Relic on the Lethe

After our lengthy visit to Clarke County, it seems fitting to take a short break with some poetry, this time printed in the Staunton Spectator, 29 August 1894 . The poem appears to have been written quite some time before it made its way to Staunton, with the earliest sighting found to date being in 1860 in the New York Saturday Press .  Unfortunately, the author's name has been anonymized with very common initials and a plain last name, and we've been unable to track down this poem printed in another location to help us hone in on the complete name for more in-depth research. This means we've also been unable to find any other examples of this poet's work, so at the end of the day we'll have to consider this still a case of "author unknown" despite being signed. Like our earlier Valentine stories, this poem should be out of copyright in the US, so the entire poem is reprinted here. Enjoy this glimpse of the 19th century! EYES OF BROWN AND BLUE.  Out of ...

While correcting a local newspaper, I took a break from the endless news of Civil War pardons to switch to the Poet's Corner and peruse the offering of the day. The poem selected for the Winchester News of August 18, 1865 is an ode to the printing press as a means to redress wrongs (fitting for a newspaper still stinging over the recent Confederate defeat). The poem, in its entirety, runs thus: Song of the Type Click, click, click,  List to the Song of the Type,  Now breathing as soft and as light,  As a sigh from the heart’s first emotion,  Now swelling in grandeur and might  As billows that roll on the ocean.  Far reaching, eternal, its tones,  From its clime where the ice-mountains shine  Are borne over earth’s ample zones  To the land of the myrtle and vine. Click, click, click,  List to the Song of the Type,  To the nations down-trodden, oppressed,  It speaks like the voice of a God,  Of the wrongs of the people redr...

As usual, the People's Voice of May 1, 1880 starts off with a poem, titled Buried Gems: How many gems of thought beneath  The dust of toil lie buried;  How many o’er the bridge of sighs  To silent tombs are carried,  And never see the light of day—  Tho’ their’s is matchless beauty;  For hands that hold the richest gifts, Must closest cling to duty.  How many hands ne’er dare to pluck  From life the wayside flowers;  How many feet must bleed and ache  In this bright world of ours;  While others sing the gayest songs,  And pluck the brightest roses;  For them the opening of each hour,  Some new found joy discloses.  How many sweet songs well to lips  That may not pause to sing them;  And sweet bells chime in many a heart  But there’s no one to ring them.  God pity such whose rounded years  Are filled with care and trials,  Whose daily life is constantly  Made up up self...

From Winchester News, August 18, 1865 , are two short poems, possibly both by Barry Cornwall, but the first almost certainly is his. This front-page news reads: Should you dream ever of the days departed— Of youth and morning no more to return— Forget not me, so fond and passionate-hearted : Quiet at last, reposing Under the moss and fern.   There, where the fretful lake in stormy weather Comes circling round the reddening churchyard pines, Rest, and call back the hours we lost together, Taking of hope, and soaring Beyond poor earth’s confines.    If, for those heavenly dreams too dimly sighted, You became false—why, ’tis a story old ; I, overcome by pain and unrequited, Faded at last, and slumber Under the autumn mould.   Farewell, farewell ! No longer plighted lovers, Doomed for a day to sigh for sweet return; One lives, indeed; one-heart the green earth covers— Quiet at last, reposing Under the moss and fern. I've been hoping to uncover some local writing talent i...

One of my hopes was that as I worked my way through the local newspapers, I could uncover a few unknown writers, authors, and their stories. I very nearly thought my next post would be on dentistry, when I decided to flip over instead to the poem in the June 8, 1866 edition of Winchester News . I am happy to report I can save writing about the proliferation of vulcanized rubber for another day, as the poetry section uncovered a mostly-forgotten local author. The poem, titled "The Skeleton Army, Or The Dead Parade," is credited to C. Toler Wolfe . It is fairly lengthy and more suitable for a spooky Halloween edition, so unlike the other poems, we will not reprint here. It made my ears perk up, as here was a poem with a proper credit that seems to have been locally written, per the note at the end. Was Wolfe well-known? The answer is "yes, but no." Time has largely forgotten him; you can pull up an 1852 volume of his work, printed in Winchester. Entitled Odds and Ends...

It has been fairly common in to find poems and short stories printed in the local newspapers, but this one in particular from the Winchester Virginian of August 11, 1848 caught my eye. Tantalizingly labelled "Odes for the Campaign," and set to the air " Ye Mariners of England ," the full text is as follows: YE SEAMEN OF COLUMBIA.  BY F. A. DURIVAGE.  Ye seamen of Columbia,  Our country’s boast and pride,  Who man our ships on every sea,  Wherever keel can ride,  Forth fling from every mizzen-peak  Your ensign to the breeze,  As ye sweep  Through the deep. In the freedom of the seas.  For we at home will guard our rights, and the  Freedom of the Seas.    The mariners of England,  Who ruled alone the wave,  Till to their pride our Yankee tars  An iron death-blow gave,  Took heart of hope when banded kings  Combined that flag to stain,  Which gave light  To the flight  When our thunder...

Just the One Just fair enough to be pretty, Just gentle enough to be sweet, Just saucy enough to be witty, Just dainty enough to be neat. Just tall enough to be graceful, Just slight enough for a fay, Just dressy enough to be tasteful, Just merry enough to be gay. Just tears enough to be tender, Just sighs enough to be sad, Just soft enough to remember, Your heart through the cadence made glad. Just meek enough for submission, Just bold enough to be brave, Just pride enough for ambition, Just thoughtful enough to be grave. A tongue that can talk without harming, Just mischief enough to tease, Manners pleasant enough to be charming, That put you at once at your ease. Generous enough, and kind-hearted, Pure as the angels above; Ah, from her may I never be parted, For such is the maiden I adore.   American Magazine, February 1914 . Like our other poem plucked from The People's Voice, this one is also unattributed. Interestingly, it seems to have several versions, and no one attributed...

I visited one of my favorite places to find unusual history today, the Virginia Chronicle. A new newspaper was added to the collection since the last time I checked in, and the paper started with a poem:   The Storm.  The tempest rages wild and high,  The waves lift up their voices and cry  Fierce answers to the angry sky:  Miserere Domine!    Through the black night and driving rain  A ship is struggling, all in vain,  To live upon the stormy main;  Miserere Domine!    The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,  Vain it is now to strive or dare;  A cry goes up of great despair;  Miserere Domine!    The stormy voices of the main,  The moaning wind and pelting rain,  Beat on the nursery window pane,  Miserere Domine!    Warm curtain'd was the little bed,  Soft pilow'd was the little head;  "The storm will wake the child," they said;  Miserere Domine!  ...