 
 Where pine trees grow tall; 
 
 147
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 But come ruin and death 
 Come weal or come woe, 
 
 To the waltz, to the waltz, 
 With Josepha I'll go. 
 
 Benito is cruel 
 
 And craven and old; 
 Josepha is cast 
 
 In Venus' own mould; 
 There is light in her eye, 
 
 There is love in her glance, 
 As she yields to my arm 
 
 In the willowy dance. 
 
 Josepha says "Come" 
 
 And Benito says "Stay;" 
 I'll heed fair Josepha 
 
 Though death crown the day; 
 For come life or come death, 
 
 Come weal or come woe, 
 The waltz and Josepha 
 
 I ne'er can forego. 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 The sim is just above the ridge, 
 The morn is cool and sweet, 
 
 And shadows from the pinons dark 
 Caress the mountain's feet. 
 
 148
 
 EMMA GHENT CURTIS. 
 
 The lowing herd has strayed away 
 
 To graze the grassy plain 
 O Vaquero, be up and out, 
 
 To the saddle swing a^ain! 
 
 Your restless herd has wandered far 
 
 From the broken mountain side 
 O, Vaquero, to horse at once 
 
 And like the whirlwind ride! 
 Full soon the sun is merciless, 
 
 Your good horse groans in pain; 
 But hours flee ere your task is done 
 
 And your strays range home again. 
 
 A cool draught from the mountain spring, 
 An hour's dream in the shade; 
 
 Your limbs shake off the weariness 
 That late your soul dismayed. 
 
 Your jaded horse his freedom seeks 
 . Where the gramma grass grows low; 
 
 But another horse your weight will bear 
 Ere the winds of even blow. 
 
 O, not to seek your horned herd 
 
 You thread the hills once more, 
 A dearer quest is calling you 
 
 To the river's leafy shore; 
 A winsome rider waits you there 
 
 With eyes lovelighted clear 
 Ah, woo her in the saddle 
 
 And you'll find a willing ear. 
 
 149
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 The sinking sun sends burning rays 
 
 To bathe the torrid park, 
 But the canon at your feet lies deep 
 
 With its shadows cool and dark. 
 The maiden's heart will tender grow 
 
 With nature's heart so near 
 Ah, woo her in the saddle 
 
 And you'll find a willing ear. 
 
 Beware the spell that sways you both 
 
 As you gallop side by side, 
 For life sweeps on in roseate hues 
 
 Too glowing to abide. 
 Remember, stern reality 
 
 Will soon be lurking near. 
 If you woo her in the saddle 
 
 And she lends a willing ear. 
 
 150
 
 ALICE POLK HILL. 
 
 Hlice polfc 1bilL 
 
 I AM NOT READY YET. 
 
 In the nursery was burning a tire, warm and bright, 
 And the lamp from above threw a radiant light, 
 On a little boy's head with its soft curling locks, 
 He was busily building his houses of blocks. 
 The^e was joy in his heart and a smile in his eye, 
 And unheeded the fast flying moments went by. 
 "It is late," said his papa, "you must go to bed." 
 With a face full of sorrow lie looked up and said: 
 
 "O, papa, I am not ready yet. 
 
 "See my house is not finished, O, please let me stay." 
 He again sadly pleaded when going away: 
 "O, papa I am not ready yet." 
 
 And thus often we see in the nursery of life, 
 Busy man as intent upon pleasure or strife, 
 That he stops not to think as the years hurry by, 
 There's a time here to live, and a time yet to die. 
 Building houses on earth, building castles in air, 
 'Tis but little he recks, there's a time. too. for prayer; 
 But when called to the slumber which closes his days. 
 With his work all unfinished he earnestly prays, 
 
 "O, Father, I am not ready yet; 
 
 For my soul I've neglected. I thought not of death." 
 And he sadly implores with his last fleeting breath: 
 
 O, Father, I am not ready yet."
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 TO ALICE MY NAMESAKE. 
 
 i. 
 
 Fair, joyous child, with wondrous eyes, 
 The royal purple 'round thee lies, 
 Love's scepter strong is in thy hand. 
 Subjects are e'er at thy command. 
 
 II. 
 
 No arrow-word has pierced thy heart. 
 No faithless friend caused tears to start, 
 Thy senses have not felt the pain 
 Of anxious waiting all in vain. 
 
 III. 
 
 Time fast or slow thy soul knows not, 
 Thy smiles, thy tears are soon forgot. 
 No heavy thoughts yet cloud thy eyes. 
 Thy stream of life reflects the skies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Look at me now, in happy mood. 
 Which seems to whisper, "All is good." 
 Yes, "all is good;" truth early sown ! 
 'Twill light thy way when youth has flown. 
 
 152
 
 ALICE POLK HILL.
 
 ALICE POLK HILL. 
 V. 
 
 Dear, happy child, our queen thou art ! 
 Those rosy lips, with smile apart, 
 I stoop to kiss; their touch is sweet 
 To loving lips that with them meet. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Queen niay'st thou reign in future years, 
 Love-crowned like Esther 'midst thy peers 
 Conquer all foes within, without, 
 Until "Well done !" the angels shout. 
 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 The angel voices of the sky 
 
 Which on that holy night 
 Sang, "Glory be to God on High" 
 
 Still sing of joy and light. 
 
 That light, whose clear and shining beam 
 
 Illum'ed the shepherd boy 
 And led to him whose love supreme 
 Supplants all fear with joy. 
 
 Oh, light divine, be ever near; 
 
 Let not thy rays grow dim, 
 Till we, like shepherds, without fear, 
 
 Through faith are led to him. 
 
 153
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 A FRIEND'S COUNSEL. 
 
 Thy heart, my friend, is sad to-night, 
 But do not wish the sorrow gone; 
 
 Though deep thy grief to human sight, 
 'Tis measured to thee from the Throne. 
 
 Despoudiugly thou shouldst not yield; 
 
 The birds of heaven in their flight 
 And e'en the lilies of the field 
 
 In (iod's protecting love delight. 
 
 Then calm thy heart, let contliets cease, 
 
 In joy and grief alike there lies 
 A lesson, which, in hours of peace, 
 
 Will prove a training for the skies. 
 
 Art mourning now a broken spell? 
 
 Thy heart's young morning turned to night? 
 All earth will change Ah, then 'tis well 
 
 To pray, and save thy soul from blight. 
 
 Perhaps thy love is with the dead, 
 A living thought have I for thee, 
 
 Which o'er thy path a light will shed 
 
 'Tis this: All things that were will be. 
 
 Is there a dark weight on thy soul, 
 Some fault that pains, or secret sin? 
 
 A sacrifice there is. Control 
 
 The tempest raging high within. 
 
 154
 
 ALICE POLK HILL. 
 
 The web of life, with colors rare, 
 Designed for thee by hand divine, 
 
 Shows beauty in the pattern where 
 The sombre with the bright combine. 
 
 S>ome day you'll see the web complete, 
 When all this shade, so dark, will be 
 
 Most prized; and then, in chorus sweet, 
 You'll sing: "The Father loveth me."
 
 ElENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 " (jfits 3amc0 
 
 A PARTING BOUT TO FIELD. 
 
 ON LEAVING THE DENVER TRIBUNE FOR THE CHICAGO NEWS, 
 JULY, 1883. 
 
 Here's a bowl before you go, 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
 Here's a bowl before you go, 
 And our hearts by this you'll know. 
 And God bless the tears that flow 
 
 For you, Field. 
 
 God bless the friendly tears, 
 
 And God keep you through the years, 
 
 Kind old Field; 
 Unto you we raise the cup 
 Fill, boys, and drink it up 
 
 To old Field. 
 
 To his free and friendly smile. 
 To his wit that flows the while 
 In a torrent without guile. 
 
 Our old Field. 
 His humor often burst 
 On foibles we had nursed, 
 But never man hath cursed 
 
 Gentle Field; 
 
 156
 
 " FITZ-MA C " FITZ-JAMES McCAR THY 
 
 For he knows so well to bring 
 The laughter with a ring, 
 Yet never leave a sting 
 
 Does old Field, 
 That we all forget his hits 
 And applaud his genial wits, 
 And God bless him, there he sits, 
 
 Sly old Field. 
 
 Were we women we should kiss 
 The friend we're soon to miss; 
 But that's woman's special bliss 
 
 With old Field. 
 
 So we'll only drink to bless him, 
 And we'll let "the sex" caress him 
 And worry and distress him 
 
 Here's to Field. 
 
 We'll wreathe your name with posies, 
 AVith evergreens and roses, 
 
 Eugene Field ! 
 
 Rise, boys, and let us cheer him! 
 God bless him and endear him 
 To the friends that may be near him, 
 Dear old Field. 
 
 THE COQUETTE. 
 
 "Good night! ah let me see," she said, 
 "You're leaving town, I b'lieve you say? 
 
 Well, I have so enjoyed the ball, 
 And was not this a pleasant day? 
 Good night!" 
 
 157
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 She made a move to pass me by, 
 
 Her slippered foot was on the stair, 
 
 I seized her jeweled hand in mine 
 
 And begged the rose from out her hair. 
 
 She was a peerless flirt they said 
 
 And knew the arts that can beguile; 
 
 She took the flower from her hair 
 And gave it with a queenly smile. 
 
 I raised her fingers to my lips; 
 
 She, archly mocking sadness, said: 
 "You'll think of me sometimes. I hope, 
 
 At least until that flower is dead?" 
 
 I clasped her form, I told my love. 
 
 I vowed I never could forget 
 A glistening tear stood in her eyt>. 
 
 She murmured something of regret. 
 
 'Twas but a moment thus we stood, 
 She quickly drew herself away 
 
 And. leaning o'er the balustrade. 
 
 Said: "This has been a pleasant day; 
 Good night!" 
 
 AN EXQUISITE SORROW. 
 
 I slept the while my love was waking, 
 I slept and oh, my love went by, 
 And not a tear in that proud eye, 
 
 Although I knew her heart was breaking. 
 
 158
 
 "F/7'Z-MAC" FITZ.-JAMES McCARTHY. 
 
 My proud fair love, so tender hearted! 
 
 She would not one should say she wept! 
 
 I curse me that I could have slept, 
 And only waked to find us parted. 
 
 I may not haste and overtake her, 
 
 For we must ever bide apart; 
 
 But oh, it grieves me to the heart 
 That she should think I could forsake her. 
 
 My yearning arms reach out a-toward her, 
 Across the abyss that parts our ways; 
 I grieve to think of those sweet days 
 
 When she believed that I adored her. 
 
 Oh, love, dear love, my voice it calls thee, 
 Come back across that dark abyss, 
 And I Avill meet thee with a kiss 
 
 The echo of my voice appalls me! 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 Love stands above the grave of passion 
 And smiles a sad, regretful smile; 
 But memory comes and raves the while 
 
 In anguished tones and bitter fashion. 
 
 '59
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 FORGET MY WORDS. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF FRED HAYWOOD, EDITOR OF THE DENVER 
 
 REPUBLICAN, WHO DIED MARCH, 1 888, KITZ-MAC BEING 
 
 THEN EDITOR OF THE DENVER DAILY WORLD. 
 
 What boots the tear untimely falling, 
 What boots the sori-ow born too late, 
 
 When Death our selfishness appalling, 
 Rebukes the paltry words of hate. 
 
 Rebukes the gibe too swiftly spoken 
 
 That pierced a struggling brother's heart; 
 
 The unfeeling word that gave no token 
 It knew that brother's harder part. 
 
 Though half the truth all worth denied him, 
 Too late were now the remainder said, 
 
 What boots to tell restraints that tied him? 
 What boots our praises to the dead? 
 
 Poor folded hands all undefying, 
 
 Your meek surrender stabs me through. 
 
 Too late for praising or denying, 
 But, brother, be it well with you. 
 
 Forgive, forgive; though unavailing, 
 These tears shall plead a long regret; 
 
 That pulseless heart is past assailing, 
 Forget my bitter words, forget. 
 
 160
 
 SURVILLE J. DE LAN.
 
 SURVILLE J. DeLAN. 
 
 Surville 3* BeXan, 
 
 TIMBER-LINE. 
 
 I stood on the crest in the sunlight, 
 When the summer was growing old; 
 
 Yet the ages' trace on the mountain's face 
 Was frozen, and white, and cold. 
 
 I gazed at the distant meadow, 
 Green with its verdure spread, 
 
 Framing the brook, as it pathway took, 
 Through the vale, like a silver thread. 
 
 As upward my vision I gathered, 
 
 Over forests wide of pine, 
 I saw them sway to the zephyr's play, 
 
 Till they reached the timber-line. 
 
 Where in grandeur and sadness were lying, 
 The broken, the dying, the dead, 
 
 Like the havoc made by the cannon's raid, 
 On the ranks at the battle's head. 
 
 Naked and gaunt and frowning, 
 Like a giant stripped for fray. 
 
 The mountain stood above the wood, 
 In the glare of the summer's day. 
 
 161
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 I thought as again I gathered, 
 The scene iu my vision's ken, 
 
 That nature's strife resembles our life, 
 The lives of mortal men. 
 
 Some like the valley are peaceful, 
 Some thrive like the evergreen pine. 
 
 Whilst others must stand a hapless band, 
 To die at the timber-line. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 What is friendship? ask the drowning, 
 When he sees his life to save, 
 
 Struggling through the waters frowning, 
 Come his rescuer, strong and brave. 
 
 Ask the tender vinelet clinging 
 
 To the oak's majestic form, 
 When its rustling leaves are singing, 
 
 "I am sheltered from the storm." 
 
 And the weary wanderer sinking, 
 Faint from ills that hunger breeds 
 
 Ask him what his soul is thinking 
 Of the hand that gently feeds. 
 
 'Tis thy neighbor, said the Master, 
 When suffering silent thou are mute, 
 
 Sees thy wants and grants them faster 
 Than if thou hadst urged thy suit. 
 
 162
 
 SURVILLE J. DeLAN. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 When do we die? 
 
 Not when, enshrouded, the casket's lid doth close, 
 Veiling the world from out our calm repose, 
 
 Severing each earthly tie. 
 
 When do we die? 
 
 Not when the burdened soul, its trials o'er. 
 Fluttering timid thro' death's mysterious door, 
 
 Passes on high. 
 
 It is not death 
 
 When like a mantle from the shoulder thrown, 
 Our noble doth our grosser self disown. 
 And like a birdling the ascending sonl 
 In spirit infancy achieves the goal, 
 Breathing celestial breath. 
 
 When do we die? 
 When confidence in man is turned 
 To ashes, and all of love is burned 
 
 Into a sigh. 
 
 When do we die? 
 
 When all the nobler feelings of the heart, 
 That friendship, hope and charity impart, 
 
 In fragments lie. 
 
 163
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Then we are dead, 
 When gazing at uureached joys, 
 Ambition weeping, intellect decoys 
 To idle misery; action needed 
 By saddened mind we pass unheeded; 
 
 Then we are dead. 
 
 WORTH. 
 
 A sunbeam once with ruddy light 
 
 Gliding a cloud, in wanton play, 
 Shone on a road, where a diamond bright, 
 
 Lost from its place, in sadness lay. 
 
 Like mirror true that "swift returns 
 The eager glance from beauty's eyes," 
 
 The brilliant stone with radiance burns, 
 And quick the sunbeam's kiss replies. 
 
 Just then a dust cloud, raised on high 
 
 By passing zephyrs, noticed them, 
 And jeering as it hurried by 
 
 In transient glory, scorned the gem. 
 
 "Scoff on !" the sunbeam said, "tho* fallen low, 
 The diamond still is precious, raised on high 
 
 Still thou art vile, and yet will fortune show 
 
 Fame is not worth, tho' worth full oft may sigh." 
 
 164
 
 OTTOMAR H. ROTHACKER. 
 
 ttomar 1b. IRotbacfcer, 
 
 NELL. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 There is a poem in the very name, 
 
 One of those chance-born, soulful dreams which start 
 
 To sudden being in a poet's heart 
 And leave him wondering from whence it came. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 
 The air is murmurous with the silvery sound; 
 The song-birds trill it and the Southern breeze 
 Which blows from sunny isles in sunny seas 
 Blends with and bears it onward, perfume crowned. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 
 The flowers whisper it unto the grass 
 (But only whisper it); the river's heart 
 Beats to the music, and the waves impart 
 
 Its melody unto the banks they pass. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 The sunbeams trace it on the glinting leaves, 
 
 And the old forest-kings are minded when . 
 
 Beneath their branches rode the mail-clad men 
 Of that dead age which sad-voiced Romance grieves. 
 
 165
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Nell ! Nell ! 
 
 All nature echoes back thy name to ine, 
 Yet thou art but the memory of a dream, 
 A far-off vision which doth ever seem 
 
 Half real and half an idle phantasy. 
 
 LOVE CONQUERS DEATH. 
 
 When I am dead, my love, 
 And they have laid me in some quiet place 
 
 With nerveless fingers crossed upon my breast- 
 When the great, noisy world goes on apace 
 
 And none do miss me, lying mute at rest- 
 Come then to me, my love, 
 And kiss the cold, white stone that marks my grave; 
 
 Smile once again your old, sweet, sunuy smile; 
 Speak softly to me when the grasses wave 
 
 And I shall know that thou art there the while. 
 
 But do not weep, my love 
 For thou must dream that I am by thy side 
 
 And that a spirit hand doth hold thine own. 
 Then Love will bridge for us Death's gloomy tide 
 
 But do not weep, nor make thou idle moan; 
 
 For if thou do, my love, 
 I cannot come to thee and touch thy hand; 
 
 The dream will vanish and leave nothing, save 
 A silent dreamer in the silent land, 
 
 And thou, a maiden, weeping o'er a grave. 
 
 1 66
 
 MARION MUIR RICHARDSON. 
 
 fIDarion fliMur IRicbarfcson. 
 
 HOSE. 
 / 
 
 A land of peak and plain he saw, 
 
 And down mid vale a river flowing, 
 Whose silver source was fed with thaw 
 
 From hills where wintry winds were blowing. 
 The wild hawk wheeled above grees isles 
 
 Of trees, to their own beauty bowing, 
 And fields of reeds that shook for miles, 
 
 Where buds their tender tints were showing. 
 
 "My virgin land," he cried, "for mine 
 
 The first white foot to press its shores ! 
 Here too, my Rose shall come and twine 
 
 About my homestead's happy doors. 
 These waters, shining through the leaves, 
 
 Reflect the Autumn's fruitful stores. 
 These meadows yield the wealth of sheaves, 
 
 When Summer's sun its fullness pours." 
 
 And so he dreamed, as men will do, 
 
 But when those groves were turning yellow 
 Home winds across his temples blew, 
 
 And Rose he found, but ah, poor fellow ! 
 Another's ring her finger wore. 
 
 He turned him west and said: "I follow 
 The river's course forever more, 
 
 For love is false and hearts are hollow." 
 
 167
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 COLORADO RIVER. 
 
 Mysterious river of the south, 
 
 Thy birth is where the cedar tree 
 Is white with snows that thro' thy mouth 
 
 Drain darkly into Cortez' sea. 
 
 The people of the desert graves 
 
 Perchance by thee have wept their dead, 
 
 The watchers in the lone cliff caves 
 
 Besides thee mixed their simple bread. 
 
 A spell of wonder and of woe 
 
 Thy name hath been thro' all the past, 
 
 And yet by thee the lines shall go 
 
 That link the world with steel at last. 
 
 The rolling smoke from iron steeds 
 Will dim the marble of thy walls, 
 
 The gorges where the wild-cat breeds 
 Return the engine's rapid calls. 
 
 The bells of learning and of prayer 
 
 Ring silver-sweet across thy tide. 
 And children gather roses where 
 
 The roving herds to-day abide. 
 
 r>ut, oh, the pain, thou fatal river, 
 
 Some hearts shall feel, though these things be; 
 For no man's effort can deliver 
 
 The sleepers who lie deep in thee. 
 
 1 68
 
 MARION MU1R RICHARDSON. 
 
 HOMECOMING. 
 
 Across the desert broad and bare, 
 
 Across the mountain's purple round, 
 
 I feel its whisper in the air, 
 
 The day that sees me homeward bound. 
 
 My pansies, white as maiden brows, 
 Look up, look up to welcome me ! 
 
 Oh, south-wind, in the poplar boughs, 
 Make music like the summer sea ! 
 
 Behind me lie the city walls, 
 
 All golden with the sunset's pride; 
 
 But clearer through the distance calls 
 The promise of my own fireside. 
 
 In other groves the branches wave, 
 By other paths the flowers bloom; 
 
 But none, like those I planted, gave 
 The subtle balm of love's perfume. 
 
 169
 
 EfEN/NGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 . 3ame0 Ibavens. 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN. 
 
 Our brothers are fallen, pressed down by a foe 
 More deadly thau any unternpted can know; 
 They have fought a hard battle the death-throe is past, 
 All bloodstained and weary, they are conquered at last 
 
 They are conquered at last ! But we never shall know 
 All their bitter despair, all their desperate woe, 
 Never know the dark hours they have battled alone, 
 The glorified strength of their manhood all gone. 
 
 Never know the loug hours when in darkness and gloom 
 They have wept like a child at their manifest doom, 
 Never know how they prayed that their chains might be 
 
 riven, 
 How the darkness of Hades enveloped their heaven; . 
 
 Never know their despair ere they finally fell 
 From their newly-found bliss, to the blackness of hell, 
 How they feel they are striped by a merciless rod, 
 Unpitied by man and forgotten by God. 
 
 Suppose they are weak, then the greater the need 
 Of your strong, manly arm and your Christian-like deed, 
 And of woman's pure faith, that, whatever the cost, 
 *Not a brother must perish not a soul shall be lost" 
 
 170
 
 . MRS. JAMES HA VENS. 
 
 Tell me not tell me not, for I cannot believe 
 
 That our brother's lost manhood we cannot retrieve, 
 
 Once more, and forever once more let his care 
 
 Be the work of our hands, be our burden of prayer. 
 
 Then brothers, arise in more powerful might ! 
 With garments unsullied with armor more bright, 
 Then sisters, pray on there's a record above 
 Of your woman-like zeal in this labor of love. 
 
 MY BROKEN WING. 
 
 READ BEFORE THE CELEBRATED. PARLOR CLUB OP LAFAYETTE, 
 IND., WHICH HAD FREQUENTLY CHIDED THE AUTHOR FOR HER 
 LACK OF AMBITION IN THE EXERCISE OF HER TALENTS IN LITER 
 ARY COMPETITION. 
 
 I pass my hand through my faded hair 
 That is almost white as the snowdrifts are, 
 And I see the trace of a hidden hand 
 Girding my brow with a silvery band. 
 
 Age has been writing his autograph here, 
 Letter by letter, year by year. 
 Patiently carving each symbol and sign, 
 Dipping his pen in the fountain of time. 
 
 Not alone has the pencil of time and decay 
 Wrought this transformation from auburn to grey, 
 But the frost and the fret and the feverish fears 
 Of ambition, that tainted my earlier years. 
 
 171
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 But the glamour is faded the fever is cooled, 
 
 A holier motive my spirit has schooled 
 
 To seek for no glory that cometh not down 
 
 Thro' the shame of the cross and the hope of the crown. 
 
 I have sought from the Father that heavenly dower 
 Learued the lesson of trust in Omnipotent power; 
 And the frost, and the fret, and the fever pain, 
 Never shall sully my spirit again. 
 
 Never again shall ambition's strife 
 Ruffle the depths of this happier life- 
 Glorious dreams to the air I fling 
 Folded forever my broken wing. 
 
 Faded the dreams, the hopes and the fears, 
 That fretted the days of my earlier years 
 Their gilding is tarnished mildew and rust 
 Scattered my fabulous dreams to the dust. 
 
 Now. tho' the changeable seasons may roll, 
 An eternal summer is in my soul; 
 All I now covet, or strive for. or claim, 
 Is the conscious wealth of a spotless name. 
 
 Sweet content with her heavenly face 
 Graciously planted a dwelling place 
 In the peaceful depths of my rested heart, 
 Gilding my life with her magical art. 
 
 Happily now I can sit and sing; 
 Painless, too, is my broken wing. 
 I can even smile as the days go by, 
 That I only creep where I hoped to fly. 
 
 172
 
 ETHELYN ALICE STODDARD. 
 
 Blice 
 
 THE FACE DIVINE. 
 
 Long ago in fair, old, far-famed Venice, 
 'Neath her dreamy skies an artist wrought, 
 
 And her sparkling waters ne'er reflected 
 Things more beauteous than his pictured thought 
 
 But one day he tired of women's faces, 
 Tired of ragged beggars and flower girls. 
 
 In his galleries hung many portraits 
 From the prince's visage to the churl's. 
 
 Childish cherubs smiled from out the canvas, 
 Brides blushed sweetly in the bloom of love, 
 
 Mystic sons of prayer and meditation 
 Turned rapt eyes to holy things above. 
 
 But the artist longed for something higher, 
 Something quite beyond his human ken, 
 
 Eyes of love without love's passion fire, 
 Beauty found not in the souls of men. 
 
 Out from Venice, young and old together, 
 
 Flocked crusaders to far Palestine, 
 And their "Dieu le volt" inspired the artist 
 
 With the wondrous, ideal Face Divine. 
 
 173
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 After many days of toil and dreaming, 
 
 Classic as Apollo shone a face, 
 Like the gods conceived by man's own fancy, 
 
 Beauteous with a merely human grace. 
 
 And the artist threw aside his brushes, 
 
 Knowing his ideal unrealized, 
 Yet uo more to all his finer fancies 
 
 Was that holy longing sacrificed. 
 
 Years went by. The artist knew a woman 
 
 Lovelier than all divinest art, 
 And the Eros he had vainly painted 
 
 Sketched her portrait on the artist's heart. 
 
 Back he went to work with eager fingers, 
 
 Inspiration filled the studio, 
 Sought once more to trace those sweet, sad features 
 
 In the rapture of his passion's glow. 
 
 All transfigured shone the finished portrait, 
 But it wore the flush of love's sweet wine, 
 
 As if kissed by flower-curled lips of Venus- 
 Fallen far below the Face Divine. 
 
 Years went by. The artist in great sorrow 
 Thought again on his ideal of years, 
 
 Flushed no longer with love's wine of gladness. 
 But bathed deeply in the wine of tears. 
 
 Oh ! the wondrous head upon his canvas, 
 With Gethsemane's woe in every line ! 
 
 Through his deepest sorrow had the artist 
 Found at last the dreamed-of Face Divine. 
 
 174
 
 ETHELYN ALICE STOOD ARD. 
 
 LE PLUS DOUX MOMENT. 
 
 When all the gladness of our lives is pressed 
 
 In one sweet splendid hour, 
 When our gods give one single moment blest 
 
 Above Time's other dower, 
 And all the pulses of existence throb 
 
 Along one mighty vein, 
 When glory presses on the lips which sob 
 
 And pleasure usurps pain 
 What have we then? 
 
 I know that some such moment comes to all, 
 
 Where'er their lot is cast; 
 And that it compensates for all the gall 
 
 Which through their lips has passed. 
 And not to every man is it the same 
 
 This rapture of the heart; 
 But some day in its glowing fervent flame 
 He has his part. 
 
 Perhaps the mother felt its happy thrill 
 
 When first she saw her child; 
 The brutal savage in the act to kill, 
 
 The martyr when he smiled 
 To meet the bloody death which came to lift him 
 
 Above the power of death, 
 And felt the deathless fame which stooped to gift him 
 
 In his last breath. 
 
 175
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 For there are many ways in which we feel it 
 
 Beside love's glorious dream; 
 The very conquests of our lives reveal it 
 
 Sometimes when that we seem, 
 After long periods of hard-grinding duty, 
 
 To stand with power grasped fast, 
 And feel the world of glory and of beauty 
 Our own at last. 
 
 Methinks that when great Caesars saw the senates 
 
 Lie fawning at their feet, 
 When poets felt their songs come like the linnet's, 
 
 They knew this moment sweet; 
 When peasant Joan heard the armies crying 
 
 "The Maid of Orleans," 
 And Faustine, when from gladiators dying 
 
 Hot fierce blood ran. 
 
 But pride or lust, they came and were forgotten 
 
 Among the sad, sad years. 
 The fragrance of them long ago was rotten 
 
 And drowned in nation's tears. 
 For joy hath e'er the passing shadow's fleetness 
 
 In man beneath the sun; 
 
 We wait for life's perfected ripened sweetness 
 Till life is done. 
 
 176
 
 ETHELYN ALICE STODDARD.
 
 E THEL YN ALICE S'l ODDARD. 
 
 "WHY?" 
 
 At the feet of Time I stand and question, 
 
 Oh why? 
 
 Where is all the joy of life and loving? 
 Has the cup of keen delight gone by? 
 Answer, Fate, from out thine iron heart-gates ! 
 
 Tell me why. 
 
 Many souls of men rejoice together, 
 
 Oh why? 
 
 Press the gods the mixed draught forever 
 Till the bitter dregs are drunken dry? 
 For the sins of ages long forgotten, 
 
 Suffer I? 
 
 Does my sadness make their laughter sweeter? 
 
 Oh why? 
 
 Is the price of pleasure always suffering? 
 But the pleasure is not left to buy; 
 Though a justice whom we call eternal 
 
 Knoweth why ! 
 
 177
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Corinne 
 
 THE FROST KING. 
 
 A spirit roamed abroad last night, 
 
 And he wielded the sceptre as reigning king; 
 The flowers withered beneath his touch, 
 
 As he sailed o'er the earth on shadowy wing. 
 He blew his breath on the quiet air, 
 
 And the rivers were spanned with a crystal bridge; 
 The trees were clothed in a feathery robe, 
 
 As they shivered, and sighed on the lofty ridge. 
 
 He kissed the dahlias with icy lips, 
 
 And they withered, and drooped in silent death; 
 And even the hardy chrysanthemums, 
 
 Shrank back from the touch of his frosty breath. 
 The trailing vines, with tendrils strong, 
 
 Which clung to the trellis with loving clasp, 
 Through the long, bright summer, so firm and true, 
 
 Hung limp and helpless, with feeble grasp. 
 
 The graceful grasses, and willowy sprays, 
 Which nodded their plumes like Indian belles, 
 
 Now sadly drooped their wilted heads, 
 Like convicts mourning in prison cells.
 
 COR1NNE McDONOUGH. 
 
 The gay-hearted birds which rollicked in glee, 
 And sweetly carolled their songs of love, 
 
 Flew swiftly away from the frost-king's breath, 
 To the land of sunshine and orange grove. 
 
 When morning broke on the world again, 
 
 And the sun glanced over the eastern hills, 
 Behold the babbling brooks were bound ! 
 
 And fettered and chained were the rippling rills. 
 The purling streams and waterfalls, 
 
 Which sang sweet music the summer long, 
 Were wrapt in a shroud like the sheeted dead, 
 
 And silent, and hushed was their murmuring song. 
 
 Gems flashing, and bright spangled tree and shrub, 
 
 And the earth was clad in a dress of white, 
 As pure and spotless as angels' robes, 
 
 Which float through the air in realms of light. 
 And glittering icicles hung from the eaves, 
 
 Like stalactites from a cavern roof, 
 And frost-crystals sparkled in sunbeams bright, 
 
 Like diamonds crushed 'neath an iron hoof. 
 
 A spirit had softly kissed the earth, 
 
 As he passed to his home in a frozen zone, 
 Where he dwells in a palace of crystal ice, 
 
 In silent grandeur, so vast and lone; 
 Where icebergs loom like mountains high, 
 
 And mystic glaciers in starlight gleam; 
 Where Northern Lights cast a spectral glare, 
 
 And eternal silence reigns supreme. 
 
 179
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Though the frost-king snatches our treasures rare, 
 
 And summer darlings fade 'neath his breath; 
 Though he frightened away the gentle birds, 
 
 And all things sweet droop in silent death; 
 Yet we'll gladly welcome his frigid reign, 
 
 For he brings rich treasures from far Iceland, 
 And bright forms of beauty spring up in a trice 
 
 When he touches the earth with his magic wand. 
 
 APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 O, apple blossoms pure and sweet, 
 
 How fair your beauty lies, 
 In clusters bright, of pink and white, 
 
 Before our 'raptured eyes. 
 
 We waited long, through dreary months, 
 
 To see your buds unfold, 
 Your fragile cups of seashell tints, 
 
 With fragrant hearts of gold. 
 
 And when the blue bird's song was heard, 
 
 The robin's notes of glee, 
 A homesick longing filled our breast, 
 
 Your loveliness to see. 
 
 The gentle flowers waked to life, 
 
 And lifted up their heads; 
 The violets in their hoods of blue, 
 
 From out their wintry beds, 
 
 180
 
 CORINNE McDONOUGH. 
 
 The tulips iu their mantles gay, 
 
 Of crimson, rose and white. 
 The daffodils, in orange gowns 
 
 A vision of delight. 
 
 The azure sky, the grass so green 
 
 All Nature peace expressed; 
 \ e thought this earth was paradise, 
 
 A type of Eden blest. 
 
 But when your fairy blooms were seen, 
 
 Your waxen petals fair, 
 And scented, odor-laden breath, 
 
 Perfumed the balmy air, 
 
 The world seemed full of tender joy, 
 
 And gladness most divine; 
 Life's brimming goblet was upturned, 
 
 And spilled its precious wine. 
 
 O, apple blossoms, come again ! 
 
 And lift our hearts from care, 
 When Spring returns, and reigns supreme, 
 
 In radiant beauty rare. 
 
 We'll ever gladly welcome you, 
 
 And sing your praises dear; 
 When May is crowned and garlanded, 
 
 The queen of all the year. 
 
 181
 
 EYE \IXGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 flDartba Hfcbols. 
 
 O'ER HILLS OF SNOW. 
 
 We dreamed not, when, one year ago 
 
 We stood and watched the mantling clouds 
 Sift down their filmy web of snow 
 
 And weave it into winding shrouds 
 That palled the bridge, the banks below. 
 
 And chilled the current of the ware: 
 We watched nor dreamed that this year's snow 
 
 Would fafl upon your grave. 
 
 Oh, break, my heart ! through blinding tears 
 
 I watch this day the falling snow. 
 Oh, Spirits of the by-gone years. 
 
 Ton follow me where'er I go. 
 And cold and wan your faces shine. 
 
 Tour fair, white wings wave to and fro. 
 While nnMffm flogias ding to mine. 
 
 And beckon o'er the hills of snow. 
 
 Where hang the bine clouds dark and low, 
 
 Above the red horizon's rim, 
 I catch the dull, pale afterglow. 
 
 Like hearthstone fires burned low and dim: 
 And floating vapors fin the air. 
 
 As home's dead ashes tossed away; 
 While shadowy robes are trailing there, 
 
 In rosy tints that pale to gray. 
 
 182
 
 MARTHA NICHOLS. 
 
 Oh, storms, rage on, and beat my face, 
 
 And drift the caverns of my heart 
 With Life's chill frost, and hide each trace 
 
 Where joy and love e'er held a part. 
 Sift down, ye cerements of death, 
 
 And chill the red blood's pulsing flow, 
 And let my spirit, like a breath, 
 
 Float outward o'er the hills of snow. 
 
 Now turn thine hour glass, oh Time, 
 And whet thy scythe for reaping. 
 This old, old year has reached his prime, 
 Has heard his knell in Christmas' chime, 
 Awaits thy blade with faith sublime, 
 And passes to thy keeping. 
 
 He brought us joys and sorrows too, 
 As 'tis in earth's condition. 
 
 Some things to love and some to rue 
 
 Of friends a score, of foes a few 
 
 Did all that any year could do. 
 Now rounds his full completion. 
 
 Old year thy death is drawing nigh, 
 
 But we will not be weeping; 
 We'll speed thy going with a sigh, 
 The same as when the roses die, 
 Or some loved bird flies far a-sky, 
 On bright wing southward sweeping. 
 
 183
 
 EtEN/NGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Across the dim, chill wastes of snow 
 I hear Time's whetstone ringing, 
 His reapers chanting sad and low, 
 Their scythe blades swinging to and fro, 
 And nearer through the frosty glow 
 They come, the death song singing. 
 
 So swift ye come, so soon ye die, 
 Nor love, nor pleasure keeping; 
 The years, the birds, the roses fly 
 With scarce a time for smile or sigh, 
 And thus we go well, well, good-by, 
 And peace to all our sleeping. 
 
 
 184
 
 CORA M. H. DA VIS. 
 
 Cora flD. H. Davis* 
 
 I COME TO THEE, O NATURE! 
 
 I come, O Nature, wounded and weary; 
 Wrap me about in your green cool leaves; 
 Lay the sweet spell that the wild rose weaves, 
 
 On my spirit, aweary, aweary ! 
 
 "Let me lie here clinging close to thy breast, 
 With thy fresh green grasses against my cheek 
 To cool its burning; with nothing to break 
 
 The beautiful silence of peaceful rest, 
 
 Save the soothing sound of whispering trees, 
 The tremulous notes of the far-away birds, 
 And a vague sweet sense of the tender words 
 
 Breathed to my soul by the voice of the breeze. 
 
 How the world seems fading slowly away; 
 
 The world with its commonplace cares that seem 
 To shut all beauty out from the day 
 The day we would set apart for our own, 
 
 Till only the wraith of a broken dream 
 Is left to us when the day is gone. 
 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! there is much of pain, 
 And little of pleasure, aud little to gain 
 In life that is given to us unasked, 
 With even its meaning darkly masked. 
 
 185
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Fade, faue, O world, with thy tangled web, 
 
 With its changing, mocking shadows spread ! 
 If 1 toiled and toiled till iny life should ebb, 
 
 I could not unravel its tangled thread. 
 Press close to my heart, O cool green grasses ! 
 
 Steal over my senses, O wild-wood flower ! 
 Let tender words of the breeze that passes, 
 
 Soothe my tired spirit to rest for an hour. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Pause for a while, O Time, in thy flight, 
 Ere thou climbest the wearisome height 
 Of the future, and lighten the years 
 Of their heavy burden of unshed tears. 
 What matter it though a few years pass, 
 And golden sands lie still in thy glass; 
 What though thou failest to leave a trace 
 Of age on many a fair young face; 
 Or failest to weave with silver threads 
 The crown of hair on beautiful heads? 
 'Twould lift from many a life the cloud 
 That folds It now like a clinging shroud, 
 To many a heart that has now grown old. 
 The beautiful story of love be told. 
 I would I might woo thee into a sleep, 
 Sleep so unconscious, unbroken, and deep, 
 Thy glass might gather a century's dust; 
 The gleaming sickle be dulled with rust. 
 The dusky folds of thy robe to grasp, 
 I strive; but powerless my hands unclasp. 
 
 186
 
 CORA M. H. DA VIS. 
 
 Though in wild despair I pray thee stay, 
 Relentlessly thou dost glide away. 
 And on, and on, in thy steady flight, 
 Pausing never by day or night 
 Sowing broadcast as they sow the grain, 
 Thorns and roses, pleasure and pain. 
 Some gather the roses for their part; 
 Some bury the thorns deep in their heart, 
 But onward it must forever be, 
 'Tis vain to repine, 'tis God's decree. 
 
 187
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 William 1L Burfcicft. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 Niagara, deep, thrilling voice of God, 
 
 Majestic in thy glory and thy might, 
 
 Thou art the first of Nature's masterworks. 
 
 The tempest's thunder 'mid the fierce storm's roar, 
 
 The surge of billows beating on the shore, 
 
 Wild crash of landslides from the mountain hoar, 
 
 All yield to thee in power -grand, sublime. 
 
 Yet with thy grandeur beauty is arrayed. 
 
 Through richest tints of heaven, dawn's bright gold, 
 
 The sunset's crimson gleams, fair Luna's sheen, 
 
 The water's misty foam and living green, 
 
 With never-dying rainbows for thy crown; 
 
 Thy voice, in ceaseless monotone divine. 
 
 Chants the paean of vast Infinity. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 The mountains bathed in glory are, 
 
 At the coming of day's rest. 
 Golden and crimson from afar, 
 
 The clouds part o'er their crest, 
 In vistas beautiful and bright. 
 
 As if from heaven waft down, 
 The rosy hues of the infant night, 
 
 Now give to the day its crown. 
 
 1 88
 
 WILLIAM L. BURDICK.
 
 WILLIAM L. BURDICK. 
 
 O, blessed ending such, when true, 
 
 Of that day which man calls life ! 
 
 When busy toil and care are through, 
 
 And ended is the strife; 
 
 When cometh, at life's evening hour, 
 
 The bright and glorious sun 
 
 Of God's own smile, and heaven's dower, 
 
 On life's work nobly done. 
 
 MY SWEETHEART. 
 
 A little maid I know full well, 
 For she my heart doth own; 
 
 She's true and fair, all sweet and pure, 
 And reigns on love's high throne'. 
 
 Her eyes are bright as beaming stars, 
 Her lips with rose tints kissed. 
 
 The pinks and lilies of her cheeks 
 Were by the angels missed. 
 
 Glad be my sweetheart's every day. 
 
 May God with blessings fill 
 Her life's cup till it runneth o'er, 
 
 And guard her from all ill. 
 
 Need I my dainty love to name, 
 My sweetheart's age unfold? 
 
 She is my own dear little girl, 
 My Helen, four years old. 
 
 189
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 A PRAIRIE ROSE. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL WHITE ROSE FOUND ON THE PRAIRIE, 
 MANY MILES FROM HUMAN SETTLEMENT. 
 
 What, growing here in this untraversed wild, 
 
 All beauteous, fair, and sweet, thou prairie rose; 
 
 Each petal rich in gloss and lilly white, 
 
 Thy leaves like shining emeralds in hue ! 
 
 How earnest thou here? Say not, it was mere chance 
 
 That wind-tossed thee far from thy native home. 
 
 'Twere cruel so, emblem of purity and love. 
 
 The fairest head of mortal thou couldst grace, 
 
 Amid the choicest flowers thou wouldst reign. 
 
 Why here? The beautiful is never lost, 
 
 And nothing pure and good exists in vain. 
 
 Earth means far more than human gaze can span, 
 
 And 'though unseen by man, perhaps for angels' eyes 
 
 You may bloom here as part of Paradise. 
 
 190
 
 CORYDON ALSTON WOODY. 
 
 Cordon Hlston 
 
 KING LABOR. 
 
 1 reign where the anvil's music rings 
 As it fashions the burnished steel; 
 
 I reign where the crystal fountain sings, 
 As it turns the ponderous wheel. 
 
 My realm is the ocean's billowy crest, 
 Where the ships of commerce plow; 
 
 My sway where the wild bald eagles nest 
 On the mountain's craggy brow. 
 
 Dominion is mine where the palm tree holds 
 Its fronds and its fruitage high 
 
 And plays with the tips of the fleecy folds 
 That lazily float the sky. 
 
 And jurisdiction is mine alone, 
 With neither a bond nor chain, 
 
 In the amber light of the tepid zone 
 O'er the fields of golden grain. 
 
 My scepter is over the rock-bound ore 
 In the hidden depths of earth, 
 
 And my hand must lift the treasured store 
 Ere it has a passing worth. 
 
 191
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 And far to the north where the wild winds rage 
 
 My empire spreads amain, 
 And there I bequeath my heritage 
 
 To him that loves my reign. 
 
 The rod of empire, too, I wield 
 
 Where the tree of knowledge grows, 
 
 And over the heavenly favored field 
 Where the rose of Sharon blows. 
 
 Divine my right, since it is said 
 
 In the book of faith and trust: 
 "By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread 
 
 Till thy dust returns to dust" 
 
 A monarch I wheresoe'er you look 
 
 From the torrids to the pole. 
 While others may rule o'er their little nook, 
 
 I reign o'er the boundless whole. 
 
 YOUTH'S UNFULFILLED PROMISE. 
 
 Methinks me now of a pleasant time 
 
 In the lovely long ago. 
 Excelling all I since have known 
 
 Or ever hope to know. 
 Youth's sails were set to the breeze of hope; 
 
 Love held the dipping oar; 
 The bark of life stood out to sea, 
 
 From childhood's radiant shore. 
 
 192
 
 CORYDON ALSTON WOODY. 
 
 The bow of pro raise, arched the sky, 
 
 By heaven's artist painted; 
 And flowers of May were all aglow, 
 
 With the Eden's perfume scented; 
 The birds that sang sweet melodies 
 
 By every brook and brae, 
 Foretold no sorrow laden storms 
 
 Along life's promised way. 
 
 Oh lovely morn, when youth sets sail 
 
 On life's unclouded ocean ! 
 Oh playful billows rock me still 
 
 In childhood's cradled motion ! 
 Bring back again youth's dreams and hopes 
 
 No storms of life have riven; 
 Let fancy roam once more at will 
 
 O'er earth, to me a heaven. 
 
 Youth's harbor passed the open sea 
 
 Received my dauntless boat. 
 The swift-winged swallow homeward bound 
 
 Piped down a warning note. 
 But no advice, though timely lent, 
 
 Could reef youth's spreading sail- 
 In life's untried experiment 
 
 None dream that they can fail. 
 
 At first the ocean's broad expanse, 
 
 Unbroken it would seem, 
 Inspired my yet untutored mind 
 
 Like visions in a dream. 
 
 193
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Some El Dorado unexplored 
 
 My ardent touch awaited; 
 Utopian land for me was there 
 
 Especially created. 
 
 Through time's slow flight till youth had fled 
 
 I sought a land of bliss, 
 In search of fabled wealth and peace 
 
 I could not find in this. 
 But oh ! the folly fancy sows 
 
 In youth's unseasoned brain, 
 d?tiat harvest time must surely reap 
 
 In penitence and pain. 
 
 Oft times before with hope aglow 
 
 And faith a burning flame, 
 Has youth set sail for unknown lands 
 
 To gain the meed of fame. 
 Oft times has sad experience 
 
 This lesson plainly taught: 
 Beyond the shores of common sense, 
 
 To wisdom dearly bought. 
 
 
 
 How soon life's storms in fury roll 
 
 And lash the seas to foam, 
 Bringing to mind as ne'er before 
 
 Sweet memories of home. 
 Too late they come for never more 
 
 Returns life's ebbing tide. 
 The ships that sail its waters o'er 
 
 Must reach the other side. 
 
 194
 
 COKYDON ALSTON WOODY. 
 
 Oh, is such fate the fate of all 
 
 Who tempt the course of time? 
 Are there no souls that sail through life 
 
 In spring's perpetual clime? 
 Are there no ports where one may reef 
 
 A torn and tattered sail? 
 Are there no harbors where life's bark 
 
 May 'scape time's raging gale? 
 
 Are shattered hopes and frozen hearts 
 
 The fruitage on each way ? 
 Does night her mantle fling at noon 
 
 On each auspicious day? 
 The foot that jubilant goes forth 
 
 Is it the one that bleeds? 
 Is that famed paradise of youth 
 
 A garden filled with weeds? 
 
 195
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Hnna jpritcbarfc. 
 
 COLORADO. 
 
 ON THE ADOPTION OF EQUAL SUFFRAGE. 
 
 My Colorado, just and fearless state, 
 
 How hast thou added to thy glorious name 
 
 By this new victory, this ennobling step 
 
 Toward universal justice ! Thou hast placed 
 
 Its rightful crown upon each daughter's brow, 
 
 And given into her hands, though all untaught, 
 
 The mighty scepter of thy government; 
 
 Because thy thoughtful heart is just, and dares 
 
 A transient evil for a lasting good; 
 
 Because thy watchful eyes are quick to see 
 
 Thy children should be ruling side by side, 
 
 With equal rights and duties. Equal rights, 
 
 Since both are human; equal duties, too, 
 
 To strengthen all the thews of moral growth, 
 
 And make them men and women rightfully. 
 
 I thank thee, noble state, that I can breathe 
 
 An air so vivified by liberty 
 
 As thine hast ever been. Oh never doubt 
 
 But thou hast chosen wisely; hands untaught 
 
 Are teachable, and strength and wisdom come 
 
 With use and years. Thou hast done well to trust 
 
 A nobler weapon to the hands that once 
 
 Wielded the axe and rifle in thy dark 
 
 And danger-haunted forests, side by side 
 
 With manly strength and daring. 
 
 196
 
 
 
 ANNA PRI'ICHARD. 
 
 Womanhood 
 
 Having received new rights, will strive to fill 
 The measure of thy just demands, and grow 
 To fuller height and beauty. Thou shalt reap, 
 Oh mother state, a rich reward for this, 
 Though done in justice not in charity. 
 
 A SONG UNSUNG. 
 
 Would that my lips could voice in tender words 
 The song that lies so near them, throbbing ever 
 With yearning for existence, yet appalled 
 By the crude forms my fancy chooses forth 
 For its embodiment. As some frail plant, 
 Born in the deep foundations of a ruin, 
 In silence and in darkness, longs for light 
 And creeps and struggles on, up to a chink, 
 Where gleams the golden sunshine like a star, 
 And, having reached it, pushes through and finds, 
 Amid new light and warmth, a sturdier growth 
 And deeper color, and a radiant prime 
 To thrill some heart with joy and reverence; 
 So, my poor song, incompetent and weak, 
 Yearns for the outer world of glorious life, 
 Yearns for the light and warmth of human love 
 And human sympathy. And might not it 
 Quicken to beauty in their smile, perchance, 
 And thrill some heart with truth and earnestness? 
 
 J97
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 In the dim legends of old Greece we read 
 
 How, ages past, a great and generous god, 
 
 Prometheus, on the race of men bestowed 
 
 That priceless gift which raised them from the beasts 
 
 And made their after glory possible. 
 
 His was the gift of altar-fires that burn 
 
 With pure and steadfast radiance his the gift 
 
 Of hearth-fires, where life's tenderest joys are found. 
 
 'Twas he revealed the skillful cunning known 
 
 To none but Vulcan. And the angry gods, 
 
 In vengeance, fettered him with cruel chains, 
 
 And doomed him, preyed upon by hideous birds, 
 
 To suffer everlasting punishment. 
 
 There was but one brave heart that dared to feel 
 
 A throb o'f pity for the tortured god; 
 
 There was but one strong arm that dared to cleave 
 
 The chains that bound him to the jagged rock; x 
 
 Great Hercules released the prisoner 
 
 And ended his long agony at last. 
 
 O, men and women of the world to-day, 
 Ye can feel pity for that god of old, 
 Who suffered for mankind, and ye condemn 
 The hands that bound him to his martyrdom. 
 But I, alas, within your midst, I see 
 Full many a bound Prometheus suffering all 
 The pain and passion of a noble mind, 
 Fettered and helpless. Every towering truth 
 That now is made a landmark for the race, 
 In the great march of progress has been bought 
 With the heart blood of some courageous man, 
 Who dared to bring this priceless gift to you. 
 
 198
 
 ANNA PRITCHARD. 
 
 O, Hercules, where art thou? them whose heart 
 
 Will be so brave and just, whose arm will dare 
 
 To cleave the bonds of rank intolerance 
 
 And set the captives free forevermore? 
 
 O, men and women of the world to-day, 
 
 "Us this my song, if sung, would strive to teach, 
 
 "Infinite love and patience infinite." 
 
 199
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 flfca Croucb Ibaslttt. 
 
 MORITURUM. 
 
 Dying the winds are desolate with the wail 
 Of unforgotten summers; the sweet breath 
 Of balmy mornings innocent of death, 
 
 Lingers caressing in the shadowy vale, 
 Reluctant to depart; 
 
 And murmuring midst the rushing of the gale 
 The minor echoes of a saddened heart. 
 
 Dying a lone bird whistles for a mate 
 Floating, perhaps, through sunny southern skies, 
 The hills are hazy with the hue that lies 
 
 Upon their swelling breasts, as tlio' the fate 
 Of love's remembered woe 
 
 In brooding mysteries would round them wail 
 And vibrate chords of long ago. 
 
 Dying a lonely spirit rides the blast; 
 
 Dying a somber spirit fills the air; 
 
 The requiems chanted for the dead are there; 
 The soft sweet summer days are in the past; 
 
 The harmonies divine 
 Of tender memories too dear to last, 
 
 Sob over shattered heart-stringsharp of mine. 
 
 200
 
 IDA CROUCH HAZLITT. 
 
 JUNE ROSES. 
 
 Oh, the skies are bright with beauty, 
 
 And the world is bright with love, 
 For God is in earth and heaven, 
 His smile below and above. 
 
 Beautiful roses; rare June roses, 
 
 The smile of God on the world of His love ! 
 
 The days are steeped in their fragrance; 
 
 The night's deep passion breathes 
 A tremulous odor of blossoms, 
 A languor of perfumed wreaths. 
 'Tis heavy with roses, dewy roses, 
 Red, rich roses for maidens' wreaths. 
 
 They lie on the breast of beauty, 
 
 And heave with its tender tide; 
 They garland the sacred altars, 
 
 And rival the blush of the bride. 
 
 i 
 
 They are clasped in the waxen fingers 
 
 Love kisses in bitter loss; 
 They bloom in the gardens of sorrow, 
 They smile at the foot of the cross. 
 Saintly roses; pure, sweet roses, 
 Love's own roses that cover Christ's cross. 
 
 Oh, bring me no costly flowers, 
 
 They tell of life's foolish pride; 
 But bury me deep in roses, 
 Roses on every side. 
 
 Passionate roses, loving roses, 
 
 God's pleading gift to a world of pride.
 
 WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 HIS REASON. 
 
 Why I love you? Ask the rivers 
 Why they flow to meet the sea; 
 
 Ask the fouutaiu why its waters 
 Leap to kiss the sun iu glee; 
 
 Ask the dewdrop why it sparkles 
 
 In the bosom of the rose; 
 Ask the lily why its fragrance 
 Perfumes every breeze that blows; 
 
 Ask the moonbeams why they quiver 
 On the dimples of the lake; 
 
 Ask the rainbow why It arches, 
 Ask the billows why they break; 
 
 Ask the rosebud why it trembles, 
 Trembles on your beating breast; 
 
 Ask jour fair cheek why it blushes 
 Tells a tale but half confessed. 
 
 When these whisper all their story, 
 
 Shall my answer be complete, 
 And your tender heart shall feel it 
 Just because I love you. sweet !
 
 FRANK GRAIN SCHOFIELD. 
 
 Jranfc (Train 
 
 THE SOLDIER BOY. 
 
 "Ask me not to stay my mother, 
 Hai'k ! the battle has begun, 
 
 And the blood of fallen kindred 
 Loudly calls from Lexington. 
 
 "Back the hated ranks are marching,' 
 Back to Boston's safe retreat; 
 
 But their dead shall line the road-side, 
 Our revenge will be replete. 
 
 "Listen, now the drums are beating 
 And the fifes play loud and shrill; 
 
 How it stirs my soul to action, 
 How it makes my heart to thrill. 
 
 "Ask me not to stay, my mother, 
 
 For my country I must go. 
 Liberty shall be the watchword 
 
 And its love will ever grow. 
 
 "Fare thee well, but not forever, 
 Kiss the cheek you love so true; 
 
 Bless me ere I leave you, mother, 
 My duty shall I try to do." 
 
 203
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Then the eager form sprang lightly, 
 
 Out beneath the sunlight dome 
 Soldier boy why did you tarry 
 
 For a farewell glimpse of home. 
 
 On and on they marched to glory 
 
 On to Bunker Hill's steep height 
 Breathing liberty and justice 
 
 Facing death and spurning night. 
 
 Soon the scenes of childhood vanished 
 
 And a tear stood in his eye; 
 Soon he joined the thronging numbers 
 
 Burning for their rights to die. 
 
 Soldier boy, what was your mission 
 
 In the carnage and the strife? 
 Did they find your post deserted, 
 
 Did you sell it with your life? 
 
 Where the dead and groaning wounded 
 
 Thickly strewed the hill, he lay, 
 Mangled, bleeding, growing weaker, 
 
 Breathing his young life away. 
 
 In the twilight, in the shadows, 
 
 O'er him bent a pitying foe, 
 Wonder-struck that one so tender 
 
 To the battle field would go. 
 
 Soldier boy, soldier boy ! where is thy glory? 
 
 Blanched is the cheek that thy mother last pressed, 
 And thy loved form is now mangled and gory, 
 
 Over thy forehead the careless curls rest 
 
 204
 
 FRANK GRAIN SCHOFIELD.
 
 FRANK GRAIN SCHOFIELD. 
 
 Soldier boy, soldier boy ! sweet be thy slumber, 
 Fragrant the flowers that incense thy grave. 
 
 Liberty blesses thy name and thy number, 
 Over thy bosom the stars and stripes wave. 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 
 The evening sky is golden, 
 
 The sun has gone to rest; 
 And zephyrs fan the blossoms, 
 
 As fades the glowing west. 
 The bird flies swiftly homeward, 
 
 To join its happy mate; 
 But in my tearless sorrow 
 
 I'm waiting at the gate. 
 
 Around me twilight deepens, 
 
 The stars look one by one; 
 The whip-poor-will is calling, 
 
 The weary day is done. 
 And where our vows were whispered, 
 
 I stand, and watch, and wait; 
 And dream of joys departed, 
 
 While leaning on the gate. 
 
 The early dews are falling, 
 
 The eve is growing chill; 
 The glow-worm in the blue-grass, 
 
 Illumes its home at will. 
 Again the old-time thrilling 
 
 Sweeps with it bitter hate, 
 And bursts the sealed fountain, 
 
 I'm weeping at the gate. 
 
 205
 
 EYENLVGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Yes, at the gate I'm weeping, 
 
 Alas, vain as the task, 
 Within the silent church-yard, 
 
 Lies all that love would ask. 
 'Tis there my heart is buried, 
 
 But hope has learned to wait; 
 Sometime, some day, some morning, 
 
 We'll meet at heaven's gate. 
 
 THE SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN.) 
 
 No shepherd owns so fair a flock 
 As the queen of night e'er guides 
 
 The shepherdess whose smile benign 
 Through heaven's arches glides. 
 
 When fades the glimmering of the day, 
 And the flowers shut their eyes. 
 
 From her abode with placid face 
 She journeys through the skies 
 
 And gently leads her wandering flock 
 
 Enchanted by her light. 
 And every star on harp of blue 
 
 Makes music for the night. 
 
 Throughout the playful, happy throng, 
 
 There reigns a peace supreme- 
 No hate or bitterness is there, 
 And they are what they seem. 
 
 206
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 fHMscellaneou0 anfc Hnon^moue. 
 
 "LITTLE GOO." 
 
 One little laughing baby, 
 With dancing ringlets of gold, 
 
 One little armful of sunshine, 
 The one wee lamb of our fold. 
 
 One little rollicking tyrant, 
 
 With worshipful slaves half a score, 
 One little earthly cherub 
 
 To see him was to adore. 
 
 One little year he was with us, 
 Our beautiful golden-naired joy, 
 
 Then a week of watching and anguish 
 "Oh, God, spare to us our boy !" 
 
 One house that has lost its sunshine. 
 
 Where sad hearts a sad vigil keep, 
 One little mound in the churchyard 
 Our baby has fallen asleep ! 
 
 CHARLOTTE E. BALLARD. 
 207
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 RIO DE LAS ANIMAS PERDIDAS. 
 I. 
 
 Who are these that drift before me, weaving spells en 
 chanted o'er me, 
 
 That with magic power draw me, where the shining waters 
 charm ? 
 
 And what is this sound of sweetness with its fatal gift of 
 fleetness? 
 
 Sounds that lills me to completeness, with a sense of per 
 fect calm? 
 
 Have I, leaves of lotus eating, even time itself been 
 cheating, 
 
 And the murmur still repeating, as it down the river rolls, 
 
 Found that memory is sleeping, Lethe my affections steeping 
 
 And my soul in durance keeping, by the River of Lost 
 Souls? 
 
 II. 
 
 In a wonder born of terror, I look in the river's mirror 
 And behold the ghosts of error, shrouded in white samite 
 
 stoles; 
 In the near light or the far light, of the moonlight or the 
 
 starlight, 
 
 Or the flashing of the car light that along the river rolls, 
 Gaunt against granitic edges, dipping art amid the ledges, 
 Poising upon dangerous edges of red battlemented knolls; 
 Golden locks and raven tresses, arms that pulsate with 
 
 caresses. 
 These my midnight vigil blesses, by the River of Lost 
 
 Souls. 
 
 208
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lips that move, but make no speeches, hand that into space 
 
 outreaches 
 
 As when one in vain beseeches for a respite from all care; 
 And an army of white faces, filling all the sylvan spaces, 
 With a vision of lost graces these are present everywhere; 
 As the star rays on the river, in the solemn midnight 
 
 quiver, 
 And a tremor, like a shiver, seems to touch each wave 
 
 that rolls 
 Are they wings of 'lost ones lifting? Are they forms of 
 
 lost ones drifting, 
 On the sands so soft and shifting, by the River of Lost 
 
 Souls? 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the west the sad Dolores, with its legendary stories 
 Of cliff dwellers, time-dimmed glories, outlines on each 
 
 cell-pierced wall, 
 Moves along where nature's pages, burdened with the tale 
 
 of ages, 
 
 Waits the coming of the sages, who its secrets shall recall, 
 Of the time the mother taught her bright and bronzed 
 
 bosomed daughter 
 
 That, to taste the shining waters, as it to the sunland rolls, 
 Was to walk in Happy Islands, floating in the azure Sky- 
 lands, 
 
 Hovering above the Highlands, by the River of Lost 
 Souls . 
 
 209
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now, through piue trees tall and slender, comes a rosy light 
 and tender, 
 
 As the young day in its splendor, dawns upon the hem 
 isphere; 
 
 And the ghostly shapes around me, whose wierd presence 
 have spell-bound me 
 
 And with aerie fancies crowned me, with the darkness 
 disappear. 
 
 Thus the night has its romances, and the heart throbs 
 'neath ghost glances, 
 
 As the midnight hour, advances, where the fateful river 
 rolls 
 
 Till, all other loves forgetting, with hopes once so soul be 
 setting, 
 
 Daylight dawns with deep regretting, by the Rives of Lost 
 Souls? 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 In the days long gone I am living, love, to-night 
 
 As I listen to the patter of the rain. 
 
 I have driven sorrow out and the world Is warm and 
 bright, 
 
 I am happy, gay and youthful once again. 
 I see the old red mill, the schoolhouse on the hill 
 
 And I hear the joyous shouts ring out in glee; 
 The memory is sweet, it makes my being thrill 
 
 When I think how much they were to you and me. 
 
 210
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 In the days long gone, when you were by my side, 
 And the rosy tints of hope caine into view, 
 
 We builded airy castles, fashioned by our love and pride; 
 Ah ! The world was then for none but me and you. 
 
 But I would not, if I could, forget those happy days 
 Or cloud them with the mist of vain regret; 
 
 Let them linger in our lives like the sunbeam's brightest 
 rays, 
 
 Let us cherish them and vow we'll ne'er forget. 
 
 OLNEY 
 
 THE EIDELWEISS. 
 
 The Rockies stood in mighty ranks, 
 
 Bathed in the summer fair; 
 Their crystal peaks above me rise 
 
 In upper realms of air. 
 On canon sides the Columbine 
 
 Nodded a welcome gay, 
 And far from camp and the cares of life 
 
 I rode alone that day. 
 
 And now the trail led through a grove 
 
 Where slim white aspens stood; 
 With quivering, mystery-murmuring leaves, 
 
 A beauteous sisterhood. 
 And now straight up a mountain side 
 
 It climbed so steeply on, 
 And at the top behold ! afar, 
 The silvery San Juan.
 
 EYENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Here are vast mesas, brown and bare; 
 
 The trees are all below, 
 And up above, among the rocks, 
 
 There shines the summer snow, 
 And at its edge, all white and small, 
 
 Beside the crusted ice, 
 Dismounting, kneeling eagerly, 
 
 I pluck the Eidehvelss. 
 
 O, happy morn ! O, mighty hills ! 
 
 How often, far away, 
 The homesick one turns back to you, 
 
 And longs for that fair day ? 
 And sometimes 'mid the city's din, 
 
 There's a hot tear overflowing 
 To think how sweet, above the clouds, 
 
 The Eidelweiss is growing. 
 
 PALMER LAKE. 
 
 Wierdly beautiful, wild and fair. 
 
 Maid of the mist and mountain air, 
 
 Flashing your smiles to the laughing skies, 
 
 Wooing at eve her crimson dyes; 
 
 Magical queen of the green "divide," 
 
 Beauty's daughter at even tide 
 
 As the shadows creep thro' golden bars 
 
 To catch the sheen of the silver stars.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 Homes of beauty, 'mid wild rose bowers, 
 Vine-clad rocks, and blooming flowers; 
 Grasses luxuriant, green and wild, 
 Playground of nature's happy child; 
 Pine tree aisles, where holy light 
 Plays with the shadows of day and night; 
 Sylvan dells, where the creek sweeps by 
 Murmuring its song to the azure sky. 
 
 Sylph of the beauteous sylvan scene ! 
 Pride of the hills of velvet green ! 
 Sweet are the forms that seek thy breast, 
 As the sun goes down in the golden west; 
 And bright the face your fountains spray 
 Whose rainbow hues, on thy bosom play; 
 A fairy sprite, as you motionless lie 
 Waiting to mirror the star-gemmed sky. 
 
 And soft the dip of the flashing oar 
 As the boatman pulls from the pebbly shore; 
 And sweet the scenes thro' the summer day, 
 Where youth and beauty and sunlight play. 
 And sweeter still, on the evening air, 
 (As moonlight and starlight mingle there) 
 The hum and stir of the happy throng, 
 The rythmic music of laughter and song. 
 
 Pride of the ages yet to be ! 
 Pride of the years of eternity ! 
 Child of creation's thought and love, 
 
 213
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Pure as the angel forms above, 
 
 Whose white waves rise and whose ripples flow, 
 
 Whispering tales of the "long ago," 
 
 Love and laughter and songs for thee 
 
 Maid of the mountain wild and free. 
 
 GEORGE S. PHELPS. 
 
 CLAUDIAN. 
 
 Last of the poets whose tottering footsteps trod 
 
 The path by Vergil marked into Elysium; 
 
 There to find a nook amid the laurel-crowned, 
 
 Almost a stranger, yet received and welcomed. 
 
 Thy song, sprung from a heart touched by the dying 
 
 breath 
 
 Of Rome's great bard, fanning into a fitful flame 
 The dying coal of Roman spirit, inscribed thy name 
 Upon the golden tablet with Rome's greatest sons. 
 
 FREDERICK KRAMER. 
 
 INTROSPECTION. 
 
 I know thy grief, and yet how shall I write? 
 To comfort t.hee. what shall I say to-night? 
 That thou art not alone? Behold the throng 
 Of wounded souls that bear some gloomy wrong. 
 Oh ! sorrowing friend, what multitudes to-day 
 Walk by thy side, unknown the thorny way, 
 
 214
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 And walk in darkness, praying for the light 
 Like one who walks his chamber in the night, 
 And ever through his window looks away 
 Into the chilly night and longs for day. 
 
 There is no soul but has some deep regret 
 For something. lost on which the heart was set; 
 Through tear-drop prisms still Ave see it glow, 
 Rimmed with the splendor of the glorious bow, 
 There is no soul but sometimes takes its flight 
 To those far skies that made its youth so bright, 
 In search of something lost, and with a sigh 
 Gives o'er the search, returns and waits to die, 
 And treads the stony way with bleeding feet, 
 To find it when the heart has ceased to beat. 
 
 Now that thy love is spurned and under trod, 
 
 Fly thou, to Nature, Poetry and God; 
 
 Nay, fly to love itself and love shall be 
 
 Its own strong healer, and shall set thee free. 
 
 How sweet to know in all the wounds we feel 
 
 The mystic power that nature has to heal; 
 
 The strength and comfort found by one who flies 
 
 From human contests to the fields and skies 
 
 The blest escape from conflict and from care, 
 
 As though the God of comfort met us there. 
 
 I have not soared to God to walk with him, 
 And my past visions have been brief and dim. 
 Although, like Paul, I fought against the flesh, 
 With every power, and prayer, and thought, and wish. 
 Yet when abroad with Nature ranging free, 
 
 215
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 God met me on the hill and walked with me ! 
 
 Oh, sweet autumnal days of long ago ! 
 
 How in my bosom yet their raptures glow ! 
 
 Those mellow days when in the infinite West, 
 
 In some celestial island of the blest, 
 
 The angels loosed the winds and set them free 
 
 To roam the field and woods and hills with me; 
 
 While toiling men in hamlets far away 
 
 Heard the woods roar through all the balmy day. 
 
 Oh, blessed days of sunshine and of peace ! 
 When from the strife of man I stole release, 
 And walked about among the hills and woods 
 In sweet company of God's solitudes; 
 Through velvet fields I saw the rivers run 
 And white towns shining in the mellow sun, 
 And heard the woods their soothing music pour 
 From forest harps with multitudinous roar, 
 Or saw across some blue and distant bay 
 A glory fall on cities far away; 
 And tapering staples towering slim and high 
 Stand glorified against the wondrous sky. 
 And then God came, with His rich gifts of power, 
 And talked and walked with me from hour to hour, 
 And changed me to a harp of chords, 
 Attuned to music of His precious words. 
 
 IN RETROSPECT. 
 
 Once more upon the tented field 
 With dauntless hearts and martial tread, 
 
 Come back, O, spirits of the past 
 And bivouac with the quick and dead. 
 
 216
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 Turn back, O Time, in retrospect 
 We live again 'midst scenes of strife 
 
 We see the must'ring squadrons form, 
 We hear the bugle, drum and fife. 
 
 We see the deadly rifle's flash, 
 We hear the screaming shot and shell, 
 
 We hear the Federal's wild hurrah ! 
 We hear the savage Rebel yell. 
 
 I 
 
 We see amidst the sulphurous smoke, 
 
 The wavering lines of blue and gray, 
 We see their flaunting banners float 
 Where valor leads its gory way. 
 
 We see the gathering columns break 
 
 Mown down before the leaden rain, 
 We hear the loud exultant shout ! 
 
 We see the crimson tide of pain. 
 
 We see the charge, the mad retreat, 
 We hear the moans of dying men 
 
 The clouds of battle roll away, 
 We see the loathsome prison pen. 
 
 We see the camp fires' flickering light 
 Where grew the fields of ripening grain, 
 
 We see the mouldering plowshare rust 
 'Midst winter's snows and summer's rain, 
 
 We see the widow's sombre weeds. 
 
 We see the furrowed cheek turn pale, 
 We see affection's wan despair, 
 
 We hear the orphan's bitter wail. 
 
 217
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 The bivouac fires no longer burn 
 Peace dawns at last, blest, happy day; 
 
 Stack arms ! Farewell the tented field, 
 Break ranks ! the blue. Break ranks ! the gray. 
 
 We see 110 North, South, East or West, 
 
 Columbia stands united free; 
 Hail to the quick ! Hail patriots dead ! 
 
 Your deeds have wrought this grand decree. 
 
 We see our starry banner float 
 
 O'er all our land by freedom blest, 
 We see these little mounds of earth 
 
 Where valor finds eternal rest 
 
 Oh ! bloodiest picture of the past, 
 Fade from our sight as years have fled. 
 
 Leave 110 remembrance of thy day, 
 Save honor to our gallant dead. 
 
 T. j. SIPPI.E. 
 
 FATE OR GOD. 
 
 Beyond the record of all eldest things, 
 Beyond the rule and regions of past time, 
 From out Antiquity's hoary-headed rime, 
 
 Looms the dread phantom of a King of Kings; 
 
 Round His vast brow the glittering circlet clings 
 Of a thrice royal crown; behind Him climb. 
 O'er Atlanteau limbs and breast sublime, 
 
 The somber splendors of mysterious wings. 
 
 218
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 Deep calms of measureless power, in awful state, 
 Gird and uphold Him; a miraculous rod, 
 To heal or smite, arms His infallible hands; 
 Known in all ages, worshiped in all lands, 
 Doubt names this half-embodied mystery Fate, 
 While Faith, with holier reverence, whispers God. 
 
 H. B. STEPHENS. 
 
 EVENTIDE. 
 
 4 'Gott nur kann dir geben wahre abendruhe." Fallersleben. 
 
 The storm is past, its fury spent, 
 
 The clouds are scattered far and wide; 
 
 The angry waters, lashed to foam, 
 Are now quite pacified. 
 
 The fretful winds at length are hushed, 
 The sun but gilds the mountain's crest; 
 
 The shades of evening steal around, 
 All nature sinks to rest. 
 
 The daylight softly fades away, 
 The clouds become a leaden hue, 
 
 The day is done, the twilight conies, 
 The stars appear in view. 
 
 Thou too my heart, whose restless beat 
 Drives on life's ever fitful tide, 
 
 Rejoice in that thou too shalt find 
 At last, thy eventide. 
 
 219
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 What matter then, if ruthless fate 
 
 From tlioe the victor's crown withhold? 
 
 What matter if a cheerless world 
 Has chilled thee with its cold? 
 
 Strive on despite storm-laden cloud, 
 
 Or shipwrecked hopes, fate's darksome trend; 
 The hours are few, the eve draws nigh 
 
 When all thy labors end. 
 
 GENESEKK . 
 
 NOBODY KNOWS, 
 
 Nobody knows the dark cold wave, 
 
 That sweeps o'er my soul to-day; 
 Nobody knows the ceaseless pain, 
 
 That is wearing my heart away. 
 Though the sun to-day shines merrily 
 
 And the face of the earth is fair; 
 Down deep In my heart is a gnawing ache, 
 
 And a vision to be buried lies there. 
 
 Nobody knows the silent remorse 
 
 That has wrapt my heart in gloom; 
 Nobody knows the conscious sting, 
 
 As it sweeps to its awful doom. 
 The silent conflict nobody knows, 
 
 Nor the sorrow borne this day; 
 Still the mighty love of the Father's hand 
 
 Ever upholdeth this fragile clay.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AMD ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 Nobody knows the grief this day, 
 That reigns o'er my inmost soul 
 
 No angel's voice, no glimpse of Heaven, 
 Only a dream of the heavenly goal. 
 
 The wind is sobbing about the eaves, 
 As louder and wilder it blows 
 
 O spare me from the cold cruel winds, 
 I'm so unhappy and nobody knows. 
 
 Shall I assume a smile of joy, 
 
 Whence nobody knows my woe; 
 Be gay and feign my merriest mood, 
 
 Though the currents are raging below? 
 Shall I gaily tread o'er the flowery mead, 
 
 And cull me the ruddiest rose? 
 To me it means a crushed, bleading heart, 
 
 And a lingering sorrow that nobody knows. 
 
 Nobody knows, ah me ! but God, 
 
 The memories, hopes and fears 
 That glide like shadows across my soul, 
 
 And fill my eyes with tears. 
 My heart's wild throbbing ne'er will cease, 
 
 Till its beatings are stilled 'ueath the sod; 
 Then shall I be saved on the other side? 
 
 Ah, nobody knows but God. 
 
 i,. u. G 
 
 COLORADO. 
 
 Thou hast thine eyrie in the lifted lands, 
 O Colorado, mountain-born and free; 
 Unvexed by terrors of the far-off sea, 
 
 On earth's high crest thy favored realm expands.
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Nature bestowed thy dower with lavish hands, 
 The richest gifts within her treasury, 
 Which from creation she reserved for thee, 
 
 Thy ore-veined mountains and thy golden sands. 
 
 Far eastward, ocean-vast, thy plains extend; 
 Westward thy snow-crowned mountains meet the sky; 
 
 Heavens of unclouded blue above thee bend, 
 And the bright sun looks on thee lovingly. 
 
 To what God hath so wrought may great souls lend 
 The fadeless luster of achievements high. 
 
 J. D. DIL,L,ENBACK. 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S LAMENT. 
 
 Down through the vales we rushed amain. 
 I looked from out the flying train, 
 
 And gentle flowers, they smiled at me 
 With gentle eyes, I loved to see- 
 But oh ! so near, and yet so far- 
 Each might as well have been a star. 
 
 Sad are my thoughts, yes, sad and vain 
 
 My thoughts upon this railroad train. 
 
 How have I run life's journey through 
 Nor picked one flower that near me grew. 
 
 I thought 'twere easy any day 
 
 To choose a rosebud by the way.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 But now my days run swiftly by, 
 
 The truant seasons, how they fly; 
 The sweetest roses, others culled 
 And by their charms are sweetly lulled. 
 
 Ah, me ! I dare not choose a flower 
 
 I am so odd (and may be sour). 
 
 Oh ! Life to me is like a. train 
 
 That brings me less of joy than pain. 
 The flowers I see seem very dear, 
 For, oh ! they are so very near 
 
 They are so near, and yet so far 
 
 I may not take them to my car. 
 
 OLIVER HOWARD. 
 
 FIRST FUNERAL AT NUGGETSVILLE. 
 
 They tenderly bore him out of the camp, 
 And laid him to rest 'ueath the blasted nine. 
 
 Upon a rude headboard they scribbled: "Tramp ! 
 Was killed by a 'shot' at the Hopewell mine." 
 
 He had come with the first to Nuggetville 
 A homely creature, and without a name 
 
 But stuck to the camp with a dogged will, 
 Till he "cashed in his chips" he died "dead game." 
 
 A hero, indeed, was he to the last; 
 There were tears of joy for the rescued child 
 
 He dragged from the ledge from the "Giant" blast- 
 Out over the fragments of boulders piled. 
 
 223
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 Then down upon the helpless infant threw 
 Himself, as a shield from the show'r of stone. 
 
 What more, I ask you, could a poor dog do, 
 By his canine courage and skill alone? 
 
 No parson was there to offer a pray'r, 
 And point out the way to holier lives; 
 
 So they fired a salute with solemn air, 
 O'er the brave dog's grave, with their 45's. 
 
 i,. w. CANADY. 
 
 KEVEREND JOHN. 
 
 A wild rose plucked on Carbonate Hill, 
 
 With the breath of the mountains in each pink fold, 
 
 A tale of a life that wrought God's will, 
 
 In a camp whose passion was lust for gold. 
 
 And I lay them both, with a reverend hand, 
 As a tribute to worth, on a good man's grave; 
 The fragrant rose from the silver land, 
 The simple story the miner gave. 
 
 "He was my pastor, least ways you smile, 
 But I go to church, sir, once in a while, 
 
 As all the boys do off an' on. 
 An' I never missed him a Sabbath day 
 A kindly man with a scholar's way, 
 
 The miners called him Reverend John. 
 
 224
 
 MISCELLANEOUS AND ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 "When he came to the camp in eighty-one 
 The Methodis' people looked kind o' glum, 
 
 For they wanted a different sort o' man. 
 A man of muscle was what they asked, 
 Who could pray or fight as the ruin'it tasked, 
 
 And whose gospel was run on a vigorous plan. 
 
 "But they found though his sermons was rather deep- 
 That a strain in his voice made sinners weep 
 
 When he told Christ's story with simple art. 
 An' his hands so slender, an' small, an' white, 
 Was mighty with strength for God an' right, 
 
 While his sermons wasn't as deep as his heart. 
 
 "He owned to the widest sort of creed, 
 'Twas helpin' sufferin' ones in need, 
 
 'Words are empty' he used to say. 
 Always to feed 'em first was his plan, 
 Then to talk to 'em, man to man, 
 
 Many a soul came in that way. 
 
 "He pi-eached a gospel that one could feel, 
 An' backed it up with a good square meal, 
 
 A helpin' a hungry feller on. 
 'For a man don't grasp theological points 
 When he's troubled with weakness in the joints 
 
 From a spell o' 'fastin',' said Reverend John. 
 
 "It's many a prospector; busted well, 
 In a manner they wouldn't care to tell. 
 An' men that the world had sat upon 
 
 225
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 That he gave a hand to, iii hour of need, 
 An' started again with bright Godspeed; 
 
 'They are all His children,' said Reverend John. 
 
 "An" children, they natcherly clung to him; 
 For a little one's sight aiiit noways dim, 
 
 lu a matter of likin', where love is meant. 
 He had 'em up to his house on the hill, 
 Where they played at 'blind man' an' 'Jack and Jill,' 
 
 An' he told 'eiu tales to their heart's content. 
 
 "So he loved an' labored, an' helped us all, 
 Till he heard one eveuin' an angel call, 
 
 So he folded his hands, for his work was done. 
 "Tis a beautiful world, but He knows best, 
 My Father giveth his loved ones rest !' 
 
 Then he said with a smile, 'Dear Lord, I come.' 
 
 "An" many a child's dear eyes was dim, 
 When they came to look their last on him, 
 
 While sobs was heard at his coffin side, 
 From those he had helped with heart and hand 
 To get in the path for the better land, 
 
 For they felt that a loving man had died. 
 
 "An' I knew when I looked on the quiet face, 
 Where lingered a smile of gentle grace 
 
 A smile of farewell to the spirit gone 
 That the King he'd served through Joy an' ills 
 Had met his soul on the Heavenly Hills, 
 
 An' a royal welcome had Reverend John. 
 
 ROSS DKFORRIS. 
 
 226
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 IRotes. 
 
 [Notes have been prepared on all authors represented in this volume, excepting 
 those included in the division of Miscellaneous and Anonymous Poems.] 
 
 ALLEN, CHARLES FLETCHER, was born in Wayne, Me., and graduated 
 from Cornell University in 1873, with special honor as class poet. He was 
 two years private secretary to Hon. Andrew D. White, president of the 
 university ; was appointed United States Consular Agent at St. George's, 
 Bermuda, in 1873 ; in 1874, special signal service observer at Bermuda. In 
 1876 Mr. Allen became engaged in the oil business and banking at Brad 
 ford, Penn., and subsequently resided at Pittsburgh until his removal to 
 Denver in 1888 to accept a position with the German National Bank, 
 where he has since been engaged. To Mr. Allen, literary work became a 
 relaxation from the duties of an active business life, and he contributed 
 many stories and poems to various publications, including the New York 
 Tribune, New York Graphic, Cosmopolitan, Great Divide, Sports Afield, Chicago 
 Inter Ocean, and newspaper syndicates. His poem at the unveiling of a 
 bust of Andrew D. White, at Cornell University, 1887, was most favor 
 ably received by that distinguished audience. 
 
 BOYD, DAVID, M. A. was born in Antrim County, Ireland, 1833, of 
 Scotch-Irish parents, and came with his father's family to the United 
 States in 1851. In 1859 he entered the freshman class of the University of 
 Michigan, and at the close of his junior year, 1862, enlisted as a private 
 in the Eighteenth Michigan Volunteer Infantry. After twenty months' 
 service, Mr. Boyd was made captain of Company H Fortieth Colorado 
 Troops, having enlisted in the company in Tennessee. He was mustered 
 out with the regiment, April X5, 1866, and returned to Ann Arbor, where he 
 was graduated (A. B.) the same year, having pursued his senior studies dur 
 ing his last year of army life. He was married and remained in Michigan 
 till 1870, when he joined the "Union Colony" which settled the town and 
 vicinity of Greeley. Mr. Boyd has filled many positions of honor and 
 trust, among them the presidency of "Union Colony" and of the State 
 Board of Agriculture. In 1892 he was elected state senator from Weld 
 County, having run as an independent candidate, endorsed by the Popu 
 list, Democratic and Prohibition Parties. He is author of a history of the 
 Union Colony, published in 1890. 
 
 227
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 BORDICK, WILLIAM L., Ph. D.. was born at East Greenwich, R. I., 
 1860, and graduated from Wesleyan University, Connecticut, 1882. In the 
 ensuing ten years he held the principalship of high schools in Connecticut 
 and Massachusetts, meanwhile studying law and theology, and taking 
 three years' graduate work at Harvard University. At intervals in his 
 professional labors Dr. Burdick found time for extensive travel in Europe 
 and America, and for preparing a course of popular lectures. He came to 
 Colorado in 1892, to accept the principalship of the State Preparatory 
 School at Boulder. 
 
 CURTIS, EMMA (GHENT), was born at Frankfort, Ind. After gradu 
 ating from the Frankfort High School, 1877, she engaged in teaching, and 
 later was employed in newspaper work. At twenty-one, owing to failing 
 health. Miss Ghent came to Colorado, where she again taught school. In 
 1882 she was married to James Curtis, a farmer residing near Canon 
 City. Subsequently Mrs. Curtis became connected with various reform 
 movements along social and industrial lines, and on account of this interest, 
 received the appointment as commissioner of the State Industrial School 
 at Golden. She was a member of the committee which drafted the first 
 platform of the People's Party at Cincinnati, 1891 ; her labors along polit 
 ical lines being mainly in behalf of the political equality of her sex. As 
 a writer, Mrs. Curtis has been a frequent contributor of poems and short 
 stories to the Yo-uWif Companion and other journals, and has published 
 two novels, "The Fate of a Fool" (1888), and "The Administratrix" 
 (1889). 
 
 DAVIS, CORA M. A. (Bisuoi^, was born in Gennessee County, New 
 York, 1841, and at six years of age removed with her parents to Rock 
 County, Wisconsin. She was married in 1857 to F. M. Davis, a journalist, 
 and in 1875 came to Denver, where she resided mainly until her death in 
 1885. Her poems were published in 1887, in a volume entitled " Irnmor- 
 talles." 
 
 DE LAN, SURVILLE J., lawyer, was born in the West Indies, and came 
 to the United States in 1849. For twenty-five years he was owner of a 
 large jewelry store in New York City. He visited Leadville in 1879 and 
 wrote for the New York 8 tar, the first articles on Leadville that appeared 
 in eastern papers. Later Mr. De Ln became manager of a Leadville 
 mining company, and also practiced law before the land office in that 
 city. In 1887 he removed to Denver, being appointed marshal of the 
 supreme court of the State. This position he resigned to accept the 
 appointment as register of the land office at Glen wood Springs, under Mr. 
 
 228
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 Cleveland's first administration. As president of the board of trade of 
 Glenwood Springs, as well as in other official capacities, Mr. De Lan has 
 done much active work for the encouragement of local interests, and has 
 contributed many articles to eastern publications in behalf of his state. 
 His poems were published, 1889, in a souvenir volume entitled "Crude 
 Ore." 
 
 FAR HAND, MAY (SPENCER), was born in Philadelphia, 1868. She spent 
 her childhood in Chicago, and at an early age came to Colorado with her 
 mother, where the latter soon afterwards died. At fourteen Miss Spencer 
 was in Pueblo, already a contributor to prominent newspapers. Her 
 poems were first published in The Denver Inter Ocean, then owned by Henry 
 L. Feldwisch, who noted and encouraged her genius. Since that time she 
 has been a frequent contributor to the Denver and Chicago press. Owing 
 to failing eyesight. Miss Spencer never attended school after the age of 
 eleven, but fondness for reading and keen perceptive powers brought her 
 a rare fund of knowledge. She was married, 1888, to Captain D. E. Far- 
 rand, of Denver, where she has since resided. 
 
 FIELD, EUGENE, journalist, was born in St. Louis, Mo., 1850, but most 
 of his early life was spent in Massachusetts and other parts of New 
 England. He entered Williams College in 1868, continuing his studies 
 later at the University of Missouri. In 1872 he visited Europe and on his 
 return became a reporter for the St. Louis Everting Journal. From this 
 time Mr. Field rose rapidly in the newspaper world. In 1875-6 he was city 
 editor of the St. Joseph (Mo.) Gazette; later an editorial writer on the St. 
 Louis Journal, and became managing editor of the Denver Tribune in 1882. 
 Here Mr. Field's genius for newspaper work appeared at its best and con 
 tributed to the remarkable excellence which that journal maintained for 
 several years. During this period he also began writing verse, gathering 
 from Colorado life the material for many of his best poetical productions. 
 Since 1883 he has resided mainly in Chicago, and has been a contributor 
 to the Record (formerly Morning News), of that city. Mr. Field has pub 
 lished a number of books, among which are the "Tribune Primer" (1886), 
 " A Little Book of Western Verse " (1889), "A Little Book of Profitable 
 Tales " (1889), and "The Holy Cross and Other Tales" (1893). 
 
 GLENDINNING, WILLIAM, was born in Dunsfield, Perthshire, Scotland, 
 1859, and very early in life removed with his parents to Lancashire, 
 England, where he attended school. At ten he entered a printing office, 
 three miles from his home and walked this distance to his work daily, for 
 two years. Later he learned bookkeeping, and pursued this vocation in 
 
 229
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 New York, Detroit and Colorado Springs. Mr. Glendinning's first verses 
 appeared when he was fifteen, in the Family Herald, at that time one of 
 the leading papers of London, and were so favorably received by the pub 
 lic that they were set to music by an eminent composer. Since coming 
 to this country his contributions have appeared mainly in New York, 
 Michigan and Colorado papers. His beautiful poem "Sing to Me Mother" 
 is a loving tribute to the memory of his departed mother. 
 
 1 1 \-K i.i.i.. PROF. THOMAS NELSON, was born in Chautauqua County, 
 N. Y., and educated at Miami University, Ohio, where he was a college- 
 mate of President Harrison. After studying theology in New York and at 
 Andover, Mass., he was called to the pastorate of a Presbyterian Church 
 in Washington. D. C. From 1854 to 1858 he remained at the National 
 Capital, taking an active interest in the great abolition movement, and 
 was called to Boston because of a speech which he delivered before the 
 Synod of Virginia against its proslavery secession from the general 
 assembly in 1857. Soon after settling in Boston the war began, and Mr. 
 Haskell wrote his first three books for "The Boys in Blue," and raised 
 large sums of money in the North for their sanitary comfort and 
 moral encouragement. Owing to failing health he was sent by his con 
 gregation on a European trip but returned only slightly improved. He 
 retired from the pulpit and accepted the chair of logic, literature and 
 political economy in the University of Wisconsin. Previous to that time 
 he was married to the youngest daughter of President Edwards of An 
 dover Seminary and at one time private secretary to Mrs. H. B. Stowe. 
 Prof. Haskell came to Colorado in 1873 for the health of a daughter in 
 whose honor he started Colorado College in 1874. He is author of a num 
 ber of prose works including "Soldier's Mission, 1 ' "Life of Henry Have- 
 lock," "Echoes of Inspired Ages." "Civil Ethics in the United States," 
 etc. His poetical publications are as follows: Vol. i, "The Legend of 
 Twin Lakes." (1889), dealing with the Indian question; Vol. n, "Songs 
 at Home and Abroad, In Peace and War," (1889), Vol. in, including 
 "Women of the Bible," and "Wives of the Presidents," (1892). His spon 
 taneous "Answer to Redpath's Eulogy on Jefferson Davis," published in 
 The Commonwealth magazine attracted much interest north and south. 
 
 HAVENS, Mus. JAMES, was born at the Wiandotte Indian Mission, 
 Upper Sandusky, O. At the age of ten she went to Marion. O., to attend 
 school, and early evinced strong literary inclinations, her first composi 
 tion being a poem. Most of her earlier efforts in verse were in the inter 
 ests of temperance and the abolition of slavery. She thus gained the 
 
 230
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 attention of Neal Dow, Philip Brooks, and other reformers who did much 
 for the advancement of the earnest little poetess. At fifteen she was 
 married to James Haven, who shared her philanthropic spirit, and theirs 
 became the home of a number of motherless children. Mrs. Havens con 
 tinued a contributor to magazines and leading newspapers, and in 1873 
 became a regular correspondent of the Rocky Mountain News. Owing to 
 her active interest in the temperance cause the Woman's Christian Tem 
 perance Union, in its national convention of 1884, selected her as national 
 superintendent and lecturer for the department of opium and narcotics. 
 She continued this work until chosen by the local temperance organiza 
 tion as matron of the new Arapahoe County Jail. Here her philanthropic 
 spirit has enabled her to achieve much in the cause of prison reform. 
 
 HAZLITT, IDA ESTELLE (CROUCH), is a native of Henderson County, 
 111., and a graduate of the Illinois Normal University. She taught in the 
 high schools of the state, studied music in Chicago, came to Cheyenne, 
 Wyo., in 1890, and has since been engaged in teach ing and newspaper work 
 in that State and in Colorado. Miss Crouch inherited a passion for poetry 
 and published verses at fourteen; but subsequent interest in public affairs 
 led her to become a frequent contributor of timely prose articles on public 
 questions to the press. She was married, 1892, to Mr. Vallandingham 
 Hazlitt, of Rico, Colo. 
 
 HILL, ALICE (POLK) , is a native of Shelby County, Ky. She came to 
 Denver in 1873, engaged in teaching, and became prominent among edu 
 cators and promoters of literature and music. Aside from occasional 
 contributions to magazine literature, Mrs. Hill published, 1884, an anecdotal 
 history entitled "Tales of the Pioneers of Colorado.'' which won public 
 favor. She has for many years been a leader in social and literary circles 
 in Denver, and is the founder of the Round-table Literary Club, which, 
 under her presidency, has for six years been cherished by a group of Den 
 ver's most intelligent ladies, as a students' retreat. 
 
 HOWARD, SARAH ELISABETH (HOWARD), was born at Easton, Mass. 
 She gained an education mainly by home study, and taught school for a 
 number of years. Miss Howard inherited the gift of poesy from her 
 mother and began writing verses for the press at an early age, signing 
 them with the last letters of her name "H. H. D." Her writings, which 
 have been largely for children, have appeared in Sunshine, Little Ones and 
 Nursery and the Youth's Companion. Also she has published articles of 
 household interest in Good Housekeeping and The Ladies Repository, and dis- 
 
 231
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 cussions on farm topics in the Rural New Yorker. In 1868 she was married 
 to Albert E. Howard of Westbridgewater, Mass. They removed four 
 years later to Greeley, Colo. , where Mr. Howard engaged extensively in 
 farming. 
 
 JACKSON, HELEN MARIE (FISKE), novelist and poet, was born at 
 Amherst, Mass.. 1831, the daughter of Prof. Nathan W. Fiske, of Amherst 
 College. She received an education at the Ipswich. Mass.. Female Semi 
 nary, and was married 1852, to Capt. E. B. Hunt of the United States 
 Army ; residing with him at various army posts until his death in 1863. 
 From 1866 to 1872 her home was at Newport, R. I. Mrs. Hunt wrote but 
 little for the public until 1865, when she began to contribute verses to the 
 New York Nation, following these with poems and prose articles in the 
 Independent and Hearth and Home. Two winters spent in Colorado Springs 
 for the sake of her health led to her marriage in 1875 to Mr. William S. 
 Jackson of that city. Here she made her home until her death in 1885. 
 The last ten years of Mrs. Jackson's life was devoted largely to efforts for 
 alleviating the wrongs of the Indians, and on her death-bed she dictated 
 a touching letter to the President of the United States on behalf of this 
 unfortunate people. Her first book on the question was entitled, "A Cen 
 tury of Dishonor,'' published in 1881. This was followed in 1884 by 
 "Ramona," a novel dealing with the same subject, and which as a literary 
 work, gained for its author a place among the first of American female 
 novelists. Other works of Mrs. Jackson are. "Bits of Travel," (1873), 
 "Bits of Talk About Home Matters," (1873). 'JSonnets and Lyrics, " (1876), 
 "Mercy Philbrick's Choice," (1876), and "Hetty's Strange Story," (1877), 
 the last two being novels. She wrote also a number of books for children. 
 
 MACCARTHT, FITZ-JAMES, better known in Colorado and the West gen 
 erally, by his HOW, deplume "Fitz-Mac" (which is made up of the first part 
 of both his names), was born and educated in Onondaga County, N. Y. 
 He taught school for several years in Cumberland County, Penn., 
 meanwhile doing some writing in both prose and verse, and gaining some 
 practical experience in journalism. He came to Colorado in 1883 to take 
 the position of "night editor" of the Denver Tribune, whose editor-in-rhief 
 was his old time friend Mr. O. H. Rothacker, and whose managing editor 
 was the now distinguished literator, Mr. Eugene Field. After a few 
 months of desk work Fitz-Mac took to the road as staff correspondent 
 and from the start met with brilliant success. He afterwards purchased 
 the Leadville Herald from Senator Tabor and united it with Mr. C. C. 
 Davis' paper the Democrat, of which he was at the time editor, and con- 
 
 232
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NO'IES. 
 
 tinued for a time editor of the Her aid- Democrat. He has been prominent 
 in politics ever since his connection with journalism in Colorado, and 
 he then contributed to the Colorado Springs Gazette a remarkable series of 
 personal pen sketches called "Political Portraits," which attracted wide 
 attention. Fitz-Mac is now best known to the public as a writer of west 
 ern stories. For the most part these have been published locally and 
 their success though decided, has been local. He was editor of the Denver 
 Daily World in 1887-8. 
 
 McCLURG, VIRGINIA (DONAGHE), poet, journalist, archaeologist and 
 lecturer, is a native of Virginia, 'and, like some others of our group of 
 authors, her early literary work was done under Southern and Eastern 
 influences. Mrs. McClurg comes of a distinguished lineage, which num 
 bers among its historic personages, the D'Aubigne who fought at 
 Hastings, and Hallam the English historian, and embraces many of the 
 aristocratic families of colonial Virginia. At an early age Miss Donaghe 
 contributed stories and verse to the magazines, and served a long term as 
 newspaper correspondent. In 1887 she came to Colorado Springs, seeking 
 renewed health, and entered upon active journalism, filling an editorial 
 position on a Colorado Springs daily for three years. She then became in 
 terested in the pre-historic remains of the Southwestern United States, and 
 conducted expeditions within their borders at a period when Indians were 
 hostile and exploration was attended with great privations and hardships. 
 One of the results of her studies and excavations has been the preparation 
 of a series of lectures on the "Pre-Historic Southwest,'' which she deliv 
 ered at the Columbian Exposition. In 1889 Miss Donaghe was married to 
 Mr. Gilbert McClurg, a journalist and publisher, formerly of the house of 
 A. C. McClurg & Co., Chicago. Since her marriage, and after a trip 
 abroad, Mrs. McClurg has spent the winters in Denver engaging in 
 various departments of woman's work for woman. Her sonnets and 
 poems occasionally appear in the Century and Cosmopolitan magazines and 
 Review of Revises, and have elicited strong commendations from the New 
 York Nation and Independent. She is the author of "Picturesque Utah," 
 "Picturesque Colorado," and "Colorado Favorites, 7 ' a collection of verses 
 descriptive of Colorado flowers. The latest of her books, the sumptuous 
 "Seven Sonnets of Sculpture," has wontho praise of critics generally. 
 
 McDoNOUGH, CORINNE, is a native of Elisabeth, Penn., and was grad 
 uated from thb Elisabeth Female Seminary. She subsequently adopted 
 music as a profession and taught classes in Pittsburgh, Helena, Mont., 
 and Denver; residing in the last named city since 1887. Miss McDonough 
 
 233
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 has written for the press for a number of years, principally in the inter 
 est of the United Presbyterian Church and the Woman's Christian Tem 
 perance Union. A volume of her prose and verse has been collected for 
 publication. 
 
 MclNTYRE. ROBERT, D. D., was born at Selkirk, Scotland, 1851. He 
 is a descendant of a noble Scottish clan which included originally the 
 Hereditary Foresters of the Stewarts, Lords of Lome, and to which tie- 
 longed in later years one of the most gifted poets of Scotland, Duncan 
 Ban Mclntyre, born in 1724. Our poet at the age of seven came to Phila 
 delphia where he attended school and later learned the brick-layer's trade. 
 In early manhood he became a pronounced infidel and was for a time 
 president of an infldel society. His conversion at the age of twenty-four 
 led him to prepare for the ministry, which he entered, in the Illinois con 
 ference, in 1877. He served as pastor in Marshall, 111., Charleston and 
 Chicago, and came from the latter city to Denver in 1891. During his 
 pastorate at Trinity Church. Denver, Dr. Mclntyre has become widely 
 known as a pulpit orator and lecturer. His poems have recently been 
 collected for publication. 
 
 NICHOLS, MARTHA (BATLOK), was born at Salem, O., 1857. At an 
 early age she moved with her parents to Angolia. Ind.. where she received 
 her education, and where she was married, 1871, to John H. Nichols. On 
 her husband's death, ten years later, Mrs. Nichols came west, locating 
 first near the Pine Ridge Reservation in Nebraska. Here the Indian in 
 his native grotesqueness furnished her first strong incentive to literary 
 work, and she began writing numerous sketches of their ways of life. 
 These were readily accepted and published by the Youth's Companiott, and 
 other eastern journals. In recent years her stories and poems have 
 appeared mainly in The Yankee lilcule. and Omaha papers. Mrs. Nichols 
 came to Colorado in 1889 and settled in Boulder. 
 
 FADES, MARY SYLVESTER, was born in Josephine County, Ore., but 
 her early life was spent in West Virginia, in the valley of the Ohio, where 
 the Paden homestead has stood for several generations. The family is of 
 Scotch descent, and the name was originally spelled "Peden;'' Alex 
 ander Peden. the Scotch covenanter and phrophet being among the ances 
 tors. Miss Paden received her education in Cincinnati, graduating from 
 the Woodward High School and Cincinnati Normal College, also study 
 ing subsequently in the art academy of that city. She came to Denver in 
 1889 and has been engaged as an artist, newspaper reporter, editor of 
 special departments, and general stenographer, in addition to occasional 
 
 234
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 literery work. Her recent poems have appeared mainly in Lippencotfs 
 Magazine. Though Miss Paden's writings have elicited commendations 
 from Longfellow. Holmes. Riley and other national poets, they are com 
 paratively little known in Colorado and the West. 
 
 PRITCHARD, ANNA, was born in Maysville, Mo., and at six years of 
 age removed with her parents to near Pueblo, Colo. Her early education 
 was conducted under her father's care. She was prepared for college at 
 the State Preparatory School, and entered the freshman class at the State 
 University in 1894. Her few contributions of verse and prose at her early 
 age. have shown exceptional care in their production. 
 
 RICHAKDSON, MARION (MuiR), was born in Chicago, 1859. During her 
 infancy her parents came to Colorado, locating among the mines of Gil- 
 pin County. At the Indian outbreak of '64 the family went east, but 
 returned three years later and in 1870 settled at Morrison. Miss Muir 
 studied art and wood engraving in Denver at the age of twenty, but, fail 
 ing in health, returned to country life. Later she became assistant editor 
 of the excellent but short-lived weekly Mercury, published in Denver, and 
 also worked for a time on the Rocky Mountain News. Mr. Dana, of the 
 New York Sun, and Mr. Whittier noted and commended her literary 
 efforts, which encouragement led her to become a frequent contributor to 
 eastern journals. On her marriage in 1886 she removed to Southern 
 Utah. 
 
 ROTHACKER, OTTOMAR H., journalist, was a native of Cincinnati, born 
 about 1853. His father, a member of a notable German family, had been 
 a student at Heidelberg University, and was expatriated with Carl 
 Schurz and many other German young men at the breaking out of the 
 students' rebellion of 1849. He afterwards edited German newspapers in 
 America. Both parents possessed literary talents of a high order, which 
 Ottomar inherited. He wrote comparatively little, however, of either 
 prose or verse, and of the latter scarcely anything has been preserved. 
 Mr. Rothacker was from 1878 to the spring of 1884 editor-in-chief of the 
 Denver Tribune, which during the period of his control took a high rank 
 among the newspapers of the country. He died in 1889 at Omaha while 
 editor of the daily Republican of that city. 
 
 [NOTE As the two chance poems we have secured cannot be claimed 
 to represent the best products of Mr. Rothacker's remarkable genius, it 
 perhaps is only justice to depart from our rule and insert a short criticism 
 an excerpt from a tribute furnished us by "Fitz-Mac'":J 
 
 "His (Rothacker's) mind, his temperament and his character strongly resem 
 bled that of the poet, Shelly, and though his genius was not as productive, I think 
 
 235
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 it undoubtedly touched as high a mark as Shelly's. He had from childhood the 
 same natural mastery as Shelly of poetical technique. In the one it was encouraged, 
 cultivated and developed; in the other quite neglected. Rothacker had clearly the 
 highest literary genius of any man I have ever personally known the clearest con 
 ception of the poetical. He was not simply a writer of clever verses containing 
 trite and obvious reflections on the sorrows, the joys and the philosophy of life; he 
 had the deep, clear, inspired vision of the true poet. I regret that the two exam 
 ples, clipped from my scrap book, which are all I am able to contribute, are not 
 entirely fitted to sustain the high estimate I have written, but most of his efforts 
 were published fugitively and have probably never been collected. When we con 
 sider, however, that the "Love Conquers Death," was written at the age of seven 
 teen or eighteen, and that it was but the effort of a few moments, his remarkable 
 genius will be conceded. 1 remember well his sitting down at my writing table one 
 day we were rooming together at the time- and writing this oft as rapidly as most 
 people would write a letter, and tossing the sheet across the table to me. This poem 
 was written in relation to some observations I had previously made, or rather that 
 we had made together, in conversation, on death and the hereafter. The *' Nell " 
 was inspired by the memory of a very beautiful girl of his own age to whom I had 
 introduced him. her family being friends of mine." 
 
 SCHOFIELD. FRANK CHAIN, was born at Lexington, Mo., 1865. At an 
 early age he lost both parents, and soon afterwards began to earn a live 
 lihood by his own efforts, coming to Colorado at nineteen to teach school. 
 He prepared for college at Athens, O. 1 , and in 1891 entered the Denver 
 University, where he remained three years, goine thence to Rochester 
 University. N. Y. He was licensed to preach in 1889. by the First Baptist 
 Church of Denver, and since then has been engaged in preaching in con 
 nection with school work. 
 
 SEABURY, EMMA (PLATTER), was born near the City of Toronto, 
 Canada, and spent her girlhood days in the Convent of Losetto. She was 
 married in 1877 to Mr. W. G. Seabury of Boston, and has resided in a 
 number of states. She is well known to readers of many periodicals, and 
 during her residence in Colorado was a very frequent contributor to the 
 excellent Commonwealth Magazine, published in Denver from 1889 to 1891. 
 Since 1891 her home has been in Pittsburgh. Kas. 
 
 STAPLETON, PATIENCE (TUCKER), was born 1861, in Wiscasset, a 
 beautiful old seaport town on the Sheepscott in Maine. She was the 
 daughter of a retired ship captain and came of a family that had followed 
 the sea for generations. She was educated at the famous old Moravian 
 Seminary of Bethlehem, Penn., and evinced a strong inclination for liter 
 ary work from her earliest childhood, having written many verses and 
 plays at a very early age, nearly all containing bright promise of the 
 
 236
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 genius for the creation of high-class fiction which characterized her sub 
 sequent work. James T. Fields took great interest in her earlier efforts 
 for publication and her first success in that direction was a very touching 
 sketch* called "Jim," published in the Youth's Companion before she was 
 eighteen. She came to Denver in 1881 and in 1883 was married to William 
 Stapleton, then editor of the Rocky Mountain News and later editor of 
 the Denver Republican. During her brief and brilliant career as an author 
 she did an immense amount of work. Her published short stories number 
 ing hundreds, rank among the best produced by any American author, 
 while her novels "My Jean," "Kady," "My Sister's Husband," and "Babe 
 Murphy," and a tragedy in blank verse, "Rose-Geranium," commanded 
 alike the favor of the critics and the public. Her last work appeared in a 
 series of very powerful editorial articles in favor of equal suffrage, in 
 the Denver Republican in the campaign of 1893, and exerted a powerful 
 influence in securing to the women of Colorado the voting franchise. Her 
 death occurred in November 1893. 
 
 STODDARD, ETHELTN ALICE, was born in Grundy County, la., 1875. 
 She early showed a great love for books and before the age of seven had 
 read Longfellow's "Evangeline," of which she became very fond. On 
 account of nervous trouble, caused by too studious habits at so early an 
 age, she remained out of school until her fourteenth year, when she 
 entered the high school at Florence, Colo., completing the course with 
 rapidity and great credit. In 1892 she entered the freshman class at the 
 State University and continued her studies there until her death in May 
 1894. Her writings consist of short productions in verse and prose, in 
 both of which she evinced exceptional literary talent. Her poems in 
 cluded in this volume were written between the ages of fifteen and 
 nineteen. 
 
 TALBOT, S. MARIE (WESTCOTT), was born at Clyde, N. Y. , and educated 
 at St. Mary's Hall, Burlington, N. J. She began writing early in life, at 
 sixteen winning a prize for essay work from the North American Magazine. 
 One of Miss Wescott's early articles was contributed to the Chicago Times, 
 then controlled by Wilber F. Story and Mr. Wilkie, who recognized her 
 ability and gave her a position on the contributing staff. She found 
 remunerative employment in essay and story writing, and published a 
 number of brochures of a memorial character, which have received favor 
 able notice from critics. Her writings include comparatively few poems, 
 but several of these have been widely copied. She was married to Hon. 
 George D. Talbot, a member of the Denver bar, and became a resident of 
 Denver in 1879. 
 
 237
 
 EVENINGS WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 WABDELL, FANNIE ISABEL. (SHERRICK). is a native of St. Louis, and 
 daughter of a well known business man of that place. Much of her early 
 life was spent in California and among the mountains of Colorado, where 
 many of her best productions in verse were written. Her collected poems 
 were published, 1888, in a volume entitled "Star Dust." Miss Sherrick 
 was married in 1891 to Mr. John B. Wardell, a prominent merchant of 
 Aspen, and has since resided in that city. Continued ill health has caused 
 her temporarily to give up literary labors. 
 
 WARMAN, CY, was born in southern Illinois, 1852, and grew up on a 
 farm. In early life he married, came to Colorado and secured employment 
 as an engineer on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Mr. Warman's 
 early career in the West was marked by a continuous struggle against 
 poverty and ill health ; to which was added a severe affliction in the loss 
 of his wife and two children. Amid these discouragements he began writ 
 ing bits of verse, and attracted thus the interest of friends who encouraged 
 him to start a paper. Attempts were made, first in Salida and later in 
 Denver in the office of The Itoad, published by his friend Herbert George. 
 Each effort ended in financial failure. He next worked as reporter on the 
 Rocky Mountain News, and later on the Times. Meanwhile his verses found 
 their way to the eastern press, and from this came the first demand for 
 his talent. In 1892 he started the Creede Chronical, which, however, shared 
 the fate of his other papers. The same year he was married to Myrtle 
 Marie Jones, for whom the words of the widely known song, "Sweet 
 Marie," were written. Mr. Warman's recent prose writings have ap 
 peared principally in McClure's Magazine. 
 
 WASON, HARRIET (CASTLE), was born at Kent, England, and came to 
 Philadelphia at eight years of age. She studied in the Woman's Medical 
 College of Pennsylvania, and later married and came to southern Colorado 
 in the early booming days of the San Juan country. Her impressions of 
 the new life and surroundings, with their utterly different phases, are 
 vividly portrayed in "Letters from Colorado." a collection of her poems 
 which gained considerable attention in the East. She resided for a time 
 at Del Norte and subsequently located near Wagon .Wheel Gap, where she 
 wrote and published the "Letters." Mrs. Wasonis the author of unpub 
 lished poetical works, among them "Guhmare," tide of the Afghan war. 
 Her husband is Martin V. Wason, an agriculturalist well known in his 
 section of the State. 
 
 WESTCOTT, HARRIET (LANCASTER), "GWENDOLINE." is a native of New 
 Carlisle, Ind., and was a daughter of the learned Rev. Henry Lancaster. 
 
 *
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 She received an education at the New Carlisle Collegiate Institute, and St. 
 Mary's Academy, Notre Dame. Miss Lancaster's poems, both before and 
 since her coming to this state, were contributed mainly to eastern journals ; 
 a few have appeared in Colorado papers, always over the pseudonym 
 'Gwendoline. " Her prose writing has been devoted chiefly to the interests 
 of temperence reform, of which she has been a strong advocate. In 1885 
 she was married to Mr. C. A. Westcott, a lawyer, now merchant of Beulah, 
 Colo. Mrs. Westcott was one of the first members of the Western Asso 
 ciation of Writers, an organization in whose membership most of the 
 states west of the Allegheny mountains are represented. 
 
 WHITNEY, J. ERNEST, born at Cornwall, Conn., 1858. He prepared for 
 college at the Rockville, Conn., High School, and was graduated from 
 Yale University, 1882, having earned this education with little financial 
 help from others. After conducting a private school for a few months, at 
 Elmira. N. Y., he was chosen as instructor in Albany Academy, and in 
 1883, one year after graduation, became instructor in English literature at 
 Yale, remaining there six years. In 1889 ill health induced Mr. Whitney 
 to visit Colorado Springs, where he resided until his death, February 25 T 
 1893. At Yale he was known as a tireless worker and was greatly loved 
 by faculty and students. During his student life Mr. Whitney served a 
 year as editor of the Yale Literary Magazine; and published in connection 
 with his classmate, Mr. Durand, a small volume of poems entitled "Elm 
 Leaves." His most important publication while connected with Yale was 
 a monograph on one of Spencer's allegories, which appeared in the 
 "Transactions of the American Philosophical Association." During this 
 period he also contributed poems to the public press, among them his 
 beautiful chant royal "The Glory of the Year," published in the Century. 
 During Mr. Whitney's residence in Colorado he published a small illustrated 
 volume entitled "Pictures and Poems of the Pike's Peak Region ;" also 
 " Myths and Legends of Manitou." 
 
 WOOD, STANLEY, journalist, a native of Peru, Ohio, and the son of a 
 clergyman. He was educated at Oberlin College and was one of the 
 founders of the Oberlin Review. On graduating he went to New York 
 and joined the city staff of the Tribune. After a year's hard work as 
 " space man " he left the Tribune and went on the World, under Ballard 
 Smith, then city editor. Here Mr. Wood attracted attention at once, and 
 was assigned to a class of work where his quaint literary style served him 
 to good purpose, and in a short time gained public favor. From 1879 to 
 1882 he was city editor of the Colorado Springs Gazette: from 1882 to 1889, 
 
 239
 
 WITH COLORADO POETS. 
 
 chief of the literary bureau of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad ; and 
 from 1889 to 1894, editor of the Great Divide. Mr. Wood is the author of 
 "Over the Range," a book of travel through New Mexico, Arizona, 
 Nevada, California and Oregon of which there have been sold 100,000 
 copies; also author of "A Royal Hand " and "The Stormy Petrel," plays, 
 the latter written especially for the late Annie Pixley, and played by her. 
 Comic operas written by him are as follows: "Priscilla," "Red Riding 
 Hood," "Brittle Silver," and "Barbara." He has been a frequent con 
 tributor to Harper** Magazine, the Century and Kt. Nicholas. 
 
 WOODY, CORYDON ALSTON, is a native of southern Indiana and a grad 
 uate of Central Indiana Normal College, at Danville. He pursued graduate 
 work in Garfleld University, Kansas, in preperation for the ministry, 
 but, on leaving college, became engaged in teaching, and is now instructor 
 in mathematics and English literature in the Colorado State Agricultural 
 College, at Fort Collins. Mr. Woody is the author of a number of educa 
 tional works, among which are " Outlines of U. S. History," " High School 
 Orations," " Encyclopaedia of Queer Sayings and Curious Questions;" 
 also a volume of poems soon to be published under the title of " Afflatus 
 Buds." 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 240
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 JIJN9 
 
 - .1 >$ 1362 
 
 Form L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444
 
 Kinder - 
 Evenings with 
 J^loradopoets 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 001 344 988 9 
 
 PS 
 
 571 
 
 C6K5