Part 3

Public life he generally avoided; offices which he might have held, he would not accept, although urged upon him. A loyal, ardent Odd Fellow, like Abou Ben Adhem, he "loved his fellow-man," and was loved by them in turn. His addresses and poems on the anniversaries of this order, and at decorations of the soldiers' graves were much admired. Though educated for an Episcopal clergyman, he never united with the church, at least in the South, more than as a vestryman for a time. It is to be regretted that, with outward eye so quick to see and interpret the true and beautiful, his eyes of faith could not discern more clearly the full truth and beauty of God's written Revelation. If so, his pathetic lines on "Hope," composed a few years after his wife's death, would have had a more triumphant ring than is contained in the last two stanzas. Elsewhere hopes shines brighter and faith soars on stronger wings, as when in his "In Memoriam" poem to his wife, he sings:

"Still for this grief so desolate, so lone, A solace for unmated hearts is given, Another hand, another voice hath known The symphonies of heaven."

In the sixty-fourth year of his age, at the season he loved best, the Christmas-tide, December 27, 1887, the gentle spirit of William Ward softly slipped from its earthly moorings. His body by loving hands was tenderly laid to rest in the cemetery at Macon, his home for nearly two score years.

His spirit still lingers with us, embodied in the songs which he sang, now out of a glad, now out of an aching heart. Well has it been said that a poet least of all needs a monumental pile. The Iliad towers high above the Pyramids, and will outlast them by ages. William Ward has left no Iliad; he sang not of the gods and demi-gods; he struck the lyre, and not the full-resounding harp. Intuition, early environment and scholastic training, as has been shown, combined to make of him a poet. Life's dull and dark experiences seemed to repress but could not suppress in him the "noble rage." Visions of beauty continually flitted in his imagination; music from choirs, visible and invisible, seemed ever to soothe and charm his troubled, lonely heart. Especially in the closing years of his life was poetry a joy and comfort to him. As the burdens of life were shifted to the shoulders of his children, he found more leisure, it appears, and indulged more frequently in poetic expression of the mood or thought that deeply stirred within.

As might be supposed, his poems are of as diverse themes and varied measures as the moods and occasions which suggested them. In them may be best shown the poet and to some extent the man; hence, they deserve and, it is believed, will repay a full and close investigation. Hear him first, as in patriotic strain, he invites the world to his adopted land:

COME TO THE SOUTH.

Come to our hill-sides and come to our prairies, Broaden our fields with the spade and the plow; Bring us from Deutsche-land to gardens and dairies, To household and kitchen the fraulein and frau; Come from the birth-land of Goethe and Schiller, Scholar and poet and teacher and priest; Come where each acre of tilth needs a tiller, And people the South with the strength of the East; Bring you the songs and dance of Rhine-land The legends and sports of your home if you will; Give us the lays of your forest and vine-land, With the strong arm of labor the artisan's skill.

Come from the cliffs where the sea-eagle fledges His brood o'er the wild ocean-storm of the North, Where the fisher-boats play round the moss-mantled ledges, Where the sea-kraken sports and the maelstrom has birth; Leave you the land where the treacherous glacier Mocks you, blinded and chilled with its pitiless glare, Where all save the mist-clouded rim of the geyser In the impotent sunlight lies frozen and bare; Where Hecla sits mailed like a desolate giant, With his flame-covered crest and his foot-stool of snow, O'er the storm-rended realm of the Viking defiant, And the sea rolling red in his terrible glow.

We call you, O men of the kilt and the tartan, From highland and lowland, from mountain and mere-- Though you feel for your country the love of a Spartan, A sunnier home and a welcome is here; Must you cling to the fields where the gorse and the heather That bloomed for your grandsires still blossom for you? Cannot hopes that await you here loosen the tether Which a birthright descended has cast over you? There is room, there is work for the peer and the peasant, From the land of the shamrock, the olive, and vine, You may lift up unquestioned the cross with the crescent, Or the lilies of France with the thistle-bloom twine.

No prosy pen could have indited those picturesque and stirring lines.

In his Centennial Hymn, "The Victory of Peace," in "The Blue and the Gray," "Under Two Flags," "Gettysburg" and other poems, his muse dons American colors and echoes the national note of peace and unity.

"Now another flag is o'er us, And the bitter hate that tore us, From beneath its shadow falters, Let us raise the olden altars, Let us smite the wretch who palters With the tie that binds forever Those who lost and won together, While their banners live in story, Haloed with a common glory."

GETTYSBURG.

1863

* * * * *

We see those splendid columns sweep Across the field. Men hold their breath; Before them frowns the sullen steep, Before and near is life or death.

* * * * *

They are not such as break and fly, No laggards droop, no cowards quail, Those only pause who drop and die Beneath that storm of leaden hail.

* * * * *

'Tis sunset. For the Blue, a gleam Of glory fills the dying day; From clouds above that sunset stream Another glory for the Gray.

1887

* * * * *

They meet again--not steel to steel, But hand to hand and breast to breast, Hailed by the cannon's peaceful peal-- The Blue the host, the Gray the guest.

* * * * *

And so they share--the brave and true, The glory of that fateful day; The Gray the glory of the Blue, The Blue the glory of the Gray.

* * * * *

'Tis sunset. From yon heaven away Fades every golden, purple hue; O'er host and guest, the twilight gray Blends with the evening sky of blue.

In "McMahon at Sedan" he strikes the martial measure with trumpet note. Many more stirring war lyrics could not easily be found.

But his muse was also often pensive, and in that mood he softly sings as if to himself alone. Among the best of these poems of reflection are "A Memory," "Alone," "Nebulae," and "Look Up." In them the visions and the melody evoked are often strangely beautiful and haunting; but a depressing undertone like a sigh runs through them all.

The misty realm of dream-land lies before me, O Sleep! in thine embrace, What shadows from the past are flitting o'er me, What mocking memories traced; The dim procession, slowly wafted onward, Prolongs the dreary moan That finds an echo in that fated one word, Alone! Alone!

From "The Master Thought" and "If Tongues Were Steel," the conclusion might be drawn that a cynic set words to the tunes. The last stanza of the first of these is keenly pointed and sadly near the truth:

"Still man, though born a Socrates or Nero, If white with truth, or black with falsehood's taint, Would rather gleam in marble as a hero, Than glow on canvas, pictured as a saint."

His intense hatred of shams and fraud of every kind occasionally found indignant voice; as

"O God! were all the lies distilled From supple lips in cunning skilled, Hell would be stretched and overfilled; Aye, moulded in one burning curse, 'Twould wreck a shaken world; nay worse! Would crush and damn a universe."

But these were transient and rare utterances. "Though far from the east the youth had traveled, he still was Nature's priest." The boy dreamer among the Connecticut hills is now a poet on the Southern prairies.

"And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended."

"The glory had not yet passed from earth." Nature beckoned him continually, and gladly obedient to the summons, he sought her haunts, caught the visions, heard her minstrelsies, and forgot the while his burdens, his loneliness, and his long sorrow. Many of his poems in whole or part might be cited in proof of this. Most prominent are "The Dying Year," "The South Wind," and "The Night Storm."

For its rich setting and striking presentation of a common theme this poem is reproduced entire:

THE DYING YEAR.

The year is dying as the dolphin dies, Not with the ashen hue, Death's signal color, ere the fading eyes See dimly, darkly through The waxen lids. No pallor creeps along The earth and sky; no tone Floats through the air like a funeral song, Or like a dying groan.

The warm rich sunlight gilds the autumn trees Whose gorgeous tints are spread, Each toning each, and fringed with heraldries Of purple, gold, and red The crimson myrtle burns upon its stem As though a heart of fire, The yellow maple, like an oriflamme, Lifts up its banner higher.

The oak is rich with russet, bronze and brown, And there a purple crest Gleams o'er the forest like a lifted crown Some color-god has blest. Loosed by the frost, the sumac's pallid leaves Like yellow lance-heads fall, While lights and shadows ever shifting weave A net-work over all.

O queenly autumn! though you proudly lead The old year to its death, A glory comes and goes where'er you tread With every dying breath, The year is dying--dying as a king Dies in his purple. Now His shroud is woven, and its colors fling A glory o'er his brow.

The cold, the night, the storm, were especially congenial to him. He almost literally "kept open house" throughout the year; for he would hardly permit his doors to be closed even in the coldest weather. On his gallery he delighted to stand or walk and watch a thunder storm, especially by night, as his graphic picture of "The Night Storm" fully testifies. But nature in her gentler aspects was also at times very attractive to him, as this stanza must suffice to show:

"O warm South Wind! awake and send Across the sea that breath of thine, And let its lotus fragrance blend With the rich odor of the pine. O'er land and sea your treasures bring, From zones with health and beauty rife, To youth the fullness of its spring, To age, the aftermath of life."

Particularly noticeable, and often fascinating through their witchery or weirdness are a number of Mr. Ward's poems. Of those through which fancy sports most winsomely are "The Lake of the Golden Isle," "St. Nicotine, a Christmas Phantasy," "Just Twenty-Two," and "Katie Did."

The last was extensively copied in the press and much admired. It will bear another repetition.

KATIE DID.

Naughty Katie, saucy Katie, Is your secret aught to me That you hide it, nor divide it, In a tree? In a tree before the trellis, Where I have a secret hid, And provokingly you tell us, Katie did, Katie didn't, Yes, she did, No, she didn't, Katie did.

Prithee, Katie, by what penance Are you nightly doomed to be Trilling to the quiet tenants Of the tree, Safely hidden from espial Of what Katie said or did, That incessant, shrill denial, Katie did, Katie didn't, Yes, she did, No, she didn't, Katie did?

Little disputant, securely Ambushed, from intrusion free, Don't I see you so demurely From the tree, Peeping through the latticed branches. Where the moon its arrows slid, Piping forth with cunning glances, Katie did, Katie didn't, Yes, she did, No, she didn't, Katie did?

Will you tell it, Katie, never? Must it still a secret be? And forever and forever From the tree, Will that answer shrill and lonely Mock us with the secret hid, With these accents varied only-- Katie did, Katie didn't, Yes, she did, No, she didn't, Katie did?

Somewhat more thoughtful but scarcely less charming is the little lyric "Just Twenty-Two," which closes with the plea, "Leave me immortal at sweet twenty-two."

With "The Neophyte" in 1851, the supernatural and mysterious elements, traceable perhaps to Coleridge and to Poe, began to appear in his poems, and became conspicuous in "The Burning Casque," "The Phantom Train," and "The Ride of the Ku-Klux." At places in these, the breath comes short and quick, and the nerves grow unsteady in the presence of grotesque phantoms and direful mysteries. Few pass a real train without a pause and look of mingled awe and admiration. A momentary glance at "The Phantom Train" should certainly be taken:

On the track stood the engine cold and still, For throttle and valve had ceased to thrill With the giant power of the wizard steam. I saw the track, by the lantern's gleam, Far on the night, till it seemed to meet In a point at the dim horizon's feet, And there in the distance, faint and far, Glimmered a blue and ghostly star. Nearer and nearer it came and grew, 'Till it gleamed in a circle of ghastly hue.

* * * * *

By the Holy Saints! 'twas a gruesome sight As ever came from the womb of night-- A spectral train that, nigher and nigher, Was whirled on its silent wheels of fire.

"The Ride of the Ku-Klux" is even more gruesome and fantastic, but the appearance of those terrible night regulators cannot satisfactorily be shown by a brief extract.

Several poems of personal character deserve notice for both their merit and the associations connected with them. The noble lines to George Peabody may be found in Harpel's "Poets and Poetry of Printerdom," to which reference has been made. In it, too, are published "The Blue and the Gray," "The Frosted Pane," and "The Ride of the Ku-Klux." It is unfortunate that a poem which elicited the following interesting note cannot be designated, perhaps is lost:

New York, March 11, 1872.

Dear Sir:

I thank you for the privilege of reading your beautiful poem, and regret that I could not have been its inspiration. I wrote once a poem for the Atlantic entitled "The Heart of the War," but never one with the title of yours. You will pardon me, I am sure, for relieving you of the burden of a mistake which was very complimentary to me.

Yours very truly,

J. G. HOLLAND.

Shakespeare and Dickens were particular favorites of Mr. Ward's, one of his last purchases of books being a new set of each of these authors. For Byron also, as a poet, he entertained a high regard; but perhaps the literary character whom he loved the most was Oliver Wendell Holmes to whom on his seventy-fifth birthday he addressed an affectionate and admiring tribute, which called forth this response from the genial Autocrat:

Beverly Farm, Mass., Oct. 5, 1884.

My Dear Sir:

I beg you to accept my sincere thanks for your very pleasant lines. I am sorry they were too late for the birthday number of The Critic; for they would have been reckoned among the best and most graceful of all that were sent. Believe me,

Gratefully yours,

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

The most popular poem, however, of this class is one dedicated to Wyatt M. Redding, the telegraph operator who during the yellow fever epidemic of 1878 bravely died at the post of duty in the plague stricken city of Grenada. For its historical as well as poetical value it should be preserved.

WYATT M. REDDING.

GRENADA, 1878.

Click, Click Like the beat of a death-watch, sharp and quick, From hearts that are stifled and lips that are dumb With the lightning's speed, and the lightning's thrill, The dark words go and come: Click, click, and a pulse is still-- There's a form to shroud and a grave to fill, For the Yellow Death is upon the air, And the city lies in the clutch of Despair. Not less a hero than he whose plume Goes blood-stained down in the conflict's gloom, Not less a martyr than those who slake A blood-thirst, bound to the burning stake, Is he who stands as the last defence Against the shock of the pestilence.

Click, Click His heart is strong and his fingers quick, 'Tis a fearful work of hand and brain, Each click is a groan, each word is a pain, But he falters not in the fight with death, Even under his wings as he breathes his breath, The shrouded city before him lies, And the dead drop down 'neath the burning skies, Never a smile, or a word to cheer, Brightens his eye, or falls on his ear, All is dreary and all is dumb, Save the hourly wail from a stricken home.

Click, Click 'Tis the only hope where the dead are thick, Where the living strewn by the plague's hot breath Are sown with the ripening seeds of death. Still, the hero-boy at his key-board stands, And many a far off city feels The thrill of the wire, and its mute appeals, And hands are stretched from the East and West Their upward palms with a blessing blest, As it comes to those who meet their doom Like scorched leaves struck by the hot simoon.

Click, Click Like the beat of a death-watch, sharp and quick, 'Tis the last note struck, 'tis the first wild touch He gives the key, as he feels the vague An creeping chill of the deadly plague. Ere its burns with the strength of its fever clutch. He falters, falls, and his work is done, And the fiend has marked his victim won, Not long he dallies with those who fall Beneath the curse of his yellow thrall, O city, beneath his merciless sway, Mourn, mourn, for your hero dies today.

Passing several poems of genuine humor and two or three more lengthy ones of epic cast and tragic interest, this appreciation of William Ward's life and poetry, though incomplete must find an end. What poetry in the abstract is, the world has not yet determined, and probably never will. Whether it be "the rhythmical creation of beauty" or the "lyrical expression of emotion," or both; whether its end be truth or beauty or merely sensuous delight, one or all, each will decide for himself, according as he is provincial or cosmopolitan in his culture. What is poetry to one is doggerel or riming prose to another. "The Ring and the Book" is intolerable to many who enjoy "The Idylls of the King." Wordsworth is for the most part childish or meaningless to numbers who delight in Scott or Byron. Where Poe is lauded, Whitman very likely will be scouted.

Individual estimates of William Ward's poems will, therefore, vary according to the tastes and training of the reader. But it can hardly be doubted that they will appeal strongly to a majority of the lovers of true poetry. If imagery be preferred, it is conspicuous throughout his verse; if emotion be specially sought for, it too in almost every type pulsates in these poems; if music be the criterion, in that also they will not be found wanting, for the melody and harmony of most of them is a striking characteristic. That they might be judged on their own merits, and not so much on the opinion of one who might be deemed more advocate than critic, fuller selections by way of illustration have been offered than would have been the case, if the poems could readily be found. They were published mostly in the Philadelphia American Courier, the Macon Beacon, and the New Orleans Times-Democrat, and have not been collected in book form, as it is earnestly hoped they yet will be. Better known, it is confidently believed that they will place their author high on the roll of Southern poets.

As a summary and a conclusion, the following Report of the Committee on Necrology to the Press Convention of Mississippi in 1888 is here appended:

"One of the oldest members of this association, who had not an enemy on earth, the urbane, genial and ever agreeable William Ward is with us no more. Those of us who knew and loved him for his big heart and true manly worth, will sadly miss his gentle footfalls, cheerful face, and warm hand-clasp as we meet in our annual conventions. The voice of him who sang songs of love, devotion, and duty, is as silent as the marble shaft that marks his resting place.

"Born in a New England village up among the hills of old Connecticut in 1823, Mr. Ward came South when a youth of tender years, to seek a home in the land of sunshine and flowers, fit prototypes of his own sunny self. A poet by nature and a writer of purest English, he gave to the press some of the sweetest poetic gems that have graced the literature of the South; and his poems addressed to or read before our press conventions were always regarded as the chief features of an entertainment. With them he was wont 'to set the table in a roar,' or draw tears from the eyes of the most obdurate. He wrote his name high on the scroll of fame, and through all the vicissitudes of life, from the days of his early manhood when struggling to support a growing family to the evening of his declining years when surrounded by the comforts of life, that name remains as pure as a star, as unsullied as the snowflakes falling in mid-heaven. In all the relations of life, William Ward was ever a true and honorable man, loving and beloved by all who came within the circle of his acquaintance.

"Let the recollections of this New England youth who cast his lot with the South, and who lies buried in its soil ever remain fresh and green in our heart of hearts; and now let us pluck a flower from the chaplet of memory, and tenderly lay it upon his hallowed grave."

SHERWOOD BONNER--HER LIFE AND PLACE IN THE LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH.

BY ALEXANDER L. BONDURANT, A. M. (HARVARD)

The life of Sherwood Bonner illustrates the union of the subtle elements, ancestral traits and personal qualities, which, distilled by the alchemist, Dame Nature, in her alembic produce the individual.

Her father, Dr. Charles Bonner, was born in Ireland, but his family left their ancestral home when he was quite young, and settled in Pennsylvania. When he arrived at man's estate, he left the North, and like Prentiss and Boyd turned his face Southward. He reached Mississippi in "Flush Times," and was content to dwell there, for he found a cultured, refined people, who recognized in him a kindred spirit.