  Robert Burns Wilson, poet of distinction, the son of a Pennsylvania father and a Virginia mother, was born in his grandfather's house near Washington, Pennsylvania, October 30, 1850. When a very small child he was taken to his mother's home in Virginia; and there the mother died when her son was but ten years old, which event saddened his subsequent life. Mr. Wilson was educated in the schools of Wheeling, West Virginia, after which he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to study art. When but nineteen he was painting portraits for a living. In 1871 he and John W. Alexander, now the famous New York artist, chartered a canoe and started down the Ohio river from Pittsburgh, hoping in due course to dock at Louisville, Kentucky. They had hardly reached the Kentucky shore, however, when they disagreed about something or other, and young Alexander left him in the night and returned to Pittsburgh. The next day Mr. Wilson ran his boat into a bank in Union county, Kentucky; he lived in that county a year, when he went up to Louisville. He gained more than a local reputation with a crayon portrait of Henry Watterson, and he was actually making considerable headway as an artist when he was discovered by the late Edward Hensley, of Frankfort, Kentucky, who persuaded him to remove to that town. Mr. Wilson settled at Frankfort in 1875, and he lived there for the following twenty-five years. His literary and artistic labors are inseparably interwoven with the history and traditions of that interesting old town, for he was its "great man" for many years, and its toast. As painter and poet he was heralded by the folk of Frankfort until the outside world was attracted and nibbled at his work. The first public recognition accorded his landscapes was at the Louisville and New Orleans Expositions of 1883 and 1884. Mr. Wilson's first poem, A Wild Violet in November, was followed by the finest flower of his genius, When Evening Cometh On, which was originally printed in Harper's Magazine for October, 1885. This is the only Southern poem or, perhaps, American, that can be mentioned in the same breath with Gray's Elegy. Many of his poems and prose papers were published in Harper's, The Century, and other periodicals. His first book, Life and Love (New York, 1887), contained the best work he has ever done. The dedicatory lines to the memory of his mother were lovely; and there are many more poems to be found in the volume that are very fine. Chant of a Woodland Spirit (New York, 1894), a long poem of more than fifty pages, portions of which had originally appeared in Harper's and The Century, was dedicated to John Fox, Jr., with whom Mr. Wilson was friendly, and who spent a great deal of his time at the poet's home in Frankfort. His second and most recent collection of lyrics, The Shadows of the Trees (New York, 1898), was widely read and warmly received by all true lovers of genuine poesy. Mr. Wilson's striking poem, Remember the Maine, provoked by the tragedy in Havana harbor, was printed in The New York Herald; and another of his several poems inspired by that fiasco of a fight that is remembered, Such is the Death the Soldier Dies, appeared in The Atlantic Monthly. The Kentucky poet's battle-hymns to the boys in blue were excelled by no other American singer, unless it was by the late William Vaughn Moody. Mr. Wilson's fourth and latest work, a novel, Until the Day Break (New York, 1900), is unreadable as a story, but the passages of nature prose are many and exquisite. While he has always been a writing-man of very clear and definite gifts, Mr. Wilson has painted many portraits and landscapes, working with equal facility in oils, water-color, As has been said, Mr. Wilson was the presiding genius of the town of Frankfort during his life there; and he was a bachelor! Thereby hangs a tale with a meaning and a moral. For many years the widows and the other women past their bloom, burned incense at the shrine of the mighty man who could wrap himself in his great-coat, dash through a field and over a fence, punching plants with his never-absent stick, and return to town with a poem pounding in his pulses, and another landscape in his brain. Ah, he was a great fellow! But the tragedy of it all: after all these years of adoration from ladies overanxious to get him into their nets, they awoke one morning in 1901 to find that little Anne Hendrick, schoolgirl, and daughter of a former attorney-general of Kentucky, had married their heart's desire, that their dreams were day-dreams after all. The marriage took place in New York, after which they returned to Frankfort. The following year their child, Elizabeth, was born; and a short time afterwards he removed to New York, where he has lived ever since. Rumors of his art exhibitions have reached Kentucky; but the only tangible things have been prose papers and lyrics in the magazines. A short time before his death, Paul Hamilton Hayne, the famous Southern poet, sent Wilson this greeting: "The old man whose head has grown gray in the service of the Muses, who is about to leave the lists of poetry forever, around whose path the sunset is giving place to twilight, with no hope before him but 'an anchorage among
LOVINGLY TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER [From Life and Love. Poems (New York, 1887)] The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, And we were plucking violets—thou and I. A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, And I was mad with hope that God would stay Death's pale approach—Oh! all hath long passed by! Long years! Long years! and now, I well know why Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away. First loved; first lost; my mother:—time must still Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best In me, and in my art, is thine:—Me-seems, Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill, My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest. Frankfort, Kentucky, October 6, 1887. WHEN EVENING COMETH ON [From the same] When evening cometh on, Slower and statelier in the mellowing sky Cooler and balmier doth the soft wind sigh; Lovelier, lonelier to our wondering eyes The softening landscape seems. The swallows fly Swift through the radiant vault; the field-lark cries His thrilling, sweet farewell; and twilight bands Of misty silence cross the far-off lands When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Deeper and dreamier grows the slumbering dell, Darker and drearier spreads the bristling wold, Bluer and heavier roll the hills that swell In moveless waves against the shimmering gold. Out from their haunts the insect hordes, that dwell Unseen by day, come thronging forth to hold Their fleeting hour of revel, and by the pool Soft pipings rise up from the grasses cool, When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Along their well-known paths with heavier tread The sad-eyed, loitering kine unurged return; The peaceful sheep, by unseen shepherds led, Wend bleating to the hills, so well they learn Where Nature's hand their wholesome couch hath spread; And through the purpling mist the moon doth yearn; Pale gentle radiance, dear recurring dream, Soft with the falling dew falls thy faint beam, When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Loosed from the day's long toil, the clanking teams, With halting steps, pass on their jostling ways, Their gearings glinted by the waning beams; Close by their heels the heedful collie strays; All slowly fading in a land of dreams, Thus from life's field the heart's fond hope doth fade, Thus doth the weary spirit seek the shade, When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Across the dotted fields of gathered grain The soul of summer breathes a deep repose, Mysterious murmurings mingle on the plain, And from the blurred and blended brake there flows The undulating echoes of some strain Once heard in paradise, perchance—who knows? But now the whispering memory sadly strays Along the dim rows of the rustling maize When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Anon there spreads upon the lingering air The musk of weedy slopes and grasses dank, And odors from far fields, unseen but fair, With scent of flowers from many a shadowy bank. O lost Elysium, art thou hiding there? Flows yet that crystal stream whereof I drank? Ah, wild-eyed Memory, fly from night's despair; Thy strong wings droop with heavier weight of care When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, No sounding phrase can set the heart at rest. The settling gloom that creeps by wood and stream, The bars that lie along the smouldering west, The tall and lonely, silent trees that seem To mock the groaning earth, and turn to jest This wavering flame, this agonizing dream, Ah, all bring sorrow as the clouds bring rain, And evermore life's struggle seemeth vain When evening cometh on, Anear doth Life stand by the great unknown, In darkness reaching out her sentient hands; Philosophies and creeds, alike, are thrown Beneath her feet, and questioning she stands, Close on the brink, unfearing and alone, And lists the dull wave breaking on the sands; Albeit her thoughtful eyes are filled with tears, So lonely and so sad the sound she hears When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Vain seems the world, and vainer wise men's thought. All colors vanish when the sun goeth down. Fame's purple mantle some proud soul hath caught No better seems than doth the earth-stained gown Worn by Content. All names shall be forgot. Death plucks the stars to deck his sable crown. The fair enchantment of the golden day Far through the vale of shadows melts away When evening cometh on. When evening cometh on, Love, only love, can stay the sinking soul, And smooth thought's racking fever from the brow: The wounded heart Love only can console. Whatever brings a balm for sorrow now, So must it be while this vexed earth shall roll; Take then the portion which the gods allow. Dear heart, may I at last on thy warm breast Sink to forgetfulness and silent rest When evening cometh on? |
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