A Man of poetry

Following is the first poem research found written for the Philipsburg Mail September 29, 1899 by Francis Cumming:
Thou still sublimity of God’s great art that silent looms against the eternal sky,
How vividly thou show’st the Master’s heart of patient peacefulness that will not die.
Here from afar with wondering delight I gaze, and solemn gladness stirs my soul;
And with the gloom of still increasing night I feel the power of Him who does control.
How like a king thou sit’st with crested head; Eternal whiteness wreaths thou rugged brow;
Or, like a lofty monument to some great dead, before whose splendor we would tamely bow.
Great sentinel of day, and night, and time;
How loveable thy huge and stately form That makes the music of my soul to chime, and all the coldness of my bosom warm.
In God’s great studio wherein we dwell (with freedom to behold his works most grand) Of tranquil mountains and rich blossomed dell,
Thou art the masterpiece of His great hand.

 Although the poem is not titled it describes to me the wonderful Pintler range of mountains and the beautiful upper Flint Creek Valley that probably was visible from Francis’ home at Philipsburg.

 A second poem by Francis was written on November 12, 1899 and published in the November 17, 1899 Philipsburg Mail. Titled “On the Death of a Friend” the verse follows:
Hence, comrade, day’s morning shall break not thy slumber’ Nor eventide’s splendor invite thee to roam.
No more shall the trials of manhood encumber Or darken the pathway that guided thee home.
Asleep where the river’s sad requiem of sorrow Is bent with the dirge of forest and gale;
Asleep, til the dawn of eternal tomorrow Disperses the shadows that shroud the death vale.
Together we roamed in the garden of childhood, And gazed on the hills of proud manhood serene; Together we wandered in youth’s happy wildhood,
 Nor saw the dark cloud that must soon intervene.

Oh, could I recline on the mound that inurns thee, And kiss the cold clod that press’d on thy brow: Oh, could I but weep with the mother that yearns thee, And share the sad anguish that burdens her now.
Brave comrade, farewell. Now thy spirit shall guide me; Along the dim pathway I walk not alone; Still hoping, whenever in life may betide me, To meet thee at last in the soul’s happy home.

There are no obituaries in the November 17th issue of the Mail, leaving one to wonder who the dear friend was that Francis was writing about.

There is a Margaret Cumming buried in the Philipsburg cemetery that was born on October 6, 1863 and died at the young age of 34 on August 13, 1898 that may be Francis’ wife. Research does not reveal an obituary for Margaret.

In the Christmas Benefit Edition of the Citizen Call published December 25, 1899  on the fourth page of the booklet is a picture of E. Francis Cumming and the following poem titled “Thoughts” also known as “Closing Time”:

How sweet to rest at eventide by yonder lilied lake so fair and watch Dame nature calm preside, without a seeming care.
Or where the stream’s translucent flow meanders merrily along.
Kiss’d by the tender moonlight glow, to listen to it’s murmur-song.
Or in some sylvan dell to lie, where flowers scent the Zephyr breeze;
To hear the forest’s breathing sigh.
 And intertwine my soul with these.
 To breathe the sweet, unsullied air On some high hill, remote-alone-
 And leave behind this wordly care That elfish mortals seem to own.
 To count the stars that gem the sky,
 To hear the symphonies of night,
 To see the misty moonlight die
 When Phoebus dawns with fuller light.
 To gaze on some lone, placid lake,
 And see heaven-beauty mirror’d there;
 With happy solitude to wake
 And all her deep-souled music share.
 To live in deeper moods of life;
 To nobly, gladly watch and pray;
 To let one happy thought be rife,-
 To-morrow is not here today.
 Philipsburg, October 27, 1899

 The Mail December 15, 1899 states “The gentle poet of Philipsburg seeks fortune further west… His verses have aroused considerable curiosity and comments among lovers of song, and more than an ordinary degree of merit has been conceded to his productions. Mr. Cumming will probably settle in Spokane or Seattle.” 

Obviously, he returned to Montana as Hugh T. Cumming’s diary noted Francis’ death at Butte on October 30, 1918. Hugh’s grandson Murray had no other reference to Francis nor what relationship if any to Hugh’s family. But there is a good chance that knowing Francis was in Montana was why Hugh traveled to Granite in March of 1889.