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MARY E. WHITTLESEY.
Mary Robbins Whittlesey was born at Elyria, Lorain county, Ohio, in 1832, and is the daughter of the late Frederick Whittlesey. She now resides at Cleveland, with her mother. Her poetry has appeared chiefly in the Ohio Farmer, to which journal she has contributed several poems of great merit. Her verse betrays her careful intellectual culture, and is full of fine poetic sensibility (another word for genius), which will hereafter develop itself in forms of greater originality. The poems here printed do not indicate the range of the poet's thought, but are in her best manner.
HEMLOCK HOLLOW.
Under these hemlocks no blossoms grow,
And the black banks slope to the stream below.
That is blacker still, and sluggish, and slow;
For even in summer the sun shines not
Thro' the drooping boughs of this dreary spot;
And the mill-wheel mouldered years ago,
And the mill-stream's current is running low.
And the black banks slope to the stream below.
That is blacker still, and sluggish, and slow;
For even in summer the sun shines not
Thro' the drooping boughs of this dreary spot;
And the mill-wheel mouldered years ago,
And the mill-stream's current is running low.
Here, in October, the icicles gleam,
Hanging their fringes from yonder beam.
Over the sullen and silent stream;
And some who in summer-dawns have crossed
Yonder bridge, have seen it white with frost;
And the mill-wheel mouldered years ago.
And the mill-stream's current is running low.
Hanging their fringes from yonder beam.
Over the sullen and silent stream;
And some who in summer-dawns have crossed
Yonder bridge, have seen it white with frost;
And the mill-wheel mouldered years ago.
And the mill-stream's current is running low.
A weird and somber silence broods,
Morning and noon, in these hemlock woods.
Where never a singing-bird intrudes;
And the only sound, when the night falls cool.
Is the frogs' dull croak from yon stagnant pool;
For the mill-wheel mouldered years ago.
And the mill-stream's current is running low.
Morning and noon, in these hemlock woods.
Where never a singing-bird intrudes;
And the only sound, when the night falls cool.
Is the frogs' dull croak from yon stagnant pool;
For the mill-wheel mouldered years ago.
And the mill-stream's current is running low.
THE WOODMAN'S AX.
Beneath the forest's roof of green,
A few pale, scentless blossoms lean,
With straggling tufts of moss between.
A few pale, scentless blossoms lean,
With straggling tufts of moss between.
The woodman's ax strikes sure, tho' slow;
"Alas! for glory lying low;—
Alas! their like will never grow."
"Alas! for glory lying low;—
Alas! their like will never grow."
So mourn we, muttering: "Woe betide
The cruel, cruel hand that plied
The ax which felled the forest's pride !"
The cruel, cruel hand that plied
The ax which felled the forest's pride !"
The years glide on in sun and shade—
Forgotten lies the forest glade,
Where often, once, our footsteps strayed;
Forgotten lies the forest glade,
Where often, once, our footsteps strayed;
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