Newspaper Poetry

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • Alexander Selkirk

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 26, 1913.
    By William Cowper.

    Alexander Selkirk, the Scottish sailor, was the prototype of the marooned traveler in Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe (1719).

    I am a monarch of all I survey,
     My right there is none to dispute.
 From the center all round to the sea
     I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
 O Solitude, where are the charms
     That sages have seen in thy face?
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms
     Than reign in this horrible place.
 
 I am out of humanity’s reach;
     I must finish my journey alone;
 Never hear the sweet music of speech—
     I start at the sound of my own.
 The beasts that roam over the plain
     My form with indifference see;
 They are so unacquainted with men,
     Their tameness is shocking to me.
 
 Society, friendship, and love
     Divinely bestowed upon man,
 O had I the wings of a dove,
     How soon would I taste you again!
 My sorrows I then might assuage
     In the ways of religion and truth;
 Might learn from the wisdom of age
     And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
 
 Religion! what treasure untold
     Resides in that heavenly word!
 More precious than silver and gold,
     Or all that this earth can afford,
 But the sound of the church-going bell
     These valleys and rocks never heard—
 Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
     Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sport,
     Convey to this desolate shore
 Some cordial, endearing report
     Of a land I shall visit no more.
 My friends, do they now and then send
     A wish or a thought after me?
 O tell me I yet have a friend,
     Though a friend I am never to see.
 
 How fleet is the glance of a mind!
     Compared with the speed of its flight,
 The tempest itself lags behind;
     And the swift-winged arrows of light,
 When I think of my own native land,
     In a moment I seem to be there
 But, alas! recollection at hand
     Soon hurries me back to despair.
 
 But the sea fowl is gone to her nest;
     The beast is laid down in his lair;
 Even here is a season of rest,
     And I to my cabin repair.
 There’s mercy in every place;
     And mercy, encouraging thought
 Gives even affliction a grace,
     And reconciles man to his lot.

  • Song of the Wind

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 23, 1913.
 By Robert Loveman.
 

 The wind has a mind of his own
     He’s a lover and rover free
 He mutters among the clouds
     He flutters above the sea;
 He ravages regions rare
     Where savages leap in glee
 He strips the forests bare
     In autumnal ecstasy.
 
 The wind is a child of earth
     Of ocean, air and sky,
 He joys at a young world’s birth
     He moans when the old ones die;
 He can woo a nodding rose to rest
     Or trample an empire down,
 He’s sceptered king of everything
     And the high stars are his crown.

  • Crossing the Bar

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 21, 1913.
 By Tennyson.
 

 Sunset and evening star
     And one clear call for me,
 And may there be no moaning of the bar
     When I put out to sea.
 
 But such a tide, as moving seems asleep,
     Too full for sound and foam,
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep
     Turns again home.
 
 Twilight and evening bell,
     And after that the dark,
 And may there be no sadness or farewell
     When I embark.
 
 For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
     The flood may bear me far
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face
     When I have crossed the bar.

  • San Francisco

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 18, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 A pall hung over the broad blue bay;
 In smoking ruins the city lay—
 The splendid city so bravely planned—
 And Horror hastened from land to land
 And Sorrow’s sign was on every door
 For the far-famed city that was no more.
 
 And tearful men to their brethren said:
 “Its glory is gone and its greatness dead;
 Its marble halls and its stately homes
 Its towering walls and its lofty domes
 Its well-won pride and its careless glee
 Forever and ever have ceased to be!”
 
 But another city has risen there;
 They have made it great, they have made it fair;
 Its wharves have called to the wide world’s fleets
 And traffic roars through its crowded streets;
 Still glorified by the old romance
 It grieves no more o’er its sad mischance.
 
 They have left no trace on the flame-swept hills
 Of the twisted beams and the blackened sills,
 And over the haunts where vice was bred
 The glittering roofs of trade are spread;
 With matchless courage and splendid zeal
 They have made a marvel of stone and steel.
 
 They have planned with hope, they have wrought with pride
 And the spirit lives that men thought had died
 And they who were stricken so sorely dwell
 In a fairer city than that which fell
 And all that was lost in that day of despair
 They have bravely reclaimed and glorified there.
 
 The high hills gleam that were desolate
 And riches stream through the Golden Gate;
 A splendid city superbly planned
 Sends forth her greeting to every land,
 And fleets are sailing from every shore
 To the far-famed city that grieves no more.

  • The Missing Flowers

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 15, 1913.
 By Samuel Minturn Peck.
 

 There was a little woman flower
     Sweeter far than all
 The violets and the daffodils
     That come at Springtime’s call.
 
 All the blossoms loved her,
     Even the happy birds;
 They piped their little hearts to her
     Because they had no words.
 
 ’Tis spring again. The skies are blue;
     Blossoms and birds I see
 But the little flower maiden—
     Oh tell me where is she!
 
 The sorrowing Wind low-answered:
     “Flower, and bird, and fern,
 And in the year, the autumn leaf—
     They only may return.”
 
 “’Tis true, tis true, O Wind,” I sighed,
     “Tis bitter, too, alack:
 In life what we love most and lose
     Can nevermore come back.”

  • Sweet Sixteen

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 7, 1913.
 By Samuel Minturn Peck.
 

 Tho’ starlight through the lattice vine
     Fell slanting on her brow
 The roses white, with dew a-shine
     Swayed on the wind-rocked bough
 And waved a perfume quaint and fine
     Like incense round her mouth
 Where dwelt mid curve and hue divine
     The glamor of the South.
         Just sixteen years of joys and fears—
             Just sixteen years hath she
                 But her eyes are blue
                 And her heart is true
             And she’s all the world to me.
 
 The rose tree hid the stars from me
     But I could watch her eyes;
 They shone like stars upon the sea
     Soft mirrored from the skies.
 Her little hands upon her knee
     In folded stillness lay
 And in the dusk gloamed winsomely
     Like lily buds astray.
         Just sixteen years of joys and fears—
             Just sixteen years hath she
                 But her faith is sure
                 And her soul is pure
             And she’s all the world to me.
 
 A silence fell. It seemed a spell
     Had fallen on my Sweet.
 I saw her quivering bosom swell
     I heard my heart a-beat.
 I spoke!—but what? I cannot tell
     I hardly know the rest;
 But as the timid tear-drops fell
     I clasped her to my breast.
         Just sixteen years of smiles and tears—
             Just sixteen years hath she
                 But the wedding chimes
                 Will ring betimes
             For my little bride to be.

  • The Face Immortal

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 3, 1913.
 By Frank L. Stanton.
 

 Time that has left me lonely still may the shadows chase
 It has not dimmed the beauty of one immortal face
 A sweet face of Life’s springtime—a face the violets know
 God knew, high in His heaven, why I loved it so!
 
 When Evening comes, to tell me: “Life’s friends have left you lone!
 There is no voice to answer the tremblings of your own,”
 I see dear lips of crimson—cheeks where the dimples race
 And Memory is with me, and in dreams I see her face.
 
 Is not Life all dreaming? Where scythes and sabers gleam
 The heroes of Life’s battles are the captains of a Dream!
 And so, when Darkness gives us the blessing of God’s grace
 I’m holding hands with Memory and dreaming of her face.

  • Sad Case of Travers Green

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 29, 1913.
 

 When Travers Green was feeling gay
 He lightly sought some cabaret
 And when “Fleurette” began to dance
 He’d give a connoisseur’s glance,
 As if to all the world to say,
 “I know what’s what in a cabaret.”
 
 Anon he sipped the sparkling wine,
 Where countless lights were wont to shine;
 His dress was faultless to behold,
 His manners easy, yet not bold,
 And had you but observed hime there,
 You would have thought him free from care.
 
 Alas! Alack for Travers Green!
 No more in gilded haunts is seen;
 His dad who used his bills to pay
 For motors, clubs and cabaret,
 And costly clothes and chorus girls
 And many, many merry whirls
 
 Has cut poor Travers off without
 The wherewithal to roam about;
 And since this youth has never toiled,
 Nor felt his hands by labor soiled,
 What lies before I cannot say,
 But he dines no more in a cabaret.

  • In a Rose Garden

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 26, 1913.
 By John Bennett.
 

A hundred years from now, dear heart,
     We will not care at all.
 It will not matter then a whit,
     The honey or the gall.
 The summer days that we have known
 Will all forgotten be and flown;
 The garden will be overgrown
     Where now the roses fall.
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart,
     We will not mind the pain.
 The throbbing, crimson tide of life
     Will not have left a stain.
 The song we sing together, dear,
 The dream we dream together here,
 Will mean no more than means a tear
     Amid the summer rain.
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart,
     The grief will all be o’er;
 The sea of care will surge in vain
     Upon a careless shore.
 These glasses we turn down today,
 Here at the parting of the way,
 We shall be wineless then as they,
     And will not mind it more.
 
 A hundred years from now, dear heart,
     We’ll neither know nor care
 What came of all life’s bitterness,
     Or followed love’s despair.
 Then fill the glasses up again
 And kiss me through the rose leaf rain;
 We’ll build one castle more in Spain
     And dream one more dream there.

  • The Boy That Never Was

    From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 25, 1913.
 

 He never wrote upon the walls,
     He never did a window break,
 Through him the cat ne’er lifted squalls
     So loud they might the dead awake.
 His little sister never felt
     A strand of hair pulled from her crown,
 Upon her cheek no blows were dealt,
     He ne’er was known to push her down.
 His mother’s days were free from care,
     His father never used the strap,
 I’m sure you’ll not find anywhere
     So well behaved a little chap.
 
 You ask me what his name could be
     And where this youngster doth reside?
 I can not answer that. You see,
     I have a secret to confide:
 Imagination fondly drew
     The type of boy these lines describe,
 Too free from faults to be quite true
     To life and all the boyhood tribe.
 And maybe it were better so,
     That none exists so wondrous good,
 For if he did, I almost know
     We’d scarcely love him as we should.