Ida
Whipple Benham (1849-1903)
Ida Whipple Benham was born in Quakertown in Ledyard, Connecticut, in 1849. She was active in the peace movement both locally and nationally, and was known for her poetry, publishing a number of poems in national periodicals. At least one of her poems was set to music (“I Wait For Thee,” with music by C. B. Hawley, published in 1900). In addition, she contributed articles to local newspapers. She died in 1903, and is buried in the Ledyard Union Cemetery (Quakertown).
The following profile of Ida Whipple Benham appeared in 1897 in a biographical encyclopedia of nineteenth century American women:
BENHAM, Mrs. Ida Whipple, peace advocate, born in a farmhouse in Ledyard, Conn., 8th January, 1849. She is a daughter of Timothy and Lucy Ann Geer Whipple, and comes from a Quaker family. At an early age she began to write verses. At the age of thirteen years she taught a country school. She was married 14th April, 1869, to Elijah B. Benham, of Groton, Conn. She was early made familiar with the reforms advocated by the Quakers, such as temperance, anti-slavery, and the abolition of war. She has lectured on peace and temperance. She is a director of the American Peace Society, and a member of the executive committee of the Universal Peace Union. She takes a conspicuous part in the large peace conventions held annually in Mystic, Conn., and she holds a monthly peace meeting in her own home in Mystic. She has contributed poems to the New York “Independent,” the Chicago “Advance,” the “Youth’s Companion,” “St. Nicholas,” and other prominent periodicals.
Willard, Frances E., and Mary A. Livermore, eds. American Women: Fifteen Hundred
Biographies—A Comprehensive Encyclopedia of the Lives and Achievements of American
Women during the Nineteenth Century.
New York: Mast, Crowell and Kirkpatrick, 1897. p. 74.
“Keep
Me From Sinking Down.”
O
MIGHTY patience of a captive race
That
triumphed o’er all wrong!
That
shone, like joy, on many a dusky face,
And
sang itself in song!
Bravely
they sung, those gentle minstrel bards,
The
pangs of grief to drown,
Sweetly
they sang, “O Lord, O my good Lord,
Keep
me from sinking down!”
Of
all the psalms that came in quiet hours
To
soothe their cares away,
Falling
upon their souls like dew on flowers.
In
the late twilight gray, —
Of
all the songs their buoyant hope that stirred,
Or
raised a master’s frown.
I
hold this chief and dearest: “O my Lord,
Keep
me from sinking down!”
Be
this thy song, O Soul! a legacy
From
days of darkness dire;
The
slave hath borne it up to liberty
Through
sacrificial fire!
Thou
hast thy thralldoms—many a chain and sword
Would
hold thee from the crown:
This
be thy song, thy ceaseless prayer: “O Lord.
Keep
me from sinking down!”
Source: Christian Union.
“KEEP
IT not idly by thee—hoard it not!
Thy
friend hath need of it; behold, he stands
Waiting
to take the bounty of thy hands;
Pay
him the debt thou owest, long forgot,
Or—hast
thou paid already—ease his lot
Of
that which he would sell, or loaf, or lands—
Whate’er
his need can spare and thine demands;
So
shall thy wealth be clean and without spot
Dost
thou not know? Hast thou not understood?
The
stagnant pool breeds pestilence, disease;
The
hurrying stream bears bounty on its tide.
Pass
on thy gold, a messenger of good;
Swift
let it speed on gracious ministries;
Wing
it with love and let its flight be wide.”
“Critic
and Poet.”
“THOU
SHALT do this and undo that,” the toilsome critic said;
but
the poet strayed to Helicon and touched his lips instead.
Across
the mirror of the fount he saw fair visions pass,
But
never once the critic’s face dark frowning from the glass.
The poet seized his tuneful lyre, and joyfully sang
he;
“O
hear! O hear!” the critic cried, “he learned that song of me!”
Source: The Century, vol. 51, issue 3 (Jan
1896).
from “The Listening Woods.”
I
LOOKED at the shadowed mosses,
I
looked at the nests overhead,
I
looked at the small brook dreaming
Alone
in its sandy bed.
“The
Scarlet Pimpernel.”
O
HAVE you seen the scarlet pimpernel,
The
wild, sea-flavored blossom of the strand,
The
token flower, the pledge of sea and land,
And
have you learned to heed its secret spell?
Aurora’s
friend, it loves the morning well,
And you shall find it open to your hand
The sunny morning through, —but understand
Storm
clouds will close it closer than a shell.
Love
is the pimpernel: then do not wait;
Go
in the morning, faithful to the hour,
Go
when thy lady keeps her matin state;
Her
heart is coy, and closes like a flower.
Go
in the sunlight, haste and claim love’s boon,
Nor
tempt the changing skies and afternoon.
Source:
Crandall, Charles H. Representative Sonnets by American Poets.
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1890.
p. 111.
“Gentle
and Mighty.”
THE
Child that in the manger lay,
A
babe, a lamb, yet strong to bless,
Dwells
in the contrite heart alway,
And
proves the power of gentleness.
“Joy
to the world, the Lord has come!”
“Glory
to God, to man goodwill!”
Now
hush the bugle and the drum,
And
bid the haughty strife be still.
What
lips were loudest in the fray
Of
wrathful words, what hands would smite
With
fist or sword, be still to-day,
And
learn the law of peace and right.
Such
wisdom as from self proceeds,
The
sapient lore of worldly lust,
Forget,
with all those ruthless deeds
That,
from the dust, return to dust.
Oh,
not with boastful threat and blow
Doth
man achieve his true estate,
But
loving, trusting, toiling, so
God’s
gentleness doth make him great.
Ye
leaders of the multitude,
With
their up-reaching hands in yours,
Lead
to the one eternal Good,
The
Love that ransomed, heals, endures.
Yea,
all ye stewards of the Lord,
Make
haste to do His perfect will;
Obey
the voice: “Put up the sword!”
Obey
the voice: “Thou shalt not kill!”
And
ye who stretch your limbs at east,
Forgetful
of a brother’s claim, —
Down,
from your couches to your knees!
Thence
rise to work in Jesus’ name.
White
is the harvest, large the yield;
Lift up your eyes and see the glow
Of
fair wheat shining in God’s field.
The
call is sounding, rise and go.
Source: American Friends’ Peace Conference held
at Philadelphia, Twelfth Month 12th, 13th and 14th, 1901. Philadelphia:
Published by the Conference, 1902. pp. 111-112.
Background: “Gentle and Mighty” was read at the
Americans Friends’ Peace Conference in Philadelphia on December 13, 1901. The reading was introduced by William W.
Birdsall, president of Swarthmore College, who said: “Before calling for the
first paper of the afternoon, I am pleased to be able to announce a more
complete carrying out of the idea of this Conference than was at first thought
practicable. It gives me pleasure, as I
have no doubt it will give your pleasure, to know that, at the request of the
committee, Ida Whipple Benham, of the Rogerene Friends, Mystic, Conn., whose
poetic work is well and favorably known through some of our leading journals,
has prepared a poem, which will be read to us by Rufus M. Jones.”
from “Peace.”
WHERE IS the nation brave enough to say,
“I have no need of sword, or shield, or gun;
I will disarm before the world this day;
I will stand free, though lonely, ‘neath the sun.
“I fear no foe, since I am friend to all;
I fear no evil, since I wish no harm;
I will not keep my soldier sons in thrall;
They shall be slaves no more—let them disarm!”
That State will stand upon the heights of time
Foremost in honor, bravest of the brave;
Girded with glory, radiant, sublime.
This shall her title be, “The strong to save!”
While other nations boast of arms or art,
She, ‘lone of earth shall stand, the truly great!
Brave in forbearance, loftiness of heart.
The world shall see, in her, a Christian State.
Boast not your bravery, O, ye fearful ones,
Ye trembling nations armed with coward steel,
Who hide yourselves behind your conscript sons
And trample freedom with an iron heel!
Vaunt not your righteousness, nor dare to call
Yourselves by His high name, the Prince of Peace.
The holy Christ of God, Who died for all,
That love might reign and sin and sorrow cease.
My country! O, my country! strong and free,
Dare thou the godlike deed that waits thy hand.
Within thy walls wed Peace to Liberty—
Say to thy soldier sons, “Disarm! Disband!”
Set thou the step for Freedom’s stately march;
The Old World after thee shall fall in line.
Follow the pole star crowning heaven’s high arch,
The Star of Peace with radiance divine.
“All
men are equal!” graved in lines of light,
Through storm and stress this motto doth not fail;
All men are brothers! set thy virgin might
To prove man’s brotherhood; thou shalt prevail.
Thou shalt prevail, my country, in the strength
Of Him who guides the spheres and lights the sun;
And joy shall reign through all thy breadth and length,
And thou shalt hear the gracious voice, “Well done!”
Source: Bolles,
John R., and Anna B. Williams. The Rogerenes: Some Hitherto Unpublished
Annals Belonging to the Colonial History of Connecticut. Boston: Stanhope
Press, 1904. p.314.
“The
Banquet.”
YE
SYBARITES! who linger at the board
Where
the rich cates are served, the choice wines poured,—
Know
ye the fields that bare the bread you break?
Know
ye the vineyards ravished for your sake?
Your
bread is white and light; not so the hand
Which
wrung that substance from the stubborn land;
Heavy,
and hard, and callous to the touch,
The
hand that kept so little—gave so much!
Your
wine is soft and sparkling; the romance
Of
sunny Spain is there, the smile of France—
Thus
to your taste! Drink deeper—ye shall find
The
purple dregs with drops of toil imbrined.
Whose
toil? Not yours who sit and sup at ease,
But
his whose life is ever on the lees,
Whose
cup is but a black and bitter brew—
All
he has left, good friends, from serving you!
Ah,
take your fill—but know that, while ye feed,
The
harvest fields are hungry from your greed!
The
vineyards drain anew their crimson flood,
Thirsting,
that ye may banquet on their blood.
Take
ye your fill—but quickly! for the dawn
Discrowns
your revels—ay, the feast is gone!
Go
forth, and with the toilers bear your part,
Serving
and served again with equal heart.
Source: The
Nationalist, a Monthly Magazine Conducted by Henry Willard Austin. Vol. 2.
Boston: The Nationalist Educational Association, 1890. p. 139.
“Polly’s
Pansies.”
POLLY'S
Pansies grow so large and fair,
Bright
and fragrant, that we can but praise them.
“They’re
the finest anywhere:
Tell
us, won’t you, Polly, how you raise them?
What’s
your secret, little girl?” Then Polly,
With
a look half bashful and half-jolly,
Smiles
upon her flowers, and bends above them:
“This
is all the secret, I just love them!”
Source:
Pratt-Chadwick, Mara Louise. The Fairyland of Flowers: A Popular
Illustrated Botany By Mara Louise Pratt-Chadwick. Boston: Educational Pub.
Co., 1890. p. 186.
“Who
Owns The Apple Tree?”
THE
ROBIN thinks the apple tree
Is
all for him, for him,
As
he tucks his head beneath his wing
Upon
a leafy limb.
The
maiden thinks the apple tree
Is
all for her, for her,
As
she decks with twigs of rosy bloom
Her
gown of gossamer.
The
farmer thinks the apple tree
Is
his from top to root,
As
he nails the barrel head above
The
red and yellow fruit.
Source:
Todd, Emma J. and W. B. Powell. The Normal Course in Reading. New York:
Silver, Burdett and Co., 1895. p. 69.
“Requiem.”
YE
SOLEMN bells in the high belfry swinging
Muffled
in weeds of wo,
Toll,
toll! to the deep miserere ringing
From
the groined aisles below!
Thou
grizzled sexton, shake them to and fro,
Thy
tremulous hands like birds that would be winging
Though
tethered to the leash; O soft and slow
Sweep
the long curves in cadence with the singing;
Toll!
Toll
for the dead! toll for the dead—our brothers
And
those they called the foe,
The
thousand sons of mourning Spanish mothers,
Lost
where the sea-winds blow.
Toll!
let the tone reverberating wo,
The
sob, the muffled grief that chokes and smothers,
From
the deep silence of the belfry flow,
A
requiem for our dead and for those others;
Toll!
Whose
voice called to the Sword, “Be thou our master”?
Whose
breath was quick to blow
War’s
smouldering coals into a wide disaster?
Whose
hands made haste to sow
Hate’s
poisonous tares among the wheat to grow?
What
specious tongue was bold to gloze and plaster
The
front of truth lest men its face should know?
Who
led the sheep unto the wolf—what pastor?
Toll!
Toll!
toll, ye bells! for manhood’s choice and flower
Slain
in the morning glow.
Toll!
let the knell roll from your ancient tower
For
joy and hope laid low.
Toll,
toll! ‘twas man that dealt to man the blow!
Would
he had vindicated reason’s power,
Would
he had overcome by faith! but no,
The
doves fly moaning from your ivied bower—
Toll!
Source: Advocate
of Peace, The, vol. 60. Boston: American Peace Society, 1898. pp. 255-256.
Background:
This poem was written in “Enfield, England, June, 1898.”
“Weeding.”
DEATH
WENT weeding, weeding,
His
sickle over his shoulder;
The
weak, the old, the over-bold,
Grew
weaker, wanner, colder.
He
weeded them out of the garden,
The
frail folk racked with pain,
The sick, and the old, and
the over-bold, —
And let the strong remain.
Now Death goes weeding,
weeding, —
The sword the tool he uses!
He gathers the fair, the
debonair,
The young, —and the old
refuses.
He gathers out of the garden
The young and the strong and
the gay,
He flings them far to the
ditch of war, —
And the others be bids
“Stay!”
So here in the ravaged
garden
And out in the cornfield
yonder,
The weak remain—lonely, in
pain, —
And work, and brood, and
ponder
How Death digs out of the
garden
The strong, and the brave,
and the gay,
The flower of the years,
—with blood and tears, —
And flings them as weeds
away.
Source: Advocate
of Peace, vol. LXIV. Boston: American Peace Society, 1902.
“The Friend of Peace.”
HE WHO declares himself of
war the foe,
How few he finds who
understand his speech!
How many with vague
apprehension reach
Midway to listen; but to
hear, to know,
Vex not their easy souls!
The tinsel show,
The boastful wrath of war,
more loudly preach
Than may the poor disciple
who would teach
A martial age the Master’s
will to know.
“Unpatriotic!”
“Treasonable!” “Mad!”
Because he pleads the right
of reason’s sway,
And holds the truth as
taught by Christ our Lord.
Fierce epithets! But earth
shall yet be glad,
Greatly rejoicing that some
dare obey
When Christ the King
commands, “Put up thy sword!”
Source: Advocate
of Peace, vol. LXV. Boston: American Peace Society, 1903.
“The Siege—A Lullaby.”
THE MOTHER bent above her
child
With a great fear in her
breast;
But to his eyes she softly smiled
As she sang a song of rest;
“And what of the night?” her
heart inquired;
(But her lips sang
“Lullaby!”)
“Amid these woes who
knows—who knows—
When it is time to die?”
She saw afar the flaming
cloud,
She heard the cannon roar:
“The storm grows loud; the
tempest proud
beats heavily on our shore.
And what of the dawn?” her
heart inquired;
(But her lips sand
“Lullaby!”)
“Amid such foes who
knows—who knows—
When it is time to die?”
A mouse ran out of the
cupboard door,
Its lean hide lank and gray:
“Would I had more to feed
you—sore
Will the hunger be to-day!”
A spider spun his silken net
For the midge on the
window-sill:
“So busy yet with traps to
set?
Will you be dining still?”
“Oh, child! my one bird in
the nest,
This is the sorest smart,
That on my breast you find
no rest—
The hunger eats your heart!”
“And what of the day?” her
heart inquired;
(But her lips sang
“Lullaby!”)
“The battle grows; who
knows—who knows—
If it be time to die!”
Source: Advocate
of Peace, vol. LXIV. Boston: American Peace Society, 1902.
“June
in a Garden.”
AM
I in fairyland? Ah, no!
Nor dream nor faëry could
show
The
joy of June when roses blow—
When
blows the rose, and lightly stir
Dew-diamonds
on the gossamer
The
spider wife has wrought for her.
O
sounds, joy multiplied, that race
Through
all this sunny garden place,
And
knit and blend and interlace
On
wing of bee and humming bird,
And
wren and robin sweetly stirred
To
soft caprices without word.
Now,
there be nights and days between
The
joy-days, when one guessed, I ween,
A
wo, a wail, a battle scene;
But
here beneath this dazzling sky,
So
glad, so tender, and so high,
Could
we believe it, you and I?
God
made so good a world for man,
So
fair since very time began,
And
love of Christ was in the plan, —
Ah,
who dare dream, or dreaming, say,
The
men He made will strive and slay
On
such a day, or any day?
What
eye has seen that awful sign?
Your
eye, my friend? No, no, nor mine!
Hearts
broken, blood like seas of wine, —
No,
no! How softly sways the grass!
The
lake is like a looking-glass.
Hush!
Did you hear a bullet pass?
Only
a bird is slain; but lo!
A
stain is on the petal-snow,
The
wings just flutter, sinking slow.
It
seems, almost, the thing might be
Hearts
pierced, a purple-flowing sea,
And
June itself a misery!
Source: Advocate
of Peace, vol. LXIV. Boston: American Peace Society, 1902.
“Expectation.”
UNDER THE trees my Heart and I together
Await the
step that nevermore will come;
Await the
greeting word forever dumb!
I know not how—whether we dreamed or whether
My Heart and I, seeing the new-blown heather,
Took hope
from its full glory; or the sum
Of earth’s
wide joy, moving our pulses numb,
Drew us abroad into the sweet warm weather.
We conned the lesson well, long, long ago,
My Heart and
I—we conned the lesson well
In summer
heats, in winter’s stubborn cold!
That he will come no more, we know, we know;
Yet we expect
him more than tongue can tell,
And listen
for his coming as of old!
Source: The
Independent, June 26, 1890; reprinted in Charles Wells Moulton, The
Magazine of Poetry, 1890.
“Heart
Husbandry.”
I
PLANTED scorn: it died in the garden mold.
I
planted love: it bore a flower gold.
I
planted doubt: it withered, lacking root.
I
planted faith: it ripened precious fruit.
Source: Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, v. 70 (July-Dec. 1902).
“Pie
Country.”
“NOW,
DEAR Mrs. Newcombe,” she said, “if you’re wise
You’ll
give up your scruples and learn to make pies.
There’s
cherry and currant and apple and peach
And
lemon and grape—I have rules, dear, for each—
There’s
raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, mince,
And
pumpkin, and prune, and—well, no, not quince—
But
all other fruits, I am certain, will rise
To
meet the demand in the making of pies.
“They
are handy for breakfast, for dinner and tea,
And
they’re handy for lunches as all will agree;
Why, up at our house we just make it a rule
To
always send pie for the children at school;
And
I’m sure I don’t know what our men folks would say
If
‘twere not set before them at least twice a day.
Our
kneading board’s worn till it really looks thin,
And
mother has ordered a new rolling-pin.
“There’s
scarce an occasion when pie isn’t nice
Unless
‘tis a wedding—and Uncle James Rice,
When
his Sarah was married, was really unable
To
make out a meal without pie on the table;
So
they brought him some mince pie his hunger to whet,
And
he said ‘twas the best piece of wedding cake yet.
Oh,
yes, you will find, if you open your eyes,
That
the folks in this region are bound up in pies.”
Source: Good Housekeeping, v. 7 1888 May-Oct.
“A Song of Singers.”
I WILL sing you a song of singers:
Listen and
you shall hear
How the lark on high, in the breast of the sky,
Sings to
the opening year.
In a still blue place for a moment’s space
All song
from wing to crest,
He sings in the sun—and the rapture done,
Sinks to
his silent nest.
I will sing you a song of singers:
Listen and
you shall hear
How the wind of the south, with a sweet warm mouth,
Sings in
the heart of the year.
It is hey! for the fields of roses, and hey! for the
banks of thyme;
And hey! for the shady closes with a lilt and a
laughing rhyme!
And the lake will ruffle its bosom,
And curl
its foamy crest,
When the murmuring sigh of the wind comes nigh
The lilies
upon its breast.
I will sing you a song of singers:
Listen and
you shall hear
The song close hid of the katydid,
In the
falling of the year.
Wide in the leafy ranges,
He sings
in the waning light,
And his love-song knows few changes
Under the
stars of night.
Shrill in the forest reaches,
In doublet
of satin green,
He sings, as his wild mood teaches,
His one
song to his Queen.
I will sing you a song of singers:
Listen and
you shall hear
The song of the snow, soft, soft and low,
In the
nighttime of the year.
Out of the deeps of heaven,
All in a
pure white glow,
Under the stars of even,
Sings the
angel of the snow.
And the heart must learn to listen,
And bend
its wayward will,
While the frost flakes glow and glisten
And the
winter air is chill.
And the song is pure as pity,
And as
glad as glad can be—
For an angel sings with brooding wings
The song
of charity.
Source: The Magazine of Poetry and Literary
Review, 1895.
“In
The Barn.”
“CREAK, CREAK!” the great doors blow apart:
I stand
between them in the shade,
And look to see the bright heads start
Out of the
cubby-house we made.
Alas, alas! no children here
To help me
in my morning’s play:
Who is it says ‘tis many a year
Since all
the children went away?
A warm south wind comes floating through,
With chaff
of hay-fields on its wings;
And just outside, in sun and dew,
The very
same cicada sings,—
The same we heard, say, yesterday,
Like some
great sibyl from afar,
Hushing the rapture of our play
By its
shrill prophecies of war.
A very royal place was this,—
The
throne-room of our childish play,
Where all the kings and queens of bliss
Came on
their coronation day.
You say we lost them long ago,—
The
crowns,—and that the realm is drear?
My friend, we never lost them so
But we can
always find them here.
It is too still: the very birds
In their
clay grottoes overhead
Twit guardedly, as if their words
And ours
were better thought than said.
Yet somehow, when the shadows flit
Around me
from their elvish wings,
They come like pleasant letters, lit
With
messages from other springs!
“Creak, creak!” the great doors blow apart,
Like dusky
leaves to greet the noon,
That comes to life and home and heart,
As to the
morning, oh, how soon!
Source: Old
and New, vol. 10. Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1875.
“The
Listening Woods.”
This musical setting based on the words of Ida Whipple
Benham’s poem “The Listening Woods” appeared in The Progressive Music
Series: For Basal Use in Primary, Intermediate, and Grammar Grades by
Horatio Parker, et al. (Sacramento: California State Printing Department,
1922).
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Titles of other poems by Ida Whipple Benham include:
“Dress,” Youth's Companion Mar 3, 1898.
“Frost and the Flowers,” Houghton Library, Harvard College Library; Autograph File, B.
“Hard Times,” published by the American Peace Society, Boston. "Letter Leaflet No. 2. Price 20 cts. per hundred, prepaid."
“Listening to the Lark,” Youth's Companion Apr 26, 1894.
“The
Little Brown Seed in the Furrow,” St. Nicholas Magazine Jul 1877.
“Still My Valentine,” Youth's Companion 1889, v. 62, p. 82.
“Thanksgiving
Hymn,” 1891.
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