PROGRAM OF EXERCISES
NORTH CAROLINA DAY
(Poets and Poetry of North Carolina)
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1910
COMPILED BY
R. D. W. CONNOR
Secretary of the North Carolina Historical Commission
ISSUED FROM THE OFFICE OF THE
STATE SUPERINTENDENT OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION
RALEIGH, N. C.
1910
EDWARDS & BPvOUOHTON PRINTING CO.
State Printers and Binders
RALEIGH, N. C.
CHAPTER 164
OF THE PUBLIC LAWS OF 1901.
An Act to Provide for the Celebration of North Carolina Day
in the Public Schools.
The General Assembly of North Carolina do enact:
Section 1. That the 12th day of October in each and every
year, to be called "Worth Carolina Day," may be devoted, by
appropriate exercises in the public schools of the State, to the
consideration of some topic, or topics of our State history, to
be selected by the Superintendent of Public Instruction : Pro-vided,
that if the said day shall fall on Saturday or Sunday,
then the celebration shall occur on the Monday next following:
Provided further, that if the said day shall fall at a time when
any such schools may not be in session, the celebration may
be held within one month from the beginning of the term, un-less
the Superintendent of Public Instruction shall designate
some other time.
Sec. 2. This act shall be in force from and after its ratifi-cation.
In the General Assembly read three times, and ratified this
the 9th day of February, A. D., 1901.
PREFACE.
As many of the public schools are not in session as early as
October 12th, I have taken the liberty allowed under the law of
fixing the date of North Carolina Day this year and hereafter
on the last Friday before Christmas. It is earnestly desired
that all the public schools of the State shall engage in this cele-bration
on the same day. This pamphlet has been prepared and
sent out to aid busy teachers in the proper celebration of the
day and to leave no excuse for failing to celebrate it.
The consecration of at least one day in the year to the public
consideration of the history of the State in the public schools,
as directed by the act of the General Assembly printed on the
preceding page, is a beautiful idea. It is the duty of every
public school teacher to obey the letter of this law. It will, I
know, be the pleasure of every patriotic teacher to obey the
spirit of it by using the opportunity of North Carolina Day
to inspire the children with a new pride in their State, a new
enthusiasm for the study of her history, and a new love of her
and her people.
Following the chronological order of the State's history, the
subjects of the North Carolina Day programs have been as
follows: In 1901, The First Anglo-Saxon Settlement in
America; in 1902, The Albemarle Section; in 1903, The Lower
Cape Fear Section; in 1904, The Pamlico Section; in 1905,
The Upper Cape Fear Section; in 1907, The Scotch-Irish Set-tlements
in North Carolina; in 1908, The German Settlements.
In 1906 it was deemed proper to turn aside from this adopted
plan of chronological study to devote the day to the study of the
life, character and splendid service of Dr. Charles D. Mclver.
In 1909 the Mountainous Section formed the subject of study.
Thus the history of every section of the State has been studied,
somewhat in the order of their settlement and development,
and the entire period of the State's history has been covered.
It is hoped ultimately to stimulale a study of local and county
history and the biographies of the State's eminent sons. Ac-cordingly
the subject of study this year is "North Carolina
Poets and Poetry." It has been thought advisable to confine
the biographical sketches to those who are not living. In the
future our statesmen, soldiers, historians, jurists, teachers, and
other eminent citizens will be studied.
These programs have been arranged with a view of giving
the children of the rising generation a knowledge of the history
of the resources, manners, customs and ways of making a living
of the different sections of the State. It is hoped in this way
to awaken a proper pride in the history of the State, to inspire
a proper confidence in its present and hope in its future, and
to give the people of the different sections of the State a better
acquaintance with each other.
This pamphlet was prepared, at my request, by Mr. R. D.
W. Connor, Secretary of the Worth Carolina Historical Com-mission.
Very truly yours,
J. Y. JOYNETC,
Superintendent of Public Instruction.
Raleigh, K CL October 1, 1910.
A WORD OF EXPLANATION.
The law creating the North Carolina Historical Commission
makes it part of the Commission's duty to "encourage the study
of North Carolina history in the schools of the State." The
following pamphlet, therefore, was prepared, at the request of
State Superintendent James Y. Joyner, by the undersigned, as
part of his work as Secretary of the North Carolina Historical
Commission.
In selecting the poets for biographical sketches it has been
thought wisest to confine the choice to the dead. Hence the
omission of some names of men and women, still living, who
are still doing good work.
R. D. W. Connor.
Raleigh, N. C.
CONTENTS.
I. The Old North State—A Toast Mrs. Leonora M. Martin
II. Theophilus Hunter Hill—A Biographical Sketch.
III. Song of the Butterfly Theophilus H. Hill
IV. John Henry Boner—A Biographical Sketch.
V. Ho ! For Carolina William B. Harrell
VI. Our Youngest Poet, John Charles McNeill
—
A Biographical Sketch.
VII. Holding Off the Calf John Charles McNeill
VIII. America Samuel F. Smith
IX. Carolina.
X. The Old North State William Gaston
THE OLD NORTH STATE—A TOAST.
BY MRS. LEONORA MONTEIRO MARTIN.
[Let this toast to the Old North State begin the exercises of the day.
It should be recited in concert by all those who are to take part in the
exercises. If possible, let some of the pupils carry in their hands long-leaf
pine branches, others cotton plants, galax leaves, southern inoss,
etc.]
Here's to the land of the Long-leaf Pine,
The Summer Land, where the sun doth shine;
Where the weak grow strong, and the strong grow great
—
Here's to "Down Home," the Old North State!
Here's to the land of the cotton blooms white,
Where the scuppernong perfumes the breeze at night,
Where the soft Southern moss and jessamine mate,
'Neath the murmuring pines of the Old North State!
Here's to the land where the galax grows,
Where the rhododendron roseate glows;
Where soars Mount Mitchell's summit great,
In the "Land of the Sky," in the Old North State!
Here's to the land where maidens are fairest,
Where friends are truest, and cold hearts are rarest;
The near land, the dear land, whatever our fate,
The blest land, the best land, the Old North State!
THEOPHILUS H. HILL.
THEOPHILUS HUNTER HILL.
When we read the life of a soldier we expect to be told that
he was a brave captain, or a colonel, or a general; and Ave want
to know of the great battles that he fought and the brave deeds
that he did. If we study the life of a statesman we expect to
learn that he was Governor of his State, or United States Sen-ator,
or perhaps President of the United States; and we wish
to know how he met the duties of his offices, what great orations
he delivered, what kind of laws he helped to pass. Soldiers and
statesmen we call "men of action," and it is of their acts that
we wish to know.
But we do not expect to find poets leading men to battles, or
taking part in political struggles, though their songs often stir
soldiers to brave deeds, and inspire statesmen to high and noble
actions. Of course there have been poets who were soldiers,
and poets who were statesmen. But when a man is a true poet,
we care little about the battles that he fought, or the policies
that he advocated. In the life of a poet what we wish to know
is, What kind of poems did he write? What kind of thoughts
did he express? What kind of songs did he sing? Are his
thoughts high and noble? Are his songs sweet and inspiring?
Does he love and understand Nature? Doe: he teach men to
have faith in God's love and mercy? Does he point the way to
a higher and better life? If we answer Yes, to these questions,
we shall call him a true poet, and a true poet is man's greatest
benefactor.
Theophilus Hunter Hill was a true poet. He was born in
Wake County, not far from the Capital City of North Carolina.
His birthday was October 31, 1836. This poet came from a
patriotic family. One of his great-grandfathers was a brave
soldier in the American army during the Revolution, and an-other
served as chaplain in the army of George Washington.
There is not very much to tell you about Mr. Hill's life. He
was educated at Lovejoy's famous Academy at Raleigh. In
1853, he became editor of a paper published at Raleigh, called
The Spirit of the Age. While editing this paper he studied
law, and in 1858 was admitted to practice. But he did not like
the law. He loved better to go out into the fields and listen to
the songs of birds than to sit in the courthouse and listen to
the speeches of lawyers. He found far more pleasure in writ-ing
poems than in writing deeds. So he gave up the law.
From 1871 to 1872 he was State Librarian at Raleigh. Then
he became an editor again. His paper was published in South
10
Carolina, and was called The Century. The rest of his life
was spent in literary work. He died at Raleigh, June 29, 1901.
What a very quiet, simple life this man lived ! He fought no
great battles. He made no great speeches. He held no high
offices. Yet his name will live longer than the names of many
a man of his day who was called "General," or "Judge" or
"Governor." Long after their names are forgotten people will
find joy in his sweet songs and in the noble thoughts that he
expressed in his poems.
These poems are contained in three small volumes. The first
one was printed at Raleigh in 1861, and was called "Hesper and
Other Poems." It was the first book published under the copy-right
law of the Confederate States. His second book was
called simply "Poems," and was published in New York in
1869. His third book contains his best work. It was called
"Passion Flower and Other Poems," and was published at
Raleigh in 1883.
Like all true poets, Mr. Hill loved Nature, and many of his
best verses are about the beauties of Nature. He loved to write
about the "darling, blue-eyed violets," the "golden buttercups,"
and the "blush-tinted petals of the new peach blossom." To
him the spring was the "laughing spring." Then it was, when
"the air is balm" and the "earth is all abloom," that Nature,
he says,
"would woo to her embrace
The scanty mite of good that lingers in me,
And, by the witching beauty of her face,
From wonted gloom to grateful sunshine win me."
Stealing away from his stuffy office and the noisy city, he would
wander among "the rugged hills,"
"Where daisies blow, and virgin violets,
Within the leaves, half hide their conscious faces."
It seemed to him that the brooks, "that babble as they go,"
were
"Prattling to the flowers that blossom on their borders,"
and that the
"birds sing now, as birds in Eden sang."
After the long, dreary winter, spring comes, bringing joy and
peace, like the joy and peace of the quiet Sabbath. Then the
"flowers are rising from the dead,"
11
and in the woods
"In floral ermine, white as snow,
The dogwood and the hawthorn glow,
And, bursting from their icy prison,
The golden buttercups are risen!"'
On every hillside
'"Blush-tinted petals of the new
Peach blossoms lend a rosy hue
To fields that widen on the view.
The winged choristers of the air
A*re ma*king m*usic*everyw*here;
The thrush sings in the hazel brake;
The mocking bird is wide awake;
The blithe hedge-sparrow chirrups by;
The swallows twitter in the sky;
And faintly—far adown the glen
Is cheeping now the russet wren,
—
Birds, bees and flowers,
Sunshine and showers,
To grace and gladden hill and plain,
Bring Sabbath to the world again!"
In all the beauties of Nature, which he loved so much, the
poet saw manifested God's love for man. His poetry shows
that he was deeply religious. In his poem called "Passion
Flower," he writes of "the Cross whereon my Savior hung/5
and confesses that
"The sin was mine which wrought His woe,
And yet, He loved the sinner so,
The Lord of all forsook His throne,
To make my guilt and grief His own."
Sorrowful and penitent, the poet exclaims,
"Low at Thy feet, Christ, I fall!
Spurn not the spikenard which I bring!
Be Thou, from hence, my all in all,
—
Anointed Prophet, Priest and King!"
~No one has written more beautifully of the birth of Christ
than Mr. Hill. In his "Star Above the Manger," he tells how
12
the "lowly shepherd swains," while watching their flocks, saw
a star in the sky so "unutterably splendid" that it made all the
other stars faint and pale. He tells how they heard the angels
singing and praising God, for
"Heaven drew nearer earth that night,
—
Flung wide its pearly portals,
—
Sent forth, from all its realms of light,
Its radiant immortals;
They hovered in the golden air,
Their golden censers swinging,
And woke the drowsy shepherds there
With their seraphic singing."
Though this star has never appeared in the skies since that
night, the poet declares that whosoever has faith in the Savior,
may still see it and be led by it as the shepherds were.
"No more appears that star at eve,
Though glimpses of its glory
Are seen by those who still believe
The shepherds' simple story.
In Faith's clear firmament afar,
—
To Unbelief a stranger,
—
Forever glows the golden star
That stood above the manger.
Age after age may roll away,
But on Time's rapid river
The light of its celestial ray
Shall never cease to quiver."
In one of his poems, called "The Poet's Afterthought,"
Mr. -II ill tells us what he thought a poet ought to be, what kind
of work he ought to do, and what should be his reward. He
thought that a poet ought to be "a dreamer"; that he ought not
to copy what "the grand old masters" had done, but to write
from his own heart and "common sense"; and that he ought
not to work for money or for praise, but to try to express
what others think and feel but can not put into words.
"Poet, rapt from mortal view,
Golden reveries renew;
Day by day a dreamer be,
Underneath the tamarind tree;
13
Lot the grand old masters rest;
Thine own garb beseems thee best;
On the plain of common sense,
Build for future eminence.
Loyal to thy nobler self,
Neither sing for praise nor pelf;
Seem to others what thou art;—
Write thy poems from thy heart!
Do thus, and thou need'st not fear
That thy name will disappear,
And the memories of men
Lose all tracery of thy pen.
Some will listen unto thee,
Artless though thy numbers be,
Charmed to find in them a voice
When they sorrow or rejoice."
And this was just the kind of poet Thcophilus Hunter Hill
himself was.
SONG OF THE BUTTERFLY.
BY THEOPHILUS H. HILL.
[Four children, two girls and two boys, six or seven years of age,
should recite this poem. A girl should recite the first stanza, a boy the
second, a girl the third, and a boy the fourth. All should be costumed
to represent butterflies.]
I.
"Who is merrier than I ?"
Quoth the golden Butterfly;
"In the shining court of May,
Whose apparel half so gay?
I reflect each sparkling hue
Of her radiant retinue;
I have kissed the lily's cheek;
I have played at 'hide and seek/
Veiled Violet, with you!
Who is merrier than 1?"
Quoth the golden Butterfly.
II.
"I have flirted, too, with thee,
Tremulous Anemone!
And the blue-eyed pimpernel,
And the Canterbury-bell
Are superlatively blest,
Should I, for a moment, rest
Down in yonder glassy dell:
Little do they dream that I
From their soft caresses fly,
But to breathe the rare perfume
Of the pale magnolia bloom
Or to spend a listless hour,
In the cool, secluded bower
Of the pining Passion Flower
Blither wooer, who than I?"
Quoth the gallant Butterfly.
15
III.
"When the shades of evening fall,
Like the folding of a pall;
When the dew is on the flowers,
And the mnte, unconscious Hours
Still pursue their noiseless flight,
Through the dreamy realms of night;
How delightful to recline
On this crimson couch of mine!
Zephyrs, languid with perfume,
Gently rock my cradle-bloom;
Glittering host of fireflies
Guard my slumbers from surprise,
And Diana's starry train,
Sweetly scintillant again,
Never sleep while I repose
On the petals of the rose!
Who hath balmier bed than I?"
Quoth the brilliant Butterfly.
IV.
''Life is but a Summer day,
Gliding goldenly away;
Winter comes, alas! too soon,
—
Would it were forever June!
Yet, though brief my flight may be,
Fun and frolic still for me!
When the sisterhood of flowers,
Having had their gala day,
In the chill autumnal showers,
Sorrowfully fade away,
—
Doomed to darkness and decay,
—
Who would not prefer to die
What were life to such as I ?"
Quoth the flaunting Butterfly.
JOHN HENRY BONER.1
The truly great man is the poet. The poet speaks to the
souls of men. He puts in beautiful language the sentiments
that other men feel, but can not express. He reads the mes-sages
that God has written in His great Book of Nature. He
is the interpreter between God and man, and his message lives
forever in the hearts of men.
I wish you to know something about a true poet of the Old
North State. His name was John Henry Boner. He was
born in the year 1845, in the historic old Moravian town of
Salem. Many years afterwards, when he revisited the house in
which he was born, he wrote his poem, "Broken and Desolate"
There are some scenes that we should not
Revisit, though most dear they be
—
Some tilings we never more should see
—
Some places that should be forgot.
One such not long ago I went
To look upon in mournful mood,
A while about the place to brood
—
The old home where my youth was spent.
My very footfall on the floor
Was unfamiliar. It did seem
To me like walking in a dream
All sadly altered—home no more
—
A shattered house—a fallen gate
A missing tree—red, barren' clay
Where (lowers once stood in bright array
—
All changed—all broken—desolate.-
But when I came to stand within
The room where summer moons had shed
Soft luster round my dreamful bed
When my young life was free from sin
*******
I could no more—I pressed my face
Against the silent wall, then stole
Away in agony of soul,
Regretting I had seen the place.
'This story of John Henry Boner appeared in the North Carolina Day Program for
1008, but it has been thought proper to bring it forward again this year.
JOHN HENRY BONER.
17
He would never speak muck about his boyhood days, but
sometimes he gave glimpses of them in his verses. In one he
tells about "A Boy in the Piney Woods":
Lt was a frosty-cold midwinter night,
Gleaming with stars. Through a pine-barren dark
I traced a path until I came to mark
The sudden glimmer of a cabin light.
How many hearts have warmed at such a sight
My startling herald was the watch-dog's bark.
An old man, bearded like a patriarch,
Stood silhouetted in the doorway bright,
And welcomed me unto the wedding party,
Xoisy with fun at blind-man's buff and riddle
And all the romping game of life bucolic.
I heard the peals of laughter long and hearty,
I caught the lusty tuning of the fiddle,
And leaped the doorstep, eager for the frolic.
In another poem he recalls "A Memory of Boyhood"—how
he hunted "ripe, delicious muscadines,"
Floating on the gentle Yadkin in an olden-time canoe,
Singing old plantation ballads—I and charming blue-eyed Sue
—
Blue-eyed, golden tress'd Sue.
-::- * -::- -;•- -::- # * * *
Now we row from dappled shadows underneath the tangled vines,
Up the sunny stream where all the radiance of the morning shines.
O, the purple muscadines
Years may pass, but I can never cease to dream of blue-eyed Sue
And the morning on the Yadkin in the olden-time canoe
—
Blue-eyed, golden-tress'd Sue.
But boyhood days passed, and he grew to manhood. He
learned the printer's trade and went to Washington City to
work in the United States Printing Office. It was during these
days that he published his first book and won fame. He called
his little volume "Whispering Pines," and in it he wrote of the
fields of corn and crumbling vines
Along the golden Yadkin, * "
::" *
where, with one he loved,
We walked among the whispering pines.
18
His best verses were of his own beloved Southland and the
Old North State. In his "Whispering Pines" he tells us how,
Sauntering alone one summer's day,
I wandered to the woodland, where
The Swannanoa's dancing waves
Made musical the mountain air.
There,
* * on the river's brink I lay,
Regardless of the hours that flew,
And watched the sparkling ripples play,
Fanned by the gentle winds that blew
Along the flowery shore, and heard
The song of many a sweet-voiced bird.
He listened, too, to
* * * the hum
Of the wild woods-bees hovering near1
,
and saw the
* glowing woodbines here and there
In graceful tangles thickly bound.
He called the South "The Moon-loved Land," and thought
No lovelier song was ever heard
Than the notes of the Southern mocking-bird.
* * * But you must live in the South,
Where the clear moon kisses with large, cool mouth
The land she loves, in the secret of night,
To hear such music—the soul-delight
Of the Moon-loved Land.
Of all the Southland, he loved best the State of his birth.
During the long, cold winter days in the Northern city his
thoughts turned to the Old North State.
When wintry days are dark and drear
And all the forest ways grow still,
When gray snow-laden clouds appear
Along the bleak horizon hill,
When cattle all are snugly penned
And sheep go huddling close together,
When steady streams of smoke ascend
From farmhouse chimneys—in such weather
Give me old Carolina's own,
A great log house, a great hearthstone,
A cheering pipe of cob or briar
And a red, leaping light'ood fire.
19
But of all places on earth his heart turned first to the beau-tiful
little city in which he was born—the quaint old houses,
the shady trees, the beautiful avenues, the venerable old church,
the sacred city of the dead, so beautiful and impressive—these
scenes crowded on his mind as he went to his daily tasks far
away from home.
Now, slowly, softly breaking through
The mist that veils departed years
With half-shut eyes I dimly see
A picture dear as life to me
—
The place where I was born appears
—
A little town with grassy ways
And shady streets, where life hums low
(A place where world-worn men might go
To calmly close their fading days )
One simple spire points to the skies
Above the leafy trees. I hear
The old Moravian bell ring clear,
But see no more—tears fill my eyes.
No more have I in that dear place
A home; and saddest memories cling
—
Ah, sad as death—to everything
About it. But by God's good grace,
Where'er it be my fate to die,
Beneath those trees in whose dark shade
The first-loved of my life are laid,
I, want to lie.
All of us will certainly agree with the sentiment of the fol-lowing
verse. Boner had been sick, and had come back "home"
to rest; so he thought of himself as "The Wanderer Back
Home"
Back in the Old North State,
Back to the place of his birth,
Back through the pines' colonnaded gate
To the dearest spot on earth.
No sweeter joy can a star feel
When into the sky it thrills
Than the rapture that wings a Tar Heel
Come back to his native hills.
Soon after he published the little book of poems called
"Whispering Pines" he lost his place in the United States
Printing Office on account of his politics. But his poems had
20
brought him fame, and he found no trouble in getting work.
One of the foremost literary men in the United States, Edmund
Clarence Stedman, of New York City, was delighted with
Boner's poetry and secured work for him in New York. Dur-ing
the next few years he worked on several very important
literary productions. Among these were two of the greatest
dictionaries ever published
—
The Century Dictionary and The
Standard Dictionary. Then he was made editor of one of the
leading magazines in the United States
—
The Literary Digest.
He was now recognized as one of the first men of letters in
New York.
But his health began to fail, and finally broke completely
down. He had to stop wTork and come South for the winter. In
order to get money for this trip—for he was poor—he published
a little book of poems, which he called "Some New Poems." In
one of these poems, called "The Wolf," he described the hard
time that he had had. He tells how the wolf of poverty and
sickness
* * * came sniffing at my door;
how his sniffing
Only made me laugh at his devilish will.
I cursed the beast and drove him away,
But he came with the fall of night each day,
And his sniff, sniff, sniff the whole night through
I could hear between the winds that blew.
Finally
* * the time came when I laughed no more,
But glanced with fear at my frail lodge door,
For now I knew that the wolf at bay
Sooner or later would have his way.
Then
A crash, and my door flew open wide.
My strength was not as the beast's at my side.
That night on my hearthstone cold and bare
He licked his paw and made his lair.
To a friend he wrote : "Am going South next week, if pos-sible.
In bad shape. Doctor says consumption." Then it was
that he came
Back to the place of his birth,
* * * * -* * *
To the dearest spot on earth.
21
He suffered greatly from pain and poverty, but h.t never lost
his cheerfulness. From the hospital at Raleigh he wrote to
his friends at Washington : "I am in bed again and am mor-tally
sick. Have a new doctor, who tries to jolly me along."
To his friends with him he spoke of "how he loved Raleigh and
its people, and hoped to spend his last days there."
But he did not, for soon he was up and back at work in
Washington. His work, however, was drawing to a close. He
soon realized that
Night is falling—gently falling—and the silver stars are shining.
He suffered much toward the last, but was courageous and
cheerful to the end;
for, as he wrote,
Howe'er it be, one thing I know:
There is a faith which hath sufficed
Men mourning in the land of woe
—
A simple faith in Jesus Christ.
He had no fear of death, but rather believed that
God's love sometimes appears to be his wrath,
And his best gift is the white rose of death.
Death came to him in March, 1903, in the city of Washington.
His friends and associates bore him to a lonely grave far from
home and from those he loved.
I have already given you a beautiful verse in which he ex-pressed
his wish to be buried in the graveyard at Salem. Of
this graveyard he wrote
Full many a peaceful place I've seen.
But the most restful spot I know
Is one where thick, dark cedars grow
In an old graveyard, cool and green.
It was this beautiful spot that he meant when he wrote
But by God's good grace,
Where'er it be my fate to die,
Beneath those trees in whose dark shade
The first-loved of my life are laid
I want to lie.
So soon after his death some of his friends began to collect
a fund to pay for removing his body from Washington City to
Salem, and to place a suitable marble slab over it. Among
22
those friends were some of the most famous men in the United
States. His body arrived at Salem on Sunday morning. "At
the close of a peaceful Sabbath day, while the evening shadows
were lengthening, with a great concourse of sympathetic friends
gathered near, and with the grave lined with boughs from the
cedars about which he wrote so lovingly, the sweet singer was
laid to rest." During the services the old church, whose
One simple spire points to the skies
Above the leafy trees,
was filled with friends. Bishop Rondthaler, of the Moravian
Church ; Mr. Benjamin, an eminent scholar of New York
Governor Glenn and other prominent men were present and
paid their tributes to this true North Carolina poet. Then he
was carried to the place in "God's Acre" which had been pre-pared
for him and laid to rest. Over his grave was placed a
simple white marble slab, on which is the following inscription,
the last lines being written by the famous poet and scholar.
Boner's warm friend, Edmund Clarence Stedman
JOHN HENRY BONER,
Born in Salem, N. C,
January 31, 1845.
Died in Washington, D. C,
March 6, 1903.
that gentlest of minstrels,
who caught his music from the whispering pines. 1
Several of Boner's poems will be found in The North Carolina Day Program or 1908 .
HO! FOR CAROLINA!
BY W1LLJAM B. 11AKHKL1.
Let no heart in sorrow weep for other days;
Let no idle dreamer tell in melting lays
Of the merry meetings in the rosy bowers;
For there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours!
Ho! for Carolina! that's the land for me;
In her happy borders roam the brave and free;
And her bright-eyed daughters none can fairer be;
Oh! it is a land of love and sweet liberty!
Down in Carolina grows the lofty pine.
And her groves and forests bear the scented vine
Here are peaceful homes, too, nestling 'mid the flowers.
Oh! there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours!
Ho! for Carolina! etc.
Come to Carolina in the summer-time,
When the luscious fruits are hanging in their prime.
And the maidens singing in the leafy bowers;
Oh! there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours
Ho ! for Carolina ! etc.
Then, for Carolina, brave and free, and strong,
Sound the meed of praises "in story and in song"
From her fertile vales and lofty granite towers,
For there is no land on earth like this fair land of ours!
Ho! foi Carolina! that's the land for me;
In her happy borders roam the brave and free
And her bright-eyed daughters none can fairer be
Oh! it is a land of love and sweet liberty!
OUR YOUNGEST POET.
Three years ago our youngest poet died. He was then only
thirty-three years old. But even at that early age he had be-come
the most popular of our poets, and had won a high place
among the poets of the South.
John Charles McNeill was his name. He was born, July 26,
1874, in Robeson County, North Carolina. His home was in
what is called the Spring Hill region. It is a beautiful coun-try.
"The land lies low," says one writer, "and the far horizon
makes its moving appeal wherever the eye may fall. The fields
present vistas of corn and cotton and grass, with the woods of
cypress and pine and gum in the background. The houses are
the headquarters of widespreading and well kept farms, and
the vine and the fig tree flourish near by. Throughout the set-tlement
winds the Lumber River, wine-colored, steady, deep,
and swift or slow, according to the season; a darksome stream,
where the red throat, the pickerel, and the large mouth bass
find homes to their liking, save for the fisherboy who overtakes
them with bob or bait. To spend a sunset hour beneath the
cypress gloom hard by; to catch the note of the far circling
fields in the stilly hour ; to respond to the color of the land and
heaven and horizon and the sombre quiet all around—is to
realize that this is the poet's clime.
" 'The poet in a poet's clime was born.'
"
John Charles McNeill spent his boyhood on his father's farm,
in the midst of such a scene as Mr. Bailey has described. No
wonder he loved Nature, and wrote so beautifully of the
"Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west;
Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly;
The star of peace at watch above the crest
—
Oh, holy, holy, holy!"
No wonder he loved the bright October days, whose
"glory flames in every blade and leaf"
No wonder,
'When dogwood blossoms mingle
With the maple's modest red,
And the sweet arbutus wakes at last
From out her winter's bed,"
JOHN CHARLES McNEILL.
25
his thought? would begin to turn "Away Down Home":
"Then come with me, thou weary heart!
Forget thy brooding ills,
Since God has come to walk among
His valleys and His hills!
The mart will never miss thee,
Nor the scholar's dusty tome,
And the mother waits to bless thee,
Away down home."
McNeill spent his boyhood days on his father's farm. "His
•chief task was to 'mind the cows/ and he knew also the plow
and the hoe; but I have heard it said that he lost many a fur-row
because he would read and plow at the same time. To
bring the coavs home at evening; to do the chores of the house-hold
; to attend school in the hours ; to fish and hunt and roam
the woods and swim the river and explore the swamps when-ever
he could"—thus his boyhood passed.
Do you think he got tired of the work and the quiet life on
the farm? Far from it. Many of the little, everyday inci-dents
that most of us pass without noticing, became with him
subjects for some of his best poetry. Listen to this little poem,
called, "Before Bedtime" ; how many of us have seen the very
scene that he describes, but how few of us could write a quaint
poem about such a homely scene?
"The cat sleeps in a chimney jam
With ashes in her fur,
And Tige, from on the yuther side.
He keeps his eye on her.
The jar o' curds is on the hearth.
An' I'm the one to turn it.
I'll crawl in bed an' go to sleep
When maw begins to churn it.
Paw bends to read his almanax
An' study out the weather,
An' Bud has got a gourd of grease
To ile his harness leather.
Sis looks an' looks into the fire,
Half squintin' through her lashes,
An' I jis' watch my tater where
It shoots smoke through the ashes."
26
Every boy remembers bow be feels wben tbe first warm day
in spring comes, and off go bis sboes and stockings. But can
be write about it as Jobn Cbarles McNeill wrote? Tbe girls,
be says, like to see tbe bluebirds in tbe lane and "tbe saucy
johnny-jump-ups in the meadow/'
•'But we boys, we want to see the dogwood blooms again,
Throwin' a sort of summer-looking shadow;
For the first mild mornin' when the woods are white
(And we needn't even ask a soul about it)
We leave our shoes right where we pulled them oft at night.
And, barefooted once again, we run and shout it.
"We feel so light we wish there were more fences here;
We'd like to jump and jump them, all together
No sleds for us, no guns, nor even 'simmon beer,
No nothin' but the blossoms and fair weather
The meadow is a little sticky right at first,
But a few short days'll wipe away that trouble.
To feel so good and gay, I wouldn't mind the worst
That could be done by any field o' stubble.
O, all the trees are seemin' sappy!
0, all the folks are smiling happy!
And there is joy in every little bit of room
But the happiest of them all
At the Shanghai rooster's call
Are we barefoots when the dogwoods burst abloom.'
But after a few years tbe time came wben tbe barefoot boy
had to go to school. From tbe country school he went in 1893
to Wake Forest College. After leaving college, like Theopbilus
H. Hill, he studied law, but, also like Mr. Hill, he did not like
it. Then he edited a paper, and in 1904 became a writer for tbe
Charlotte Daily Observer. He was still writing for the Observer
when on October 17, 1908, he died.
Before his death only one small volume of his poetry had been
published. It was called "Songs, Merry and Sad. 7
' Soon after
his death a second volume was issued called, "Lyrics From Cot-ton
Land."1 He had already published these, and numerous
other poems, in the Charlotte Daily Observer, The Century
Magazine, published in New York City, and in other maga-zines.
In 1905, he was presented with a handsome silver cup
which had been offered for the best literary work done by any
North Carolinian during that year.
1 These volumes are published by Stone and Barringer Company, Charlotte, N. C, by
whose permission the selections in this pamphlet are used.
27
While there were many who loved him for his poetry, there
were still more who loved him for his genial humor, his kindly
heart, and his strong, unselfish nature. Of him, one of his
friends who had known him many years, says
"I hear witness that he was the most natural being I have
known; the most unselfish, the most unselfconscious. If he had
serious burdens within his heart, he was too entirely unselfish
to pour them out upon another. I do not think he had them.
He expressed life in terms of beauty; he explained it to his
friends from the unfailing viewpoint of humor, but he lived
it without intent either to express or interpret. McNeill just
lived—went singing and laughing down the great highway be-cause
his heart must sing and laugh. * * * It was his nature to
do his best, to write his best and to be himself. * * * I have
not known another so happily disposed, nor so free from guile
or malice. It may be said of him that he found it impossible
to maintain the faintest ill will toward any one. His was a
heart that found straightway a place in every heart that opens
at the approach of sweet human spirit. And so he went a
royal way on the earth. It was his lot to be loved as but few
men have been. When he died those who had known him un-derwent
the shock of a strangely personal loss. We still cry
out
—
" 'He's gone, he's gone, he's from us torn
—
The ave best fellow e'er was born!' "
Note,—Several of McNeill's poems may be found in preceding numbers of The North
Carolina Day Program.
HOLDING OFF THE CALF.1
BY JOHN CHARLES M'NEILL.
[To be recited by a boy in character.]
They-all '11 tell you that I wouldn't mind
A-holdin' the kef at all
If it didn't come at the very time
I hear the other uns call.
Jis when I see 'em goin' by,
Wi' the'r dogs an' guns, in a hurry.
An' I wanter go, I hear maw cry
'At she's ready to mulk ol' Cherry!
An' there I stan', wi' the kef by the yur,
The boys done out o' sight,
An' maw a-whang, a-whang, jis like
There 'us nothin' else till night!
'Bout sundown's time for the swimmin'-hole,
But for me it's mighty fur
—
That's jis the minute, each blessed day,
I must ketch the kef by the yur!
The parson, my bud—he's a preacher, you know,
But he can't git nowhere to preach
—
Looks on, wi' 'is thumbs in 'is gallus-straps,
Smilin' sweet as a peach.
The kef is a fool, don't mean no harm,
Only wantin' to suck;
But sometimes I git so awful mad
'At I twistes 'is yur like a shuck.
They-all say I'm lazy, no 'count in the worl',
Only to raise a row;
But I wouldn't mind workin' all times o' day
'Cep' the time fur mulkin' the cow.
Whenever the fellers go off to swim,
Or take the'r dogs an' gun,
That pore white kef, a-wantin' his share,
Heads off both ends o' my fun.
But some sweet day I'll be a man,
An' when I'm boss myse'f,
I'll ketch ev'ry boy 'at stays on the place
An' put him to holdin' a kef!
1 From " Lyrics From Cotton Land," published by Stone and Barringer Co., Chs
lotte, N. C.
*,:;*
!
HOLDING OFF THE CALF.
AMERICA.
BY S. F. SMITH.
My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring.
My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills,
My heart with rapture thrills,
Like that above.
Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake,
Let all that breathe partake,
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.
Our fathers' God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing;
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light;
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our King!
INTRODUCTION TO CAROLINA.
[To be read to the audience by the teacher, or some pupil selected for
the purpose, before the exercise "Carolina" is begun.]
In the exercise which we shall next present will be told the story of
North Carolina in verse. For this purpose a few poems have been
selected that commemorate the following events in our history: 1. -'The
Lost Colony"; 2. The long struggle with the Indians for the possession
of the country; 3. The Battle of Alamance; 4. The breaking out of the
Revolution, and the Battle of Moore's Creek Bridge; 5. The Battle of
King's Mountain; 6. The Founding of the University; 7. North Caro-lina's
part in the Civil War; 8. The last charge at Appomattox;
9. North Carolina's part in the Spanish-American War.
First. You will remember that in 1587 Sir Walter Raleigh sent a
colony of 150 men, women and children, under Governor John White,
to Roanoke Island. Among them was Governor White's daughter,
Eleanor Dare. August 18, 1587, Eleanor Dare gave birth to a child
whom she named Virginia, the first English child born in America.
A few weeks later Governor White returned to England for supplies.
The settlers promised that if they left the island before his return, they
would cut the name of the place to which they had gone on a tree; if
they were in distress they would cut a cross above the name. When
White returned after two years, the settlers had disappeared. On a
tree he found the single word "Croatan," with no cross or other sign
above it. He searched the island carefully, but never found the colony.
It is known in our history as "The Lost Colony."
Second. The first permanent settlers came to North Carolina from
Virginia about 1660. They had a terrible struggle to conquer the land
from the Indians, and it was only after a great many years that the
Indians were driven away. But many of our rivers and mountains and
-;ome of our counties and towns still bear Indian names.
Third. When the colony was about one hundred years old, the people
in the section around Hillsboro became discontented with the govern-ment.
Taxes were high, officers' fees were excessive, and many of the
officials were dishonest. So the people formed themselves into a band
called "Regulators," and refused to pay taxes or to obey the laws.
Thereupon the Governor raised an army, marched against them, and
fought a battle with them at Alamance, May 16, 1771. The Regulators
were beaten and the revolt crushed. Sometimes Alamance is spoken of
as the first battle of the Revolution.
Fourth. Shortly after the battle of Alamance the Revolution broke
out and the people of North Carolina took up arms against the tyranny
of King George. In 1776, the Royal Governor raised an army of Scotch
Highlanders in the region about where Fayetteville is now, and marched
them toward Wilmington to attack the Patriots. But on February 27,
1776, the Patriots met them at Moore's Creek Bridge, in Bladen County,
31
and after a short right completely defeated the enemy. The battle of
Moore's Creek Bridge was one of the most important victories of the
war.
Fifth. Five years later the British sent an army under Major Patrick
Ferguson into the western parts of North Carolina and South Carolina.
They marched through the country plundering the people and destroying
their property. The backwoodsmen in the mountains of North Caro-lina,
South Carolina and Virginia sprung to arms and drove the British
to the top of King's Mountain, a high ridge on the boundary line of
North Carolina and South Carolina. The Americans were commanded
by Colonel Isaac Shelby, Colonel William Campbell, Colonel John Sevier,
Colonel James Williams, Colonel Joseph Winston, and Colonel Benjamin
Cleveland. After a fierce battle Ferguson was killed and his entire
army either killed or captured. The United States Government has
erected a monument on the spot to commemorate this victory.
Sixth. After the Revolution was over, North Carolina turned her at-tention
to such peaceful pursuits as education. So, in 1795, the corner-stone
of the first building of the University of North Carolina was laid
at Chapel Hill with great ceremony. In 1895 the University celebrated
its centennial. On that occasion a beautiful poem by Mrs. Cornelia P.
Spencer was read commemorating the one-hundredth anniversary of the
University, and its great services to the State.
Seventh. In 1861 North Carolina seceded from the United States and
joined the Confederate States of America. She made a splendid record
in the war that followed. The first Confederate soldier killed in battle
was Henry L. Wyatt, of Edgecombe County, who was killed at the
battle of Bethel, in Virginia, June 10, 1861. North Carolina sent 127,-
000 soldiers to the Confederate army. One of her sons, Capt. James
Iredell Waddell, was the only officer to carry the Confederate flag
around the world on a war vessel. At Gettysburg, North Carolina
troops under General Pettigrew charged farthest within the enemy's
lines of any of the Confederates. In the, war North Carolina lost forty
thousand men, killed, wounded and missing, the largest number lost by
any Southern State.
Eighth. The last charge made by Lee's army at Appomattox was made
by the North Carolina troops under command of Gen. Bryan Grimes, of
Pitt County.
Ninth. After the war was over, North Carolina's soldiers returned to
their homes and began to build up their waste places. They again be-came
loyal American citizens, and when the Spanish-American War
broke out, in 1898, their sons rallied to the old flag. North Carolina
troops took an important part in the war with Spain, and the only
American naval officer killed in the war was Ensign Worth Bagley, of
North Carolina, who was killed at Cardenas, on board the torpedo boat
Winslow.
These are the events which our poets have celebrated in their verses
You should bear them in mind as you listen to our exercise..
CAROLINA.
[A girl of about 14 or 15, in the costume of the Muse of History.
When speaking she occupies the center of the stage alone, but when the
other characters appear at her call, she steps to one side while they
recite, but remains always in plain view as if keeping watch over the
speaker. The other characters do not appear at all until each is called
out by "Carolina," and they retire at once at the close of their recita-tions.]
I am the Spirit of Carolina. Three centuries have passed
into history since first I stood on Roanoke's lonely shores; yet
I never grow old. By night and by day, in war and in peace,
through storm and through sunshine, have I kept watch and
ward over this fair and favored land. Brave and noble have
been the deeds of my sons; fair and pure the fame of my
daughters. Proudly have I guided their destiny, and on the
brightest pages of history have written their story in shining
letters of pure gold. With joyful heart today I command you
to hear the story of Carolina
Carolina, the pride of my bosom,
Carolina, the land of the free,
Carolina, the home of my fathers,
Carolina, my song is of thee.
From Mitchell, the pride of the mountains,
To Hatteras, the dread of the sea,
The sunshine of liberty gladdens
And Tyranny trembles at thee.
Her honor is high as the summit
Of Mitchell, her loftiest peak;
Her vigor is that of the Roman,
Her spirit is that of the Greek.
Her daughters are bright as the sunshine
That lightens the hills of the west,
And fair as the rose of the valley
That blushes and blooms on her breast.
Carolina ! Carolina, forever
A glorious destiny waits
Carolina, the cradle of freedom,
The noblest of all the great States. 1
'From "Carolina," by Thomas W. Harrington.
33
Listen, then, my children, as at my call my poets come to
rhyme your story and to sing your fame. Come, gentle
daughter of a vanished race, and tell in sorrowing rhyme the
hapless story of Roanoke and Columbia's first born.
THE LOST COLONY.i
[Spoken by a girl in the costume of an Indian girl, who may be sup-posed
to have seen the tragedy of Roanoke, and conies now at Carolina's
call to tell the sad story.]
The breath of spring was on the sea:
Anon t lie Governor stepped
His good ship's deck right merrily;
His promise had been kept.
"See, see! the coastline comes in view!"
He heard the mariners shout
—
"We'll drop our anchors in the sound
Before a star is out!"
"Now, God be praised," he inly breathed,
"Who saves from all that harms:
Tomorrow morn my pretty ones
Will rest within my arms!"
At dawn of day they moored tlieir ships,
And dared the breaker's roar.
What meant it? Not a man was there
To welcome them ashore!
They sprang to find the cabins rude;
The quick green sedge had thrown
Its knotted web o'er every door
And climbed each chimney-stone.
The spring was choked with winter's leaves,
And feebly gurgled on;
And from the pathway strewn with wrack
All trace of feet was gone.
Their fingers thrid the matted grass,
If there perchance a mound
Unseen might heave the broken turf;
But not a jrrave was found.
From "The Mystery of Croatan," by Mrs. Margaret J. Preston.
34
They beat the tangled cypress swamp,
If haply in despair
They might have strayed into its glade,
But found no vestige there.
"The pine! the pine!" the governor groaned;
And there each staring man
Read, in a maze, one single word
Deep carven—CRO-A-TAN
But cut above, no cross, no sign,
No symbol of distress;
Naught else beside that mystic line,
Within the wilderness!
And where and what was "Cro-a-tan"?
But not an answer came,
And none of all who read it there
Had ever heard the name!
"Oh, daughter ! daughter ! with the thought
My harrowed brain is wild!—
Up with the anchors ! I must find
The mother and the child!"
In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search;
No tidings reached them more,
No record save that silent word
Upon that silent shore.
The mystery rests a mystery still,
Unsolved of mortal man:
Sphinx-like, untold, the ages hold
The tale of Cro-a-tan.
CAROLINA
Long and fiercely did the Red Man battle for his hunting
grounds; grimly and without ceasing did my brave sons con-tend
with him. Slowly vanished the wigwam and the papoose
sullenly retreated the stern and savage warrior. No more on
our everlasting hills is heard his piercing battle cry; no more
drifts his light canoe on the waters of our overflowing rivers.
35
INDIAN NAMES.*
[Spoken by a boy in the costume of an Indian warrior. He steps for-ward
boldly, faces "Carolina," and speaks with pride in the fact that
while the white conquerors have taken the land from the Indians, they
can not wash out the record the Indians have left in the names of our
rivers.]
Ye say they all have passed away,
The race of Indian braves;
That their light canoes have vanished
From off your crested waves;
That 'mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter's shout;
Yet their names are on your waters;
Ye can not wash them out.
Their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore;
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
'Tis heard where Swannanoa pours
Its crystal tide along;
It sounds on Nantahala's shores,
And Yadkin swells the song;
Where'er the lordly Roanoke sweeps
The Indian name remains;
And swift Catawba proudly keeps
The echo of its strains,
CAROLINA
And now my sons stretched forth their strong arms from
sea coast to mountain top. Along the shores of the "lordly
Koanoke," across the "swift Catawba," to
"Where the Swannanoa pours
Its crystal tide along,"
with stout hearts and undaunted spirits, they have conquered
the wilderness, hewn down the forests, and sowed the golden
grain. Over widespreading plains, in green valleys, and on
rugged hillsides, wheresoever freedom led the way, they have
reared their homes in peace and plenty. And when envious
Adapted by Mrs. C. P. Spencer from a poem by Kemp P. Battle.
36
Oppression stalked abroad to devour their substance and to
crush their spirits, they dared to meet him face to face on the
field of Alamance.
ALAMANCE.i
[Spoken by a girl of about fifteen in the costume of the Goddess of
Libert}'.]
No stately column marks the hallowed place
Where silent sleeps, unurn'd, their sacred dust
—
The first free martyrs of a glorious race,
Their fame a people's wealth, a Nation's trust.
Above their rest the golden harvest waves,
Tlie glorious stars stand sentinel on high;
While in sad requiem near their turlless graves,
The winding river murmurs mourning by.
No stern ambition nerved them to the deed,
In Freedom's cause they nobly dared to die;
The first to conquer, or the first to bleed,
God, and their country's right, their battle-cry.
But holier watchers here their vigils keep,
Than storied urn or monumental stone;
For Law and Justice guard their dreamless sleep,
And plenty smiles above their bloody home.
Immortal youth shall crown their deathless fame,
And, as their country's glories still advance,
Shall blighter blaze o'er all the earth thy name,
Thou first-fought field of Freedom—Alamance.
CAROLINA
But hark! Listen! An ominous sound is heard across the
broad Atlantic. Old Mother England has forgotten her pledges
to Freedom and Liberty, and the tramp of armed men is borne
along the passing breeze. My sons spring to arms to meet the
foe upon the threshold.
They are gathering, they are gathering
From the cabin and the hall,
The rifle leaves its bracket,
And the steed must quit its stall;
'From "Alamance," by Seymour D. Whiting.
37
The country sends its thousands
And the city pours its throng,
To resent their Country's insult,
To avenge their Country's wrong.
They are gathering, they are gathering
From mountain and from plain,
Resolved in heart, of purpose high,
A bold and fearless train.
No forceful mandate calls them out,
No despot bids them go;
They obey the freeman's impulse
But to strike the freeman's blow. 1
But in our very midst, at our own firesides, the tyrant King
finds stout allies to strike a blow for Tyranny. By the yellow
waters of Cape Fear he rears t lie Fiery Cross, and up springs
the bold Scot, claymore in hand, his war cry on his lips, "King
George and broadswords forever !"
Then rose in arms each man might claim
A portion of MaeDonald's name,
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand
Could hardly buckle on his brand,
To the law boy, whose shaft and bow
Were yet scarce terror to the crow.
But by the bridge their red blood flowed, and over the blind
minions of Tyranny, proud Freedom triumphed. Come hither,
worthy companion of Caswell and Lillington, and repeat the
tale.
THE VICTORY OF MOORE'S CREEK.2
[To be recited by a boy in the uniform of a Revolutionary soldier.
Just as lie steps out before "Carolina," she hands him an old-fashioned
rifle. See the first verse.]
This rifle true, now owned by you,
Was once my pr.ide and trust,
It heard the red man's fierce halloo,
And dashed him to the dust;
irT"he first two stanzas of a poem. "The Volunteers." by Alexander Oaston. son of
Judge William Gaston. It was written in honor of our Volunteers in the war with Mexico
1846-4.S.
2Part of a poem, "The Flint-Lock Rifle," by Marshall DeL. Haywood.
38
In peace it filled my board with game,
In war it played its part,
And when the Tories charging came
It found their leader's heart.
Recalling now the years long dead,
Methinks again I hear
MacDonald's Highland legions tread
The pathway to Cape Fear;
A winding creek they soon behold,
Spanned by a bridge of pine,
Where, like the Spartan host of old,
Stands drawn our battle line.
"King George and broadswords!" fierce and loud,
Next rings their slogan call,
As their great chieftain, brave McLeod,
Comes rushing to his fall
Yet onward still, with charge and cheer,
His clansmen press the fight,
As paladins, unknown to fear,
With claymores long and bright.
The bridge was long, with planks uptorn,
The stream ran swift below,
Yet quick to dare this hope forlorn,
Pressed forward still our foe;
Before our rifles' deadly crack
Full brave they made a stand,
But faltered on the narrow track
Ere they had gained the land.
Then, drenched with blood, they onward bore,
While still was spared them breath,
And fell our fatal guns before
—
Unconquered still in death
Thus darkly closed that deadly fray
And Freedom's sun uprose,
To shine on happy scenes to-day
When vanquished are our foes.
39
CAROLINA
Five times the sIoav years had rolled themselves around.
Crushed lay the hopes of the patriots, and low burned the
lamp of Liberty. But high in the heavens flaunted the banners
of Tyranny. Then uprose my warrior sons, grim and deter-mined
; slowly, steadily climbed they the heights of King's
Mountain ; out rang their rifles, sharp and true, and on this
bloody summit fell the hosts of Tyranny.
Here upon this lonely height,
Born in storm and bred in strife,
Nursed by Nature's secret might,
Freedom won the boon of life;
Song of bird and call of kine,
Fluttering leaf on every tree,
Every murmur of the wind,
Impulse gave to liberty.
Then she blew a bugle blast,
Summoned all her yeomen leal
"Friends! the despot's hour is past
—
Let him now our vengeance feel!"
Rose they* in heroic might,
Bondsmen fated to be free,
Drew the sword of justice bright,
Struck for God and Liberty!
Come, ye sons of patriot sires,
Who the tyrant's power o'erthrew,
Here where burned their beacon fires,
Light your torches all anew!
Till this Mountain's glowing crest,
Signaling from sea to sea,
Shall proclaim from East to West
Union, Peace and Liberty !
l
But would you hear this tale of Tyranny's overthrow? Then
listen, while my brave forest son, in rude rhyme, his tale recites.
'King's Mountain Lyric," by Mrs. Clara Dargan McLean.
40
KING'S MOUNTAIN.*
[Spoken by a boy; costume of the backwoodsman—buckskin cap,
jacket and lcggins. Indian moccasins, hunter's knife in his belt,
powder-horn, and long rille.]
'Twas on a pleasant mountain the Tory heathens lay,
With a doughty Major at their head, one Ferguson, they say;
Corn wal lis had detaeh'd him a thieving for to go,
And catch the Carolina men, or lay the rebels low.
The scamp had rang'd the country in search of royal aid,
And with his owls perch'd on high, he taught them all his trade.
But, •ah! that fatal morning, when Shelby brave drew near,
'Tis certainly a warning that Government should hear,
And Campbell brave, and Cleveland, and Colonel John Sevier,
Each with a band of gallant men to Ferguson appear.
Just as the sun was setting behind the western hills,
Just then our trusty ii lies sent a dose of leaden pills;
Up, up the steep together brave Williams led his troop,
And join'd by Winston, bold and true, disturbed the Tory coop.
The royal slaves,—the royal owls, flew high on every hand,
But soon they settled—gave a howl, and quartered to Cleveland;
I would not tell the number of Tories slain that day,
But surely it is certain that none did run away.
For all that were living were happy to give up,
So let us make thanksgiving, and pass the bright tin cup;
To all our brave regiment, let's toast 'em for their health,
And may our glorious country have joy, and peace and wealth.
CAROLINA
The clash of arms hath ceased. War's loud alarm hath
yielded to the gentle voice of Peace. My sons have heard the
call of Science and Knowledge, and 'mongst the green hills of
Orange, on a bright autumnal day I behold them rear an altar
to eternal Truth. From its sacred precincts I behold issuing
forth a long and splendid line of sages, counselors, rulers, and
across the span of a century I hear her sons sing their Alma
Mater's praises.
•One of the numerous ballads written probably by participants in the battle which
celebrates.
41
THE UNIVERSITY'S CENTENNIAL.!
[A boy of about 15, in the cap and gown of the modern student, a
book under his arm, or diploma in his hand, or some other emblem to
show his character as a student.]
Come forth with your garlands and roses,
Entwined with the Laurel and Lay,
All that fair Carolina encloses
Be yours this festival day.
All hail! to our glorious old Mother,
Her century's crown is complete,
With loyalty due to no other,
Our homage we lay at her feet.
Tho' dimly her morning unfolded,
And tempests oft darkened her sky,
Still, to all the true hearts she has moulded,
Her colors in radiance fly;
Still she welcomes her sons to her portals,
Her cloisters re-echo their tread,
While a witnessing cloud of immortals
Drop honor and strength on her head.
All that Love and Religion have taught us,
All that Freedom and Culture bestow,
All renown that our Heroes have brought us,
To her century's vigil we owe.
Fond memory recalls her gray Teachers
Intent on their labor of love,
Her Poets, her Statesmen, her Preachers
In Temple, and Forum and Grove.
Ye sons of fair Science still cherish
A spark from the Spirit Divine,
Ne'er a hope for our Country shall perish
Wherever his watch-fires shine.
For oft as a noble endeavor
Points out where our brothers have trod,
To His altars we trace the fair river
That gladdens the city of God.
Long, long may this fountain he flowing,
Carolina be honored and blest,
The lights on this Hill-top be glowing,
While centuries pass to their rest.
•By Mrs. Cornelia P. Spencer. Written for the Centennial Celebration of the Opening
of the University.
42
Then Hail ! to our glorious old Mother,
Allegiance we pledge her anew,
With homage we pay to no other,
All Hail to the White and the Blue!*
CAROLINA
Proudly turn I now the pages of history, glorious with the
deeds of Mecklenburg and Halifax, of Moore's Creek and Guil-ford
; bright with the fame of Caswell, and Harnett, and Ire-dell,
and Davie, and Macon, and Graham, and Gaston, and a
host of other noble sous. Joyfully through the years did I
watch my glorious Star shining pure and radiant in the bril-liant
sisterhood of Stars; sadly and sorrowfully did I behold
its light go out, the Sisterhood torn asunder, the bonds of Union
broken. Then once again*, wTith high and noble purpose, did I
call my sons to battle; and once again, with firm hearts and
conscience clear, they sprang to arms, Mater Mea on their lips.
MATER MEA, CAROLINA.?
[A boy in the uniform of a Confederate soldier. The more like a
battle-scarred veteran, the better. A crutch, an armless sleeve, or other
evidence of his service will carry out the idea very well.]
Mater Mea Carolina,
O my Mother, Carolina,
I have seen the world's confines
And grown weary with its visions
Sooth me with thy sighing pines.
Shield me with thy mighty mountains
While I lean upon that breast
Where the prodigal and heart-sick
Ever finds a welcome rest.
Then, in accents low and tender,
Lead my soul to regions vast;
Open wide the gates of splendor
Where the great Confederate passed!
Ah, I know, though late seceding,
Thou wast foremost of them all;
That his veins thy blood was coursing,
Who was first to bleed and fall. 3
"The University's colors.
2By Miss Pattie Williams Gee.
*Henry L. Wyatt. killed at Bethel, June 10, 1861.
43
When Fate's thrilling bugle summoned,
Leaving home and youthful joys,
Up rose a hundred thousand men
And twenty thousand beardless boys.
Not in all the ancient ages,
Nor in modern wars' alarms,
Has a patriot State or Nation
Answered thus a call to arms
I can see them as they gathered
From the West and from the coast,
Passing on to Bethel's triumph,
Vanguard of the Southern host!
For thy honor and the hearth-stones
Of the loved and the revered,
These, my Mother, calm, reluctant,
Dared to fight and no man feared.
'Twas thy son, Carolina, 1
Who that matchless flag unfurled,
Sailing out upon the ocean,
WTrapped a glory round the world
And at Gettysburg, undaunted
By its blood and booming shell,
Pettigrew and his immortals
Plunged into the mouth of hell
Once alone I saw thee falter,
Once I mutely turned my head,
Lest I see thee bowed in anguish
Over forty thousand, dead!
Yet at mournful Appomattox
Thou didst take thy last sad stand,
Thou, a mater dolorosa
Unto half that haggard band
And since that dark day in spring-time,
When a nation's sun went down,
Mater Mea Carolina,
my Mother, Carolina,
Thou hast borne a noble patience,
Greater than thy war's renown!
l Capt. James Iredell Waddell, in the Shenandoah.
44
CAROLINA
In tent and on the blood-red fields of Old Virginia, through
four sad years, I kept sleepless vigil over my brave sons in
gray. I rejoiced with them at Bethel and Manassas, I charged
with them at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, and in the
Wilderness, and I wept with them at the last sad scene at fate-ful
Appomattox. There 1 beheld them, erect and defiant still,
their country's hope and their chieftain's pride; and I saw
them as they bore the Stars and Bars into its last desperate
charge, only to be hurled back torn and mangled, but crowned
with deathless glory. And now comes my poet to crown their
brows with the laurels of defeated valor.
THE LAST CHARGE AT APPAMATTOXJ
[Either a girl or a boy. If this poem is recited by a girl, she might
be dressed in the costume of the late sixties.]
Scarred on a hundred fields before,
Naked and starved and travel-sore,
Each man a tiger, hunted,
They stood at bay as brave as Huns
—
Last of the Old South's splendid sons,
Flanked by ten thousand shotted guns,
And by ten thousand fronted.
Scorched by the cannon's molten breath,
They'd climbed the trembling walls of death
And set their standards tattered
—
Had charged at the bugle's stirring blare
Through bolted gloom and godless glare
From the dead's reddened gulches, where
The searching shrapnel shattered.
They formed—that Carolina band
—
With Grimes, the Spartan, in command,
And, at the word of Gordon,
Through splintered fire and stifling smoke
—
They struck with lightning scathing stroke
Those doomed and desperate men—and broke
Across that iron cordon.
They turned in sullen, slow retreat
Ah! there are laurels of defeat
—
Turned, for the Chief had spoken;
•From a poem of the same name by Henry J. Stockard.
45
With one last shot hurled hack the foe,
And prayed the trump of doom to blow,
Now that the Southern stars were low,
The Southern bars were broken.
CAROLINA
Homeward now my sons turn their weary feet. Once again
they take up the broken threads of the Past, salute anew the
old flag as it passes by, for once again, pure and radiant as of
old, shines my Star in the brilliant Sisterhood of Stars; for
far away, under Southern skies, in Cardenas Bay, the blood of
my gallant Bagley cements anew the sweet bonds of Union.
TWO MOTHERS.*
[To be recited by a girl draped in the American flag to represent
Columbia.]
Two mothers stand by a hero's grave
In a Southern city fair,
And one sheds tears for the fallen brave,
And cries in her dark despair;
But one makes never a cry nor moan,
And stands in her. pride elate;
For one is the mother of flesh and bone,
And one is the mother State.
0, mother, you of the burning tears
And you of the dark despair,
The hope and pride of your love-lit years
Are shrouded and buried there;
For fame is naught when the loved are dead,
And a Nation's praise is vain
When the parting words at the grave are said,
And the soul is seared with pain.
And, mother, you in your pride elate,
You joy that another name
Is blazoned now on the lofty gate
In the temple of your fame;
"Behold!" you cry, "on wave or strand,
How my children die for me
—
They fall like Spartans on the land
And like Vikings on the sea!"
iBy W. C. Erwin.
46
A stately shaft of enduring stone
One mother will rear in pride,
And with sculptor's chisel for aye make known
How a Carolinian died!
And one who will plant the cypress tree
To sigh for the deadly strife,
And a rose as white as the snow can be,
To tell of a spotless life.
One mother brings, as a last farewell,
To our hero's grave today,
The amaranth and the asphodel,
And one a garland of bay;
And one stands there in her grief alone,
And one in her pride elate
—
For one is the mother of flesh and bone,
And one is the mother State.
CAROLINA
Thus, my children, you have heard your story in the rhymes
of my sweet singers, from the dark "Mystery of Croatan" to
the "First-fallen" at Cardenas. Shall we not proudly ask,
then,
What though no sage may read the riddle dark
Of Croatan, that band diffused through marsh
And solitude? Their valor did not die,
But is incorporate in our civic life.
Their vital spirits spake at Mecklenburg;
They rose at Alamance, at Bethel led,
And steered at Cardenas straight through blinding shells;
They live today and shall forever live,
Lifting mankind toward freedom and toward God. 1
Come, then, my children, and from my hands take this flag,
emblem of Truth, Justice, and Liberty; guard it with your
lives, and let your life blood flow ere act of yours shall dis-honor
its sacred folds.
[While Carolina is repeating these words, all advance to the front,
raise their hands in salute to the State flag, which Carolina unfurls, and
repeat in concert the verses "Our State Flag." ]
iFrom "Sir Walter Raleigh," by Henry J. Stockard.
47
OUR STATE FLAG.i
This emblem of the Old North State,
This banner without spot,
We'll love whate'er may be our fate,
Where'er be cast our lot.
Its motto gives a rule of life
—
To be and not to seem,
In wealth or want, in peace or strife,
To do and not to dream.
Then take this banner, keep it here
Where every child may see;
And teach them all to hold it dear
—
The banner of the free.
By Robert D. Douglas.
THE OLD NORTH STATE.
BY WILLIAM GASTON.
[To be sung by the whole school and audience, immediately following
the exercise "Carolina."]
Carolina! Carolina! Heaven's blessings attend her!
While we live we will cherish, protect and defend her;
Though the scorner may sneer at and witlings defame her,
Our hearts swell with gladness whenever we name her.
Hurrah! Hurrah! the Old North State forever!
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the good Old North State
Though she envies not others their merited glory,
Say, whose name stands the foremost in Liberty's story!
Though too true to herself e'er to crouch to oppression,
Who can yield to just rule more loyal submission?
Hurrah, etc.
Plain and artless her sons, but whose doors open faster
At the knock of a stranger, or the tale of disaster?
How like to the rudeness of their dear native mountains,
With rich ore in their bosoms and life in their fountains.
Hurrah, etc.
And her daughters, the Queen of the Forest resembling
—
So graceful, so constant, yet to gentlest breath trembling;
And true lightwpod at heart, let the match be applied them,
How they kindle and flame! 0! none know but who've tried them.
Hurrah, etc.
Then let- all who love us, love the land that we live in
(As happy a region as on this side of Heaven),
Where Plenty and Freedom, Love and Peace smile before us,
Raise aloud, raise together the heart-thrilling chorus!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the Old North State forever!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the good Old North State!