Kate Harrington, born Rebecca Harrington Smith and later known as Rebecca Smith Pollard, was an American teacher, writer and poet.
She was born in Allegheny City, Pennsylvania on September 20, 1831. She spent her most productive years in Iowa. Her father, Prof. N.R. Smith, was a playwright and an authority on Shakespeare. She was married to New York poet and editor Oliver I. Taylor. ... more »
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Kate Harrington Poems
The Eastern Star
Most worthy Patron, Matron, friends, The blue sky fondly o'er us bends; This grand old river at our feet Listens, as if 'twould fain repeat
A Temperance Poem
Mr. Lionel Lightfoot, a man, you must know, Whose life had been upright and blameless, To the capital's chamber came three years ago From a county that here shall be nameless.
The Mississippi River
There is not in the wide world a river as grand As the one whose bright waves lave my own native land ; From the dear mother-lake which it leaves with a sigh, And murmurs, at parting, a tender good-by,
The End Of The Rainbow
' Come, Nellie !' I cried, on a clear April day, When the sunbeams kept kissing the shadows away, ' The rainbow has lit on the hill, and, you know, We might find heaps of gold at the end of the bow.'
Iowa's Centennial Poem
A hundred years ago to-day A barren wild our borders lay; Our stately forests grandly stood Wrapped in majestic solitude.
The Shadows On the Wall
Fever sapped my very life-blood, frenzy fired my tortured brain, And the friends who watched beside me, felt their lingering hopes were vain. I was going —going from them, all unconscious of their fears ; Hastening to the Silent Valley, deaf to moans and blind to tears.
While thousands throng each crowded mart, And gaze around in mute surprise, I turn with an adoring heart To thee, fair mirror of the skies.
My Mother's Glasses
I opened a worn trunk yesterday, Sitting alone in my quiet room, And sighed as I saw them folded away, ― The garments there,― for the form that lay
Old Settler's Song
Right here, where Indian fires were lighted, Long, long ago; Where dusky forms, by rum incited, Danced wildly to and fro;
A Dirge For Horace Greeley
Weep, weep, O my country ! the cord has been severed That bound the great heart of a statesman to thee ; The spirit has fled that so nobly endeavored To save from Disunion the land of the Free.
A Welcome To Our 'Jo'
A welcome back to her who went Abroad for her own pleasure, Yet generously sent her friends An overflowing measure !
' Mamma, tell me 'bout Good Friday,' Lisped the prattler at my knee, With his sparkling eyes uplifted, Laughing in his roguish glee.
Touch the harp with gentlest finger, let a strain of tenderest feeling Pulsate through its flowing numbers, all its sweetest chords revealing. Let the tone be low and trembling, as if seraphs hovered nigh ; Music such as floods the portal of the clime we call immortal :
Hold The Light
Ho ! thou traveler on life's highway, Moving carelessly along ; Pausing not to note the darkness Lowering o'er the struggling throng ;
Comments about Kate Harrington
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
The Eastern Star
Read before the members of this degree at Hamilton, Illinois, on St. John's Day, June 24, 1875.
Most worthy Patron, Matron, friends,
The blue sky fondly o'er us bends;
This grand old river at our feet
Listens, as if 'twould fain repeat
To distant shore or passing breeze
A murmur of our melodies.
Oh, wisely chosen, the gentle Five,
Whose spotless virtues we should strive
To imitate, that we may be
Worthy adoptive Masonry ;
Worthy to learn their sacred rite
When heavenly Orders greet our sight;
Worthy to catch the mystic sign
When Eastern stars ...