Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/519

 EDWARD D. HOWARD. Among the young men who attracted attention as contributors to the National Era, soon after its establishment at Washington City, was Edward D. Howard, then a res- ident of Orwell, Ashtabula county, Ohio, now a citizen of Cleveland. Mr. Howard is a native of Tolland, Connecticut, where he was born, September twenty-seventh, 1825. His parents settled in Ohio when he was a boy, and he was educated in the common schools of Ashtabula county and at Kirtland Academy. He was for several years a school-teacher in Northern Ohio, and has been editor of the Western Reserve Chronicle, at Warren, of the Free Democrat, at Youngstown, and of the Cleveland Leader. He has been a poetical contributor to several magazines of established rep- utation, as well as to the New York Tribune. MIDSUMMER. I LIE beneath the quiet trees That murmur softly, like a song. Breathed gently through unconscious lips ; Happy as summer days are long I lie and gaze, while pulse and thought Flow on with deep and lingering tide, The one into my dreaming heart. The other outward, vague and wide. The drowsy hours full-freighted drift Along life's ocean, as of old. Deep-laden argosies went down To eastern cities, fraught with gold ; And tropic fruits, and spicy drugs. Whose very names a fragrance bear, As vases which have held rich flowers. Betray the sweetness once was there. Not of the Future dream I now ; The Spring will with those dreams return ; And hope and energy will wake, When Winter's fires again shall burn : Nor of the Past — let mem'ry sleep, Till Autumn's pensive touch, once more. Shall tune my heart to sad delight. And paint lost visions fondly o'er. Hope — memory — regret — despair — Gone are your hours of light and gloom ; Midsummer days are not for you. For the rich Present now make room ! The womanhood of nature breathes Its warm fruition every where ; And the deep triumph of her heart Fills, like a passion, all the air. I breathe its inspiration in ; She bears it brimming to my lips ; Not half so full of rosy joy The wine the flushed bacchante sips. So Hebe bore the fabled cup. To bless the heathen gods of yore ; So deep they drank the fragrant bliss From the full chalice runnmg o'er. Oh, weary heart, with passion sick. Has thy deep love unanswered, lost, Brought no repayal to the breast Which 2;ave it at such fearful cost ? (503)