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The work has been a labor of love; and though conscious that it has been imperfectly performed, the compiler ventures to express the hope that it will be received by a generous and discriminating public, in the same spirit in which it was done. EDITORIAL NOTES It is a remarkable fact that all the native poets of Cecil county except one or two were born in the northern part of it, and within about eight miles of the boundary line between Maryland and Pennsylvania. What effect, if any, the pure atmosphere and picturesque scenery of the country along the banks and romantic hills of the Susquehanna and Octoraro may have had to do with producing or developing poetical genius, cannot be told; but nevertheless it is a fact, that William P., and Edwin E. Ewing, Emma Alice Browne, Alice Coale Simpers, John M. Cooley and Rachel E. Patterson were born and wrote much of their poetry, as did also Mrs. Caroline Hall, in that beautifully diversified and lovely section of the county. It is also worthy of note that Tobias and Zebulon Rudulph were brothers, as are also William P. and Edwin E. Ewing; and that Mrs. Caroline Hall was of the same family; and that Folger McKinsey and William J. Jones are cousins, as are also Mrs. James McCormick and Mrs. Frank J. Darlington, and Emma Alice Browne and George Johnston. Owing to the fact that the size of the book was necessarily limited by the price of it; and to the fact that the poems of three of the writers were not obtained until after a large part of the book had been printed, it was impossible to give some of the writers, whose proper places were in the latter part of the book, as much space as was desirable. For the reason just stated, the editor was compelled to omit a large number of excellent poems, written by David Scott (of James,) and others. CONTENTS. DAVID SCOTT (of John.) Biography Lines Suggested by the Singing of a Bird An Eastern Tale The Market-Man's License Lines on the death of Mrs. Elizabeth Scott My Schoolboy Days The Donation Visit Lines on the death of Miss Mary Hayes Lines on the death of Miss Eleanora Henderson Lines on the death of Mrs. Burnite Stanzas read at the Seventy-second Anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele To Mary Impromptu to Mrs. Anna C. Baker Lament for the year 1877 Verses presented to my Daughter Lines on the death of a young lady of Wilmington Youthful Reminiscences Stanzas to a little girl on her birthday To Miss Mary Bain Stanzas addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott Birthday Verses written for a little girl on her ninth birthday Roll Call In Memoriam Rensellaer Biddle Stanzas written on the fly leaf of a child's Bible Christmas Greeting, 1877 Anniversary Poem read at the anniversary of the Seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson Lines on the death of Jane Flounders What is Matter? Anniversary Hymn The Intellectual Telegraph Lines on an Indian Arrow-Head Acrostic to Miss Annie Eliza McNamee Minutes of the Jackson Hall Debating Society, Dec. 5, 1877 Retrospection Acrostic to Miss Florence Wilson McNamee The Book of Books The Lesson of the Seasons John A. Calhoun, My Joe John EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Biography My Brother My Father. In Memoriam, 1857 At the Nightfall The Midnight Chime May-Thalia Memories The Old Homestead Gurtha In Memoriam. John B. Abrahams Missive to ---- Chick-A-Dee's Song To My Sister Measuring the Baby The Light of Dreams Ben Hafed's Meed Winter Bound Misled At Milking time The Singer's Song Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving In Hoc Signo Vinces How Katie Saved the Train Off the Skidloe Life's Crosses NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS. Biography The Mother to her dead boy To a Dove Fall of Superstition The Infant St. John the Baptist Shelley's Obsequies The Fountain Revisited Death of Samson An Infant's prayer JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. Biography A Story with a Moral Forty Years After The Past Loved and Lost Death of Henry Clay, Jr. A Valentine Lines suggested on visiting the grave of a dear Friend GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. Biography Stonewall Jackson In Memoriam New Year Ode My Birthday MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Biography A Birthday Greeting Murmurings The Old Oak Tree Sweet Florida Evening REV. WILLIAM DUKE. Biography Hymn Hymn Rejoicing in Hope Hymn Remorse Morning EDWIN EVANS EWING. Biography The Cherubim Death and Beauty Take the Harp Death of the Beautiful Asphodel WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. Biography The Angel Voice Then and Now The Neglected Harp Alone Gone Astray Lay of the Last Indian CHARLES H. EVANS. Biography Influences Musings Lines MRS. SARAH HALL. Biography Sketch of a Landscape With a Rose in January Life MRS. SALLIE W. HARDCASTLE. Biography On Receipt of a Bouquet October Old Letters June Roses Music Lines on the death of a Friend MRS. MARY E. IRELAND. Biography At the Party Mother and Son The Missionary's Story Transition Dorothy Moore Homeward Bound GEORGE JOHNSTON. Biography Here and Hereafter The Turtle's Sermon Skye If You don't believe it, try it Bye and Bye WILLIAM JAMES JONES. Biography Autumn Mary's Grave To Anselmo Flowers Life JOHN HENRY KIMBLE. Biography His Last Tune Advice to an Ambitious Youth Too Late After the Shower Tribute to the Memory of David Scott (of John) Spring JAMES McCAULEY. Biography Henry Clay Virtuous Age Acrostic Work To-day On the death of a Child Spring Hope Autumn MRS. IDA McCORMICK. Biography My Fancy Land With the Tide The Old Fashion My Baby and the Rose FOLGER McKINSKY. Biography Waiting their Crowns Sea Echoes Where Fancy Dwells At Key's Grave The Eternal Life MRS. ROSALIENE R. MURPHY. Biography Woman's Rights Only A Baby To Helen RACHEL E. PATTERSON. Biography Judge Not The Wish The Christian's Anchor CALLANDER PATTERSON. Biography God Is Great TOBIAS RUDULPH. Biography Selection from Tancred ZEBULON RUDULPH. Biography The Surprise Thoughts on the death of my grandchild Fanny The Decree A view from Mount Carmel MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS. Biography The Miller's Romance The Last Time Only a Simple Maid The Mystic Clock Rube and Will The Legend of St. Bavon DAVID SCOTT (of James.) Biography The Forced Alliance My Cottage Home The Mighty One The Surviving Thought The Working-Man's Song Ode to Death HENRY VANDERFORD. Biography On the Mountains Progress Winter Lines Written in St. Ann's Cemetery Merry May DAVID SCOTT (of John.) David Scott (of John,) so-called to distinguish him from his first cousin David Scott (of James,) was the grandson of David Scott, who emigrated from Ireland in the latter part of the eighteenth century and settled not far from Cowantown in the Fourth district. His son John, the father of the subject of this sketch, was born in Ireland, but was quite young when his father came to this country. David, the subject of this sketch, was born quite near to what was formerly known as Dysart's Tavern, now Appleton, on the 2nd of September, 1817, and died near Cowantown, on the 14th of November, 1885. All his life was spent within about two miles of the place of his birth, and most of it on the Big Elk creek at what was known while he owned them, as "Scott's Mills." His early life was devoted to farming, but upon reaching the proper age he learned the trade of augermaking, which at that time was one of the leading industries of this county, and at which he soon became an expert workman, as well as a skilful worker in iron and steel. The editor of this book has heard him remark that when he could find no one else capable of making odd pieces of ironwork for the machinery in his mills he would take the hammer and make them himself, and has also seen him make and temper the knives for a spoke machine which he used for a time in his bending mill. He and the late Palmer C. Ricketts were intimate friends in boyhood and remained such during the lifetime of Mr. Ricketts. Mr. Ricketts being of a literary turn of mind, their friendship probably had much to do with forming the literary tastes and shaping the political opinions of Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott was originally a Democrat, and when only about 23 years of age is said to have aspired to a seat in the General Assembly of his native State. But the leaders of the party failed to recognize his claims, and he shortly afterwards was instrumental in the formation of the first politico temperance organization in this county, and ran for the House of Delegates on the first temperance ticket placed before the people in 1845. For a few years afterwards he took no part in politics, his whole time and talents being engrossed in business, but in 1853 at the solicitation of his friend Ricketts, he consented to be a candidate for County Commissioner, and succeeded in carrying the Fourth district in which he lived, which was then known as the Gibraltar of Democracy, by a small majority, and securing his election by a majority of one vote over Griffith M. Eldredge, his highest competitor on the Democratic ticket. In 1855 he ran on the American ticket, with the late Samuel Miller and Dr. Slater B. Stubbs, for the House of Delegates, and was elected by a handsome majority. In 1859 Mr. Scott consented to run on the American ticket for the State Senate. His competitor was the late Joseph J. Heckart, who was elected. This was a memorable campaign on account of the effect produced by the John Brown raid upon the State of Virginia and the capture of Harper's Ferry, which had a disastrous effect upon Mr. Scott's prospects, owing probably to which he was defeated. At the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion he espoused the Union cause and gave it his hearty support during the continuance of the struggle, and remained a consistent Republican until his death. In 1864 he was a delegate to represent Cecil county in the Constitutional Convention, his colleagues being Thomas P. Jones, George Earle and the late Joseph B. Pugh. He was assigned to a place upon the Committee on the Elective Franchise and had more to do with originating that section of the Constitution which provided for the passage of a registration law than any other person on the committee--probably more than any other member of the Convention. He was an intimate friend of Henry H. Goldsborough, whom he had previously nominated in the Republican State Convention for the office of Comptroller of the State Treasury, which office he still held, and whom Mr. Scott also nominated for President of the Constitutional Convention in the Republican caucus, and, as was very natural, was often called upon by Mr. Goldsborough to preside over the Convention in his absence, which he did with that _suaviter in modo_ and _fortiter in re_ for which he was remarkable and with great acceptability to the members of both political parties. During the invasion of the State in July, 1864, he was one of the most active members in urging upon the loyalists of Annapolis and the military authorities in that city and at Camp Parole the necessity of defending the Capital of the State. He held the handles of the plow with which the first furrow that marked the line of the fortifications around the city was made. It may not be out of place to say that the editor of this book, in company with Mr. Scott, walked along the line of the ditch the morning before, and that the former walked ahead of the team attached to the plow so that the person who led the team might know where to go. Mr. Scott was also one of about a dozen members who remained in Annapolis for about two weeks, during much of which time the arrival of the rebel raiders was hourly expected, and kept the Convention alive by adjourning from day to day, without which, by the rules adopted for the government of the Convention, it could not have maintained a legal 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27578c4ed704a76e9b23b022e32cecf28f9677bb463519c1d8158fe2ba6707a112422ce826a80707317328824b5157cc519ea3b10f9e49fe6da05c62a68ebd70c4e6ddf3f6aeec7c80c51f0f6de2ca19667ce489ff47a4b18895f5a2bde4d28e2ab9da7b2658c13e99e2ab42c43584cdb48ad36085bcb5ef5ec381897f9bfbd3a7cc78eb7dd2c09559fb6a1da57f10be6f7de794623616b0d72b1d25278df95a16264bcc05faf6ec8c59d1302015e431b5623b65ec412e5d0235381ee092b214e04d984fbc73a2bbc5f6bd34ad6f7b3f28a74421c4857442bcbb1ae503905d8a0db32f9843cfd230bab9addb17050630db02d7f415dee6b81aebc927ae908b81166a7d64489bef00609052dfc869017dd00a2bfbd02e4ecb3bb496525120624469767e181454852d73dad44867155aec467cddf3af750c594fca24dc327b45180c71a6e782161c23d880a731c8d9e6f31aa7a79b51905bef7061ab2f0e6c20a101bed4ca65e1fff1cd9edriend; You've counselled peace, discouraged strife, And taught us all our ways to mend. For eight-and-twenty years you've stood A watchman on the outer wall; Repressing evil, aiding good, And kindly watching over all. Though age may enervate your frame And dim the lustre of your eye, No lapse of time can soil your name, For names like yours can never die. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES. Another star has left the sky, Another flower has ceased to bloom; The fairest are the first to die, The best go earliest to the tomb. That radiant star, whose cheering ray, Adorn'd her quiet, rural home, Went down, in darkness, at mid-day. And left that quiet home in gloom. That lovely flower, admired so much, In all its loveliness, was lost, It withered at the fatal touch Of death's untimely, killing frost. The mourners go about the street, While children tell their tale of woe To every passer-by they meet, In faltering accents, faint and low. "Dear Mary Hayes is dead," they say, While tears roll down their cheeks like rain, "Her eyes are closed, she's cold as clay," And then their tears gush out again. And stalwart men are dumb with grief, And sorrow pales the sternest cheek, While gentler women find relief, In tears--more eloquent than speech. Surely there is some fairer land, Where friends who love each other here Can dwell, united heart and hand, Nor death nor separation fear. Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears; Fond father, raise thy drooping head; Kind brothers, banish all your fears; Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead, The care-worn casket rests in dust, The fadeless jewel wings its flight To that fair land, we humbly trust, To shine with ever glowing light. For, on that ever-vernal shore, When death's appalling stream is cross'd, Your star will shine forevermore, Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON. She is not dead, but sleepeth. --Luke 8:52. She is not dead, she's sleeping The dreamless sleep and drear; Her friends are gathered weeping Round her untimely bier. She is not dead, her spirit, Too pure to dwell with clay, Has gone up to inherit The realms of endless day. She is not dead, she's singing With angel bands on high; On golden harp she's singing God's praises in the sky. She is not dead, O mother, Your loss you will deplore; Kind sisters and fond brother, Your Nora is no more! No more, as we have seen her, The light and life of home, Of christian-like demeanor, Which ever brightly shone: Of youth the guide and teacher, Of age the stay and hope-- To all a faithful preacher, To whom we all looked up. She is not dead, she's sleeping, Her loving Saviour said; Then friends repress your weeping, God's will must be obeyed. She is not dead, she's shining In robes of spotless white; Why then are we repining? God's ways are always right. She is not dead--O never Will sorrow cross her track; She's passed Death's darksome river, And who would have her back? Back from the joys of heaven! Back from that world of bliss! Call back the pure, forgiven, To such a world as this? A world of grief and anguish-- A world of sin and strife-- In which the righteous languish, And wickedness is rife, She is not dead, she's shouting, Borne on triumphant wing, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry, O Death, where is thy sting?" LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1878. Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping, Closed thine eyes to all below; Round thy grave kind friends are weeping, Ling'ring, loath to let thee go. Husband fond and children dear, Crushed and stricken by the blow, Banish ev'ry anxious fear, While we lay the lov'd one low. For the angel's trump shall sound, And the bands of death will break; Then the pris'ner in this mound Shall to endless life awake. Then the spirit which is gone Will return and claim this dust, And this "mortal will put on Immortality," we trust. When that glorious day shall dawn, And the bridegroom shall descend With a gorgeous angel throng, The glad nuptials to attend, Oh, the rapture of that meeting! We of earth can never know Till we mingle in the greeting, Of our lov'd, lost long ago. Let me like the righteous die, Let my last end be like his; When I close, on earth, my eye, Let me wake in realms of bliss. STANZAS Read at the celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele, Dec. 13, 1884. Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here to-day; 'Tis nice for neighbors thus to call, In such a social way. We meet to celebrate a day, Which people seldom see; Time flies so rapidly away 'Tis like a dream to me; Since I, a lad with flaxen hair First met our friend, so gray; We both were free from thought and care, But full of hope and play. Well Joseph Steele, we may be glad That we are here to-day, Although it makes me somewhat sad To think of friends away. Of all our schoolboy friends but few Alas! can now be found, Not many but myself and you Are still above the ground. I count upon my fingers' ends About the half, I know. Of all acquaintances and friends With whom we used to go; To _Humphreys_ and _Montgomery_ To _Cochran_ and to _Dance_, And some, who slip my memory, That used to make us prance, Whene'er we missed a lesson Or placed a crooked pin Just where some one would press on Enough to drive it in. O, it was fun alive, I vow, To see that fellow bounce And hear him howl and make a row And threaten he would trounce The boy that did the mischief, But that boy was seldom found, And so, he had to bear his grief And nurse the unseen wound; But time and rhyme can never tell The half our funny pranks, And that we ever learned to spell, We ought to render thanks. Poor Dance! I always pitied him For he was just from college, And never having learned to swim, Was drowned with all his knowledge. Of Cochran, I but little knew, He was a stranger here, 'Twas always said he would get blue, And acted very queer. Montgomery I knew right well, He was rather kind than cross, He taught the willing how to spell, And always would be boss. He wrote a very pretty hand And could command a school: His appetite got the command, And that he could not rule. One day he took a heavy slug Of something rather hot; He took that something from a jug, And shortly he was not. Who "took" him, though, I never can Nor need I ever say; But when the Lord doth take a man, 'Tis seldom done that way. Poor Humphreys was a sort of crank (Folks said his learning made him mad,) But this I know, he always drank, And that will make the best man, bad. Excuse this rather long digression, My pen has carried me astray; These schoolboy days make an impression From which 'tis hard to get away. Then let me turn, and return too, For I have wandered from my text,-- Well, Mr. Steele, how do you do? I hope you are not vexed. 'Tis pleasant in our riper years To have our children come And bring their children--little dears, They make it seem like home. An old man's children are his crown, And you may well be proud When from your throne you just look down Upon this hopeful crowd. But now my neighbors dear, adieu; "The best of friends must part;" I'll often kindly think of you, And treasure each one in my heart; And if we never meet again On this poor frozen clod, O! may we meet to part no more Around the throne of God. TO MARY. The following lines suggested by the beautiful story of the sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany, (Luke, 10:38-42,) were addressed to Miss Mary M., of Wilmington, Del. In Bethany there dwelt a maid, And she was young and very fair; 'Twas at her house that Jesus stayed, And loved to stay, when he was there. For Mary seated at his feet, In rapture hung upon His word: His language flow'd in accent sweet, Such language mortal never heard. Her sister, cross in looks and word, (The cares of life have this effect,) Came and accused her, to her Lord, Of idleness and of neglect. "Martha, Martha," He kindly said, Forego thy troubles and thy care-- One needful thing, a crust of bread, Is all I ask with thee to share. "Mary hath chosen that good part, To hear my word and do my will, Which shall not from her trusting heart Be taken." It shall flourish still. Dear Mary, in this picture see Thy own, drawn by a master hand; Name, face and character agree Drawn by Saint Luke, an artist grand. IMPROMPTU TO MRS. ANNA C. BAKER. Composed in the top of a cherry tree when the wind was blowing a gale. In fishing for men, I should judge from your looks You've always had biters enough at your hooks. And whenever you dipp'd your net in the tide You had little need to spread it out wide. To encircle so many you wish'd for no more And like the old fishers sat down on the shore, Casting all the worthless and bad ones away-- Preserving the good and the true to this day. May the promising youth, I saw by your side All blooming and beaming, your hope and your pride, Be a pillar of state, so strong and so tall As to make you rejoice, that you made such a haul. LAMENT FOR THE YEAR 1887. Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society. My tale to-night is full of woe, I would that it were one of gladness; I would not thrill your hearts, you know, With notes of grief or sadness. My friend and yours is near his end, His pulse is beating faint and low, 'Tis sad to lose so good a friend, His time has come and he must go. His life is ebbing fast away, His mortal race is almost run, He cannot live another day, Nor see another rising sun. While watching round his dying bed, The tears we shed are tears of sorrow, We'll close his eyes for he'll be dead, And carried hence before to-morrow. His frame, so fragile now and weak, Was late the seat of vital power, But now, alas! he cannot speak, He's growing weaker every hour. Old seventy-seven, your friend and mine, Has done his part by you and me, Then friends, let us unite and twine, A bright wreath to his memory. His reign has been a checker'd reign, While some have suffered loss and wrong, We have no reason to complain, So come and join me in my song. He found me in the lowly vale, In poverty with robust health, And sweet contentment in the scale, Outweighing fame and pomp and wealth. Destroying war beneath his reign, Has drench'd the earth with blood and tears, Which ever flow, but flow in vain, As they have done through countless years. When will the reign of peace begin? When will the flood of human woe, That flows from folly, pride, and sin, Subside, and ever cease to flow? God speed the time when war's alarms, Will never more convulse the earth, And love and peace restore the charms Which dwelt in Eden at its birth. Old seventy-seven, again adieu, We'll ne'er again each other see. I've been a constant friend to you, As you have always been to me. "Step down and out" you've had your day, Your young successor's at the gate, Let him be crowned without delay, The royal stranger seventy-eight. VERSES Presented to my daughter with a watch and a locket with a picture of myself. Receive, my child, this gift of love, And wear it ever near thy heart, A pledge of union may it prove, Which time nor distance ne'er can part. I've watched thy infant sleep, and prest My eager lips against thy brow, And lingered near thy couch, and blest, Thy tender form with many a vow. But O! the rapture of that hour, None but a parent's heart can know When first thy intellectual power Began the germ of life to show. I've marked the progress of thy mind, And felt a thrill of joy and pride, To see thy youthful steps inclined To wisdom's ways and virtue's side. And when this fiery restless soul, Has chafed the thread of life away And reached, or high or low, the goal, And fought and won or lost the day,-- Then cherish this bright gift, my dear, And on those features kindly gaze, And bathe them with a filial tear, When I'm beyond all blame or praise. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF WILMINGTON. Chill frost will nip the fairest flower; The sweetest dream is soonest pass'd; The brightest morning in an hour, May be with storm clouds overcast. So Josephine in early bloom, Was blighted by death's cruel blast, While weeping round her early tomb, We joy to know, she is not lost. Fond mother, dry that tearful tide, Your child will not return, you know: She's waiting on the other side And where she is, you too may go. YOUTHFUL REMINISCENCES. Their schoolboy days have form'd a theme, For nearly all the bards I know, But mine are like a fading dream Which happen'd three score years ago. My memory is not the best, While some things I would fain forget Come like an uninvited guest, And often cause me much regret. I see the ghosts of murdered hours, As they flit past in countless throngs, They taunt me with their meager powers, And ridicule my senseless songs. 'Tis useless now to speculate, Or grieve o'er that which might have been, My failures though they have been great, Are not the greatest I have seen. In school I was a quiet child, And gave my teachers little fash, But as I grew I grew more wild, And hasty as the lightning's flash. Of study I was never fond, My school books gave me no delight, I patronized the nearest pond, To fish or swim by day or night. And when the frosts of winter came, And bound the streams in fetters tight, It gave me pleasure all the same To skate upon their bosom bright. I was athletic in my way And on my muscle went it strong, And stood to fight or ran to play, Regardless of the right or wrong. In wrestling I did much excel And lov'd to douse a boasting fop, Nor cared I how or where we fell Provided I fell on the top. I loved my friends with all my might, My foes I hated just as strong, My friends were always in the right, My foes forever in the wrong. A sportsman early I became, A sort of second Daniel Boone, And bagg'd my share of ev'ry game From cony, up or down, to coon. No tawny chieftain's swarthy son, Was ever fonder of the chase, Than I was of my trusty gun, Although I had a paler face. I shot the squirrel near his den. The silly rabbit near her lair; And captured ev'ry now and then, A pheasant in my cunning snare. And many things I think of here, Which time forbids me now to say, That happen'd in my wild career, To me, since that eventful day When my fond mother wash'd my face, And combed my flaxen hair, And started me in learning's race, And breath'd to heav'n a silent prayer, That I might grow to man's estate, And cultivate my opening mind; And not be rich or wise or great, But gentle, true and good and kind. My mother's face, I see it yet, That thoughtful face, with eyes of blue, I trust I never shall forget Her words of counsel, sage and true. She left me, when she pass'd away, More than a royal legacy, I would not for a monarch's sway, Exchange the things she gave to me. She gave me naught of sordid wealth, But that which wealth can never be, Her iron frame and robust health, Are more than diadems to me. She left to me the azure sky, With all its countless orbs of light, Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye, And beautify the dome of night. The deep blue sea from shore to shore, The boundless rays of solar light, The lightnings flash, the thunders roar-- I hold them all in my own right. And lastly that there be no lack, Of any good thing by her given, She left to me the shining track, Which led her footsteps up to heaven. STANZAS TO A LITTLE GIRL ON HER BIRTHDAY. My dear, the bard his greeting sends, And wishes you and all your friends, A happy birthday meeting. Let social pleasures crown the day, But while you chase dull care away, Remember time is fleeting. Then learn the lesson of this day, Another year has pass'd away, Beyond our reach forever. And as the fleeting moments glide, They bear us on their noiseless tide, Like straws upon the river, Into that vast, unfathomed sea, Marked on the map "eternity," With neither bound nor shore. There may we find some blissful isle Where basking in our Saviour's smile, We'll meet to part no more. TO MISS MARY BAIN. My cousin fair, dear Mary B, Excuse my long neglect I pray, And pardon too, the homely strain, In which I sing this rustic lay. My muse and I are sorted ill, I'm in my yellow leaf and sere; While she is young and ardent still And urges me to persevere. She reads to me the roll of fame, And presses me to join the throng, That surge and struggle for a name, Among the gifted sons of song. Of that vain stuff the world calls fame I've had I think my ample share. At best 'tis but a sounding name An idle puff of empty air. For more than once I've been the choice Of freemen to enact their laws, And patriots cheered me when my voice, I raised to vindicate their cause. And more than this I've brought to pass, For I have made a lot of ground Produce the second blade of grass, Where formerly but one was found. But now I love the calm retreat, Away from tumult, noise and strife, And in the works of nature sweet I learn her laws, the laws of life. The monuments which I erect Will hand my name for ages down, While tombs of kings will meet neglect, Or worse, be greeted with a frown. My trees will bloom and bear their fruit, My carp-pond glitter in the sun; My cherished grape-vines too, though mute, Will tell the world what I have done. Now lest you think that I am vain, And that my trumpeter is dead, I'll drop this graceless, boasting strain, And sing of you, dear Coz, instead. Of all my Cousins, old or new, I love the prairie chicken best, I see the rising sun in you,-- Although you're rising in the west. The picture you are working on, I'd almost give my eyes to see, I know it is a striking one, For it is of the "deep blue sea." But how you ever took the notion To paint a picture of the sea Before you ever saw the ocean, Is something that surprises me. I'm glad you have the skill to paint, And pluck to labor and to wait; And too much sense to pine and faint, Because the world don't call you great. True greatness is achieved by toil, And labor for the public good, 'Tis labor breaks the barren soil, And makes it yield our daily food. Then cultivate your talents rare, And study nature's lovely face, And copy every tint with care; Your work will then have life and grace. When fame and fortune you attain, And more than royal sway is sure, 'Twill be the majesty of brain, A majesty that must endure, Till thrones of kings and queens shall tumble, And monuments of stone and brass, Shall into shapeless ruin crumble, And blow away like withered grass. The world moves on with quickening pace, And those who falter fall behind, Then enter for the mental race, Where mind is pitted against mind. While we are cousins in the flesh, In mind I think we're nearer still, Your genius leads you to the brush, But mine inclines me to the quill. And now, my cousin fair, adieu, My promise I have somehow kept, That I would write a line for you, I hope you will these lines accept. STANZAS Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott, upon the occasion of the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 1882. Kind gentlemen and ladies fair, I have a word or two to say, If you have got the time to spare, Sit down, and hear my humble lay. No tiresome homily, I bring, To chill your joys and make you sad, I'd rather hear you laugh or sing, Than see you solemn, dull or mad, A bow that's always bent, they say, Will lose its force and wonted spring, And Jack's all work and never play, Makes him a dull and stupid thing. Man's greatest lesson is mankind, A problem difficult to solve, I've turned it over in my mind, And reached, at last, this sage resolve: That when I know myself right well, I have a key to all the race, Thoughts, purposes and aims that tell On me, are but a common case. There is a time to laugh and sing, A time to mourn and grieve as well; Then let your song and laughter ring, This is no time on griefs to dwell. We've met to greet our friend, T.J., And tender our congratulations, Without forgetting Phebe A., In our most heartfelt salutations. For four-and-twenty changeful years They've worn the bright hymenial bands, And shared each other's hopes and fears, And each held up the other's hands. He, like a stately, giant oak, Has spread his branches wide and high, Unscathed by lightning's fatal stroke, Or tempest raving through the sky. She, like a tender, trusting vine, Twines round and through and o'er the tree; Her modesty and worth combine, To hide what roughness there might be, Beneath this cool, refreshing shade, The wretched quite forget their woes, The hungry find the needed bread, The weary wanderer, his repose. Long live this honored, worthy pair! May fortune come at their command! And may their sons and daughter fair, Grow up to grace their native land! And when their earthly toils are o'er, And they repose beneath the sod, Theirs be a home on that bright shore, Illumined by the smile of God. BIRTHDAY VERSES. Written for a little girl on her ninth birthday. In the morning of life's day, All before is bright and gay, All behind is like a dream, Or the morn's uncertain beam, Falling on a misty stream. In the morning of thy youth, Learn this sober, solemn truth; Life is passing like a stream, Or a meteor's sudden gleam; Like the bright aurora's blaze, Disappearing while we gaze; Soon the child becomes a maid, In the pride of youth arrayed, And her mind and form expand To proportions great and grand; Then she changes to a wife, Battling with the ills of life; Thus we come and thus we go, And our cups with joy and woe, Oft are made to overflow. Each returning bright birthday, Like the mile-stones by the way, Will remind you as you go-- Though at first they pass so slow That behind there is one more And, of course, one less before; Watch the moments as they fly, With a never tiring eye-- Since you cannot stop their flow, O! improve them as they go. ROLL CALL. Written on the death of William Sutton, a member of the order of Good Templars. Call the roll! Call the roll of our band, Let each to his name answer clear, There's danger abroad, there's death in the land, Call the roll, see if each one is here. The roll call is through, one answers not, Brother Sutton, so prompt heretofore, Has answered another roll call; the spot Which knew him shall know him no more. He's at rest by the beautiful river, Which flows by the evergreen shore, Where the verdure of spring lasts forever, And sickness and death are no more. O alas! that the righteous should die, While sinners so greatly abound, In the world that's to come we'll know why, The latter incumber the ground. This mystery we'll then comprehend, And all will be plain to our sight, Then dry up the tears which flow for our friend, In full faith that God doeth right. IN MEMORIAM RENSELLAER BIDDLE. A noble heart is sleeping here, Beneath this lowly mound; With reverence let us draw near, For this is holy ground. The mortal frame that rests below This consecrated sward, Was late with heavenly hope aglow, A temple of the Lord. His charity was like a flood, It seemed to have no bound, But reached the evil and the good, Wherever want was found. The poor and needy sought his door, The wretched and distressed, He blessed them from his ample store, With shelter, food and rest. Giving his substance to the poor, He lent it to the Lord; While each returning harvest brought Him back a rich reward. Thus passed his useful life away, Dispensing good to all, Till on the evening of his day, He heard his Master call. "Brave soldier of the cross, well done, You've fought a noble fight; Come up, and claim the victor's crown, And wear it as your right." "For all your works of christian love And heaven-born charity, Are registered in Heaven above As so much done to Me." STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE. Dear Mollie, in thy early days, While treading childhood's dreamy maze, Peruse this book with care: Peruse it by the rising sun; Peruse it when the day is done, Peruse it oft with prayer. Search it for counsel in thy youth, For every page is bright with truth And wisdom from on high. Consult it in thy riper years, When foes without and inward fears Thy utmost powers defy. And when life's sands are well nigh run And all thy work on earth is done, In patience wait and trust, That He whose promises are sure Will number you among the pure, The righteous and the just. CHRISTMAS GREETING, 1877. Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society. The rolling seasons come and go, As ebbs the tide again to flow, And Christmas which seemed far away A year ago, is near to-day. And day and night in quick succession, Are passing by like a procession. While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried shore, Where days and nights will be no more, And where time's surging tide will be, Absorbed in vast eternity. Where then shall we poor mortals go? No man can tell, we only know We are but strangers in the land. Our fathers all have gone before, And shortly we shall be no more. This hall where we so often meet Will soon be trod by other's feet, And where our voices now resound, Will other speakers soon be found. And thus like wave pursuing wave, Between the cradle and the grave The human tide is prone to run, The sire succeeded by the son. May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have passed away, We all may meet on that blessed shore, Where friends shall meet to part no more. ANNIVERSARY POEM. Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson. No costly gifts have I to bring, To grace your festive board, This humble song, I've brought to sing, Is all I can afford. Then let my humble rhyme be heard In silence, if you please, You'll find it true in ev'ry word, It flows along with ease. We've met in honor of our friend Who seventy years ago, Came to this earth some years to spend, How many none can know. The world is using her so well, I hope she'll tarry long, And ten years hence I hope to tell, "I have another song." THE PETERSON GENEALOGICAL TREE. I'll sing you a song of a wonderful tree, Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me; Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky, While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy, Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw, Which fill'd him with wonder, amazement and awe. This vision the wise men all failed to expound, Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found. What the king saw in vision, we lit'rally see, In the Peterson genealogical tree; It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew; Its roots being small and its branches but few. The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it, And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it. Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure, And like plants of slow growth 'tis bound to endure. While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession, And the ages move on in an endless procession, While the sun in its glory reigns over the day, And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway, While the planets their courses pursue in the sky, And far distant stars light their torches on high, May this family tree grow taller and stronger And its branches increase growing longer and longer. May every branch of this vigorous tree, Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea, And under its shade may the poor and distressed Find shelter and comfort and kindness and rest, And when the great harvest we read of shall come When the angels shall gather and carry it home May this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found, Transplanted from earth into holier ground, Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight, Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night, Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more, And friends never part. On that beautiful shore, May we hope that the friends who have met round this board, And greeted each other in social accord, May each meet the others to part never more. LINES Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill public school, and read at her funeral. The mysteries of life and death, Lie hidden from all human ken, We know it is the vital breath Of God, that makes us living men. We also know, _that_ breath withdrawn, And man becomes a lifeless clod, The soul immortal having gone Into the presence of its God. Here knowledge fails and faith appears, And bids us dry the scalding tear, And banish all our anxious fears, Which cluster round the loved ones here. The deep, dark, cold, remorseless grave Has closed o'er lovely Jennie's face, No art, nor skill, nor prayers could save Her from its terrible embrace. Home now is dark and desolate, And friends and schoolmates are in tears, While strangers wonder at the fate, Which crushed her in her tender years. Death never won a brighter prize, Nor friends a richer treasure lost, Another star has left our skies, But heaven is richer at our cost. We mourn but not in hopeless grief, In tears we kiss the chast'ning rod, This sweet reflection brings relief, That all is good that comes from God. Through and beyond this scene of gloom, Faith points the mourner's downcast eyes, While from the portals of the tomb, They see their lost loved one arise, In blooming immortality; As she comes forth they hear her sing O! grave, where is thy victory! O! monster death where is thy sting! WHAT IS MATTER? DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE JOHNSTON. How are you, George, my rhyming brother? We should be kinder to each other, For we are kindred souls at least; I don't mean kindred, like the beast,-- Mere blood and bones and flesh and matter,-- But what this last is makes no matter. Philosophers have tried to teach it, But all their learning cannot reach it; 'Tis matter still, "that's what's the matter" With all their philosophic chatter, And Latin, Greek, and Hebrew clatter, Crucibles, retorts, and receivers, Wedges, inclined planes, and levers, Screws, blow pipes, electricity and light, And fifty other notions, quite Too much to either read or write. Just ask the wisest, What is matter? And notice how he will bespatter The subject, in his vain endeavor, With deep philosophy so clever, To prove you what you knew before, That matter's matter, and no more. Well, this much then, we know at least, That matter's substance, and the beast And bird and fish and creeping thing That moves on foot, with fin or wing, Is matter, just like you and me. Are they our kindred? Must it be That all the fools in all creation, And knaves and thieves of every station In life, can call me their relation? But that's not all--the horse I ride, The ox I yoke, 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my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; I guess he'd a stayed but for Archibald Grace. And helped with the chores and looked after the place; But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew, And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too; And so they must up and meander out West, And now they are murdered--or missing, at best-- Surprised by that bloody, marauding "Red Wing," 'Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring. No wonder, Cleora, I'm getting so gray! I grieve for my lost darling day after day; And, Cleo, my daughter, don't mind if it's true, But I reckon I've guessed about Archie and you! And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear, But there's still a bright edge to my cloud of despair, And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: "The boys are coming! The boys aren't dead!" So to-morrow, for dear father's sake, we will try To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by; And tho' we mayn't see where Thanksgiving comes in, Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been. But it's nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane, And somebody's driving full tilt up the lane-- For the land's sake! Cleora, you're dropping that tray O' blue willow tea-cups! What startled you? Hey? You're white as a ghost--Why, here's father from town! And who are those men, daughter, helping him down? Run! open the door! There's a whirr in my head, And the tune's getting louder--"The boys aren't dead!" Cleora! That voice--it is Robert!--O, Lord! I have leaned on Thy promise, and trusted Thy word, And out of the midst of great darkness and night Thy mercy has led me again to the light! IN HOC SIGNO VINCES! (UNDER THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER.) Beneath the solemn stars that light The dread infinitudes of night, Mid wintry solitudes that lie Where lonely Hecla's toweling pyre Reddens an awful space of sky With Thor's eternal altar fire! Worn with the fever of unrest, And spent with years of eager quest, Beneath the vaulted heaven they stood, Pale, haggard eyed, of garb uncouth, The seekers of the Hidden Good, The searchers for Eternal Truth! From fiery Afric's burning sands, From Asia's hoary templed lands, From the pale borders of the North, From the far South--the fruitful West, O, long ago each journeyed forth, Led hither by one glorious quest! And each, with pilgrim staff and shoon, Bore on his scrip a mystic rune, Some maxim of his chosen creed, By which, with swerveless rule and line, He shaped his life in word and deed To ends heroic and divine! Around their dreary winter world The great ice-kraken dimly curled The white seas of the frozen zone; And like a mighty lifted shield The hollow heavens forever shone On gleaming fiord and pathless field! Behind them, in the nether deep, The central fires, that never sleep, Grappled and rose, and fell again; And with colossal shock and throe The shuddering mountain rent in twain Her garments of perpetual snow! Then Aba Seyd, grave-eyed and grand, Stood forth with lifted brow and hand; Kingly of height, of mien sublime, Like glorious Saul among his peers, With matchless wisdom for all time Gleaned from the treasure house of years; His locks rose like an eagle's crest, His gray beard stormed on cheek and breast, His silvery voice sonorous rang, As when, exulting in the fray, Where lances hissed and trumpets sang, He held the Bedouin hordes at bay. "Lo! Here we part: henceforth alone We journey to the goal unknown; But whatsoever paths we find, The ties of fellowship shall bind Our constant souls; and soon or late-- We laboring still in harmony-- The grand results for which we wait Shall crown the mighty years to be! Now scoffed at, baffled, and beset, We grope in twilight darkness yet, We who would found the age of gold, Based on the universal good, And forge the links that yet shall hold The world in common Brotherhood! "O, comrades of the Mystic Quest! Who seek the Highest and the Best! Where'er the goal for which we strive-- Whate'er the knowledge we may win-- This truth supreme shall live and thrive, 'Tis love that makes the whole world kin! The love sublime and purified, That puts all dross of self aside To live for others--to uphold Before our own a brother's cause: This is the master power shall mould The nobler customs, higher laws! "Then shall all wars, all discords cease, And, rounded to perpetual peace, The bounteous years shall come and go Unvexed; and all humanity, Nursed to a loftier type, shall grow Like to that image undefiled, That fair reflex of Deity, Who, first, beneath the morning skies And glowing palms of paradise, A God-like man, awoke and smiled!" * * * * Like some weird strain of music, spent In one full chord, the sweet voice ceased; A faint white glow smote up the east, Like wings uplifting--and a cry Of winds went forth, as if the night Beneath the brightening firmament Had voiced, in hollow prophecy, The affirmation: "By and by!" HOW KATIE SAVED THE TRAIN. The floods were out. Far as the bound Of sight was one stupendous round Of flat and sluggish crawling water! As, from a slowly drowning rise, She looked abroad with startled eyes, The engineer's intrepid daughter. Far as her straining eyes could see, The seething, swoolen Tombigbee Outspread his turbulent yellow tide; His angry currents swirled and surged O'er leagues of fertile lands submerged, And ruined hamlets, far and wide. Along a swell of higher ground, Still, like a gleaming serpent, wound The heavy graded iron trail; But, inch by inch, the overflow Dragged down the road bed, till the slow Back-water crept across the rail. And where the ghostly trestle spanned A stretch of marshy bottom-land, The stealthy under current gnawed At sunken pile, and massive pier, And the stout bridge hung airily where She sullen dyke lay deep and broad. Above the hollow, droning sound Of waves that filled the watery round, She heard a distant shout and din-- The levees of the upper land Had crumbled like a wall of sand, And the wild floods were pouring in! She saw the straining dyke give way-- The quaking trestle reel and sway. Yet hold together, bravely, still! She saw the rushing waters drown The piers, while ever sucking down The undermined and treacherous "fill!" Her strong heart hammered in her breast, As o'er a distant woody crest A dim gray plume of vapor trailed; And nearer, clearer, by and by, Like the faint echo of a cry, A warning whistle shrilled and wailed! Her frightened gelding reared and plunged, As the doomed trestle rocked and lunged-- The keen lash scored his silken hide: "Come, Bayard! We must reach the bridge And cross to yonder higher ridge-- For thrice an hundred lives we ride!" She stooped and kissed his tawny mane, Sodden with flecks of froth and rain; Then put him at the surging flood! Girth deep the dauntless gelding sank, The tide hissed round his smoking flank, But straight for life or death she rode! The wide black heavens yawned again, Down came the torrent rushing rain-- The icy river clutched her! Shrill in her ears the waters sang, Strange fires from the abysses sprang, The sharp sleet stung like whip and spur! Her yellow hair, blown wild and wide, Streamed like a meteor o'er the tide; Her set white face yet whiter grew, As lashed by furious flood and rain, Still for the bridge, with might and main, Her gallant horse swam, straight and true! They gained the track, and slowly crept Timber by timber, torrents swept, Across the boiling hell of water-- Till past the torn and shuddering bridge He bore her to the safer ridge, The engineer's intrepid daughter! The night was falling wild and black, The waters blotted out the track; She gave her flying horse free rein, For full a dreadful mile away The lonely wayside station lay, And hoarse above his startled neigh She heard the thunder of the train! "What if they meet this side the goal?" She thought with sick and shuddering soul; For well she knew what doom awaited A fell mischance--a step belated-- The grinding wheels, the yawning dyke-- Sure death for her--for them--alike! Like danger-lamps her blue eyes glowed, As thro' the whirling gloom she rode, Her laboring breath drawn sharply in; Pitted against yon rushing wheels Were tireless grit and trusty heels, And with God's favor they might win! And soon along the perilous line Flamed out the lurid warning sign, While round her staggering horse the crowd Surged with wild cheers and plaudits loud.-- And this is how, thro' flood and rain, Brave Kate McCarthy saved the train! OFF THE SKIDLOE. With leagues of wasteful water ringed about, And wrapped in sheeted foam from base to peak, A sheer, stupendous monolith, wrought out By the slow, ceaseless labor of the deeps, In awful isolation, old as Time, The gray, forbidding Rock of Skidloe stands-- Breasting the wild incursions of the North-- The grim antagonist of a thousand waves! Far to the leeward, faintly drawn against A dim perspective of perpetual storms, A frowning line of black basaltic cliffs Baffles the savage onset of the surf. But, rolled in cloud and foam, old Skidloe lifts His dark, defiant head forever mid The shock and thunder of contending tides, And fixed, immovable as fate, hurls back The rude, eternal protest of the sea! Colossal waters coil about his feet, Deep rooted in the awful gulfs between The measureless walls of mountain chains submerged; An infinite hoarse murmur wells from all His dim mysterious crypts and corridors: The inarticulate mutterings that voice The ancient secret of the mighty main. In all the troubled round of sea and air, No glimpse of brightness lends the vivid zest Of life and light to the harsh monotone Of gray tumultuous flood and spectral sky; Far off the black basaltic crags are heaved Against the desolate emptiness of space; But no sweet beam of sunset ever falls Athwart old Skidloe's cloudy crest--no soft And wistful glory of awakened dawn Lays on his haggard brows a touch of grace. Sometimes a lonely curlew skims across The seething torment of the dread abyss, And, shrieking, dips into the mist beyond; But, solitary and unchanged for aye, He towers amid the rude revolt of waves, His stony face seamed by a thousand years, And wrinkled with a million furrows, worn By the slow drip of briny tears, that creep Along his hollow cheek. His hidden hands Drag down the drowned and tossing wrecks that drive Before the fury of the Northern gales, And mute, inscrutable as destiny, He keeps his sombre secrets as of yore. The slow years come and go; the seasons dawn And fade, and pass to swell the solemn ranks Of august ages in the march of Time. But changeless still, amid eternal change, Old Skidloe bears the furious brunt of all The warring elements that grapple mid The mighty insurrections of the sea! Gray desolation, ancient solitude, Brood o'er his wide, unrestful water world, While grim, unmoved, forbidding as of yore, He wraps his kingly altitudes about With the fierce blazon of the thunder cloud; And on his awful and uplifted brows The red phylactery of the lightning shines; And throned amid eternal wars, he dwells, His dread regality hedged round by all The weird magnificence of exultant storms! LIFE'S CROSSES. "O life! O, vailed destiny!" She cried--"within thy hidden hands What recompense is waiting me Beyond these naked wintry sands? For lo! The ancient legend saith: 'Take ye a rose at Christmas tide, And pin thereto your loving faith, And cast it to the waters wide; Whate'er the wished-for guerdon be, God's hand will guide it safe to thee!' "I pace the river's icy brink, This dreary Christmas Eve," she said, "And watch the dying sunset sink From pallid gold to ashen red. My eyes are hot with weary tears, I heed not how the winds may blow, While thinking of the vanished years Beyond the stormy heave and throe Of yon far sea-line, dimly curled Around my lonely island-world. "The winds make melancholy moan; I hear the river flowing by, As, heavy-hearted and alone, Beneath the wild December sky, I take the roses from my breast-- White roses of the Holy Rood-- And, filled with passionate unrest, I cast them to the darkening flood. O, roses, drifting out to sea, Bring my lost treasures back to me! "Bring back the joyous hopes of youth! The faith that knew no flaw of doubt! The spotless innocence and truth That clothed my maiden soul about! Bring back the grace of girlhood gone, The rapturous zest of other days! The dew and freshness of the dawn, That lay on life's untrodden ways-- The glory that will shine no more For me on earthly sea or shore! "Call back the sweet home-joys of old That gladdened many a Christmas-tide-- The faces hidden in the mould, The dear lost loves that changed or died! O, gentle spirits, gone before, Come, from the undiscovered lands, And bring the precious things of yore To aching heart and empty hands; Keep all the wealth of earth and sea, But give my lost ones back to me. "Vain are my tears, my pleadings vain! O, roses, drifting with the tide, To me shall never come again The glory of the years that died! Thro' gloom and night, sweet flowers, drift on-- Drift out upon the unknown sea; Into the holy Christmas dawn Bear this impassioned prayer for me: O, turn, dear Lord, my heart away From things that are but for a day; Teach me to trust thy loving will, And bear life's heavy crosses still." NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS, A.M., LL.D. The following sketch is principally from the Third Volume of Biographical Sketches of Eminent Americans. "Nathan Covington Brooks, the youngest son of John and Mary Brooks, was born in West Nottingham, Cecil county, Maryland, on the 12th of August, 1809. His education was commenced at the West Nottingham Academy, then under the charge of Rev. James Magraw, D.D., and subsequently he graduated as Master of Arts, at St. John's College, Annapolis, Md. His thesis was a poem on the World's Changes. Diligent and persevering in his studies, his rapid progress and high attainments won the regard of his teachers, while his amiable manners endeared him to his classmates. While his principal delight was in the study of the Classics, he devoted much attention to mathematics and other studies. Like many other writers, some of his earliest efforts were in verse. Indeed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.' Though we have no Shakespeares, or Miltons, or Byrons, there is no scarcity of literary amateurs who, in their hours of recreation and dalliance with letters, betake themselves to poetry as an amusement for their leisure hours or a solace amid the rude trials of life. High in the rank of these writers of occasional poetry stands Dr. Brooks. Nature, in all her forms, he has made the subject of close observation and profound reflection, and in looking at Nature, he has used his own eyes and not the spectacles of other writers. He has a keen relish for the beautiful, and a deep sympathy with the truthful and the good. His taste, formed on the finest models, has been ripened and chastened by a patient study of the great monuments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural development of his mind; and his words the unstudied expression of his thoughts. The music of his verse reminds us sometimes of the soft cadences of Hemans, and not unfrequently of the mournful harp of Byron." In his eighteenth year he was a contributor of prose and poetry to the _Minerva and Emerald_, and _Saturday Post_, of Baltimore; subsequently contributed to _The Wreath_, _Monument_, _Athenaeum_, and _Protestant_, of the same city. In 1830 he edited _The Amethyst_, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to _Atkinson's Casket_, and _The Lady's Book_, of which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for _Burton's Magazine_, and _Graham's_, _The New York Mirror_, _The Ladies' Companion_, and the _Home Journal_; and the following annuals, _The Gift_, _The Christian Keepsake_, and _The Religious Souvenir_. He contributed also prose and poetry to _The Southern Literary Messenger_, _The Southern Quarterly_ of New Orleans, _The London Literary Gazette_, and _The London Court Journal_. In 1837 Marshall, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his religious poems, entitled "Scriptural Anthology." In 1840, Kay Brothers, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his prose and poetry, under the name of "The Literary Amaranth." Besides these Dr. Brooks has edited a series of Greek and Latin classics, has written four volumes on religious subjects, one on "Holy Week," just issued from the press, "The History of the Mexican War," which was translated into German, "Battles of the Revolution," etc. In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherished as heirlooms in the family, a silver pitcher, for the best prose tale, entitled "The Power of Truth," and two silver goblets, one a prize for the poem entitled "The Fall of Superstition," the other a prize for a poem, "The South-sea Islander," for which fifteen of our leading poets were competitors. Though in his leisure moments Dr. Brooks has achieved so much in literature, his profession has been that of an educator, in which he has had the mental training of males and females to the number of five or six thousand. In 1824, he was appointed to the village school in Charlestown, Cecil county, in 1826, established a private school in Baltimore city; in 1831 was elected principal of the Franklin Academy, Reistertown, and in 1834 principal of the Brookesville Academy, Montgomery county, both endowed by the State; in 1839, he was unanimously elected over forty-five applicants as principal of the Baltimore City High School which position he held for nine years, until asked by the Trustees of the Baltimore Female College, in 1848, to accept the organization of the institution. The College is chartered and endowed by the State of Maryland, has graduated over three hundred young ladies, and trained and sent forth two hundred teachers. Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, conferred the degree of LL.D., on Professor Brooks in 1859, and in 1863 his name was presented, with others, for the presidency of Girard College. Though Major Smith, a Philadelphian of an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other competitors. In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia. Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son. The following poems are selected as specimens of his style. THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY. The flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, And the passing wind, like a spirit, grieves In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves. The sun will kiss the dew from the rose, Its crimson petals again unclose, And the violet ope the soft blue ray Of its modest eye to the gaze of day; But when will the dews and shades that lie So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye, Be chased from the folded lids, my child, And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild? The fawn, thy partner in sportive play, Has ceased his gambols at close of day, And his weary limbs are relaxed and free In gentle sleep by his favorite tree. He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn Will call him forth to the dewy lawn, And his sprightly gambols be seen again, Through the parted boughs and upon the plain; But oh! when will slumber cease to hold The limbs that lie so still and cold? When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet That bounded my glad embrace to meet? The birds you tended have ceased to sing, And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing, And, nestled among the leaves of the trees, They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze. The morn will the chains of sleep unbind, And spread their plumes to the freshening wind; And music from many a warbler's mouth Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south; But when shall the lips, whose lightest word Was sweeter far than the warbling bird, Their rich wild strain of melody pour? They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more! When heaven's great bell in a tone sublime Shall sound the knell of departed Time, And its echoes pierce with a voice profound Through the liquid sea and the solid ground, Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep, And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright In the glorious rays of Heaven's own light, The limbs, that an angel's semblance bore, Bloom 'neath living trees on the golden shore, And the voice that's hushed, God's praises hymn 'Mid the bands of the harping seraphim. TO A DOVE. MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH. The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around. In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,-- Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves. But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed. Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint? As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude. Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? That the tall and waving grass defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles? That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes? Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard? That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more? Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age? For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom? For the light of youth quenched in the tomb? For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay? That pastor and people have passed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew? Or dost thou mourn that the house of God Has ceased to be a divine abode? That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat? I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss--Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest. FALL OF SUPERSTITION. A PRIZE POEM. The star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile. No more with harp and sistrum Music calls To wanton rites within Astarte's halls, The priests forget to mourn their Apis slain, And bear Osiris' ark with pompous train; Gone is Serapis, and Anubis fled, And Neitha's unraised vail shrouds Isis' prostrate head. Where Jove shook heaven when the red bolt was hurled, Neptune the sea--and Phoebus lit the world; Where fair-haired naiads held each silver flood, A fawn each field--a dryad every wood-- The myriad gods have fled, and God alone Above their ruined fanes has reared his throne.[A] No more the augur stands in snowy shroud To watch each flitting wing and rolling cloud, Nor Superstition in dim twilight weaves Her wizard song among Dodona's leaves; Phoebus is dumb, and votaries crowd no more The Delphian mountain and the Delian shore, And lone and still the Lybian Ammon stands, His utterance stifled by the desert sands. No more in Cnydian bower, or Cyprian grove The golden censers flame with gifts to Love; The pale-eyed Vestal bends no more and prays Where the eternal fire sends up its blaze; Cybele hears no more the cymbal's sound, The Lares shiver the fireless hearthstone round; And shatter'd shrine and altar lie o'erthrown, Inscriptionless, save where Oblivion lone Has dimly traced his name upon the mouldering stone. Medina's sceptre is despoiled of might-- Once stretched o'er realms that bowed in pale affright; The Moon that rose, as waved the scimetar Where sunk the Cross amid the storm of war, Now pale and dim, is hastening to its wane, The sword is broke that spread the Koran's reign, And soon will minaret and swelling dome Fall, like the fanes of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. On other lands has dawned immortal day, And Superstition's clouds have rolled away; O'er Gallia's mounts and on Iona's shore The Runic altars roll their smoke no more; Fled is the Druid from his ancient oak, His harp is mute--his magic circle broke; And Desolation mopes in Odin's cells Where spirit-voices called to join the feast of shells. O'er Indian plains and ocean-girdled isles With brow of beauty Truth serenely smiles; The nations bow, as light is shed abroad, And break their idols for the living God. Where purple streams from human victims run And votive flesh hangs quivering in the sun, Quenched are the pyres, as shines salvation's star-- Grim Juggernaut is trembling on his car And cries less frequent come from Ganges' waves Where infant forms sink into watery graves. Where heathen prayers flamed by the cocoa tree They supplicate the Christians' Deity And chant in living aisles the vesper hymn Where giant god-trees rear their temples dim. Still speed thy truth!--still wave thy spirit sword, Till every land acknowledge Thee the Lord, And the broad banner of the Cross, unfurled In triumph, wave above a subject world. And here O God! where feuds thy church divide-- The sectary's rancor, and the bigot's pride-- Melt every heart, till all our breasts enshrine One faith, one hope, one love, one zeal divine, And, with one voice, adoring nations call Upon the Father and the God of all. [Footnote A: The Pantheon that was built to all the gods was transformed into a Christian temple.] THE INFANT ST. JOHN, THE BAPTIST. O sweeter than the breath of southern wind With all its perfumes is the whisper'd prayer From infant lips, and gentler than the hind, The feet that bear The heaven-directed youth in wisdom's pathway fair. And thou, the early consecrate, like flowers Didst shed thy incense breath to heaven abroad; And prayer and praise the measure of thy hours, The desert trod Companionless, alone, save of the mighty God. As Phosphor leads the kindling glory on, And fades, lost in the day-god's bright excess, So didst thou in Redemption's coming dawn, Grow lustreless, The fading herald of the Sun of Righteousness. But when the book of life shall be unsealed, And stars of glory round the throne divine In all their light and beauty be revealed, The brightest thine Of all the hosts of earth with heavenly light shall shine. SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES. Ibi tu calentem Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici. --Horace. Percy Bysshe Shelley, an eminent English poet, while sailing in the Mediterranean sea, in 1822, was drowned off the coast of Tuscany in a squall which wrecked the boat in which he had embarked. Two weeks afterwards his body was washed ashore. The Tuscan quarantine regulations at that time required that whatever came ashore from the sea should be burned. Shelley's body was accordingly placed on a pyre and reduced to ashes, in the presence of Lord Byron and Leigh Hunt, who are the "brother bards" referred to in the last stanza of the poem. Beneath the axle of departing day The weary waters on the horizon's verge Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play, As bore the surge The poet's wasted form with slow and mournful dirge. On Via Reggio's surf-beaten strand The late-relenting sea, with hollow moan Gave back the storm-tossed body to the land, As if in tone Of sorrow it bewailed the deed itself had done. There laid upon his bed of shells--around The moon and stars their lonely vigils kept; While in their pall-like shades the mountains bound And night bewept The bard of nature as in death's cold arms he slept. The tuneful morn arose with locks of light-- The ear that drank her music's call was chill; The eye that shone was sealed in endless night, And cold and still The pulses stood that 'neath her gaze were wont to thrill. With trees e'en like the sleeper's honors sered And prows of galleys, like his bosom riven, The melancholy pile of death was reared Aloft to heaven, And on its pillared height the corpse to torches given. From his meridian throne the eye of day Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire, Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay Upon his pyre The poet of the broken heart and broken lyre. On scented wings the sorrowing breezes came And fanned the blaze, until the smoke that rushed In dusky volumes upward, lit with flame All redly blushed Like Melancholy's sombre cheek by weeping flushed. And brother bards upon that lonely shore Were standing by, and wept as brightly burned The pyre, till all the form they loved before, To ashes turned, With incense, wine, and tears was sprinkled and inurned. THE FOUNTAIN REVISITED. Let the classic pilgrim rove, By Egeria's fount to stand, Or sit in Vancluse's grot of love, Afar from his native land; Let him drink of the crystal tides Of the far-famed Hippocrene, Or list to the waves where Peneus glides His storied mounts between: But dearer than aught 'neath a foreign sky Is the fount of my native dell, It has fairer charms for my musing eye For my heart a deeper spell. Dear fount! what memories rush Through the heart and wildered brain, As beneath the old beech I list to the gush Of thy sparkling waves again; For here in a fairy dream With friends, my childhood's hours Glided on like the flow of thy beautiful stream, And like it were wreathed with flowers: Here we saw on thy waves, from the shade, The dance of the sunbeams at noon; Or heard, half-afraid, the deep murmurings made In thy cavernous depths, 'neath the moon. I have heard thy waves away From thy scenes, dear fount, apart; And have felt the play, in life's fevered day, Of thy waters through my heart; But oh! thou art not the same: Youth's friends are gone--I am lone-- Thy beeches are carved with many a name Now graved on the funeral stone. As I stand and muse, my tears Are troubling the stream whose waves The lullaby sang to their infantile years, And now murmur around their graves. DEATH OF SAMSON. Within Philistia's princely hall Is held a glorious festival, And on the fluctuant ether floats The music of the timbrel's notes, While living waves of voices gush, Echoing among the distant hills, Like an impetuous torrent's rush When swollen by a thousand rills. The stripling and the man of years, Warriors with twice ten thousand spears, Peasants and slaves and husbandmen,-- The shepherd from his mountain glen, Vassal, and chief arrayed in gold And purple robes--Philistines all Are drawn together to behold Their mighty foeman held in thrall. Loud pealed the accents of the horn Upon the air of the clear morn, And deafening rose the mingled shout, Cleaving the air from that wild rout, As, guarded by a cavalcade The illustrious prisoner appeared And, 'mid the grove the dense spears made, His forehead like a tall oak reared. He stood with brawny shoulders bare, And tossed his nervous arms in air-- Chains, leathern thongs, and brazen bands Parted like wool within his hands; And giant trunks of gnarled oak, Splintered and into ribbons rent, Or by his iron sinews broke, Increased the people's wonderment. The amphitheatre, where stood Spell-bound the mighty multitude, Rested its long and gilded walls Upon two pillars' capitals: His brawny arms, with labor spent, He threw around the pillars there, And to the deep blue firmament Lifted his sightless orbs in prayer. Anon the columns move--they shake, Totter, and vacillate, and shake, And wrenched by giant force, come down Like a disrupted mountain's crown, With cornice, frieze, and chapiter, Girder, and spangled dome, and wall, Ceiling of gold, and roof of fir, Crumbled in mighty ruin all. Down came the structure--on the air Uprose in wildest shrieks despair, Rolling in echoes loud and long Ascending from the myriad throng: And Samson, with the heaps of dead Priest, vassal, chief, in ruin blent, Piled over his victorious head His sepulchre and monument. AN INFANT'S PRAYER. The day is spent, on the calm evening hours, Like whispered prayer, come nature's sounds abroad, And with bowed heads the pure and gentle flowers Shake from their censers perfume to their God; Thus would I bow the head and bend the knee, And pour my soul's pure incense, Lord, to Thee. Creator of my body, I adore, Redeemer of my soul, I worship Thee, Preserver of my being, I implore Thy light and power to guide and shelter me; Be Thou my sun, as life's dark vale I tread, Be thou my shield to guard my infant head. And when these eyes in dewy sleep shall close, Uplifted now in love to Thy great throne, In the defenceless hours of my repose, Father and God, oh! leave me not alone, But send thy angel minister's to keep With hovering wings their vigils while I sleep. JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. John Marchborn Cooley, the eldest son of the late Corbin Cooley, was born at the Cooley homestead, on the Susquehanna river, in Cecil county, a short distance below the junction of that stream and the Octoraro creek, on the first of March, 1827; and died at Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, April 13th, 1878. In childhood he showed a taste for learning, and in early youth was sent to West Nottingham Academy, where he received his education. While at the Academy he is said to have been always willing to write the compositions of his fellow students, and to help them with any literary work in which they were engaged. Mr. Cooley studied law in the office of the late Col. John C. Groome, and was admitted to the Elkton bar on the 4th of April, 1850. He practiced his profession in Elkton for a short time, during a part of which he was counsel to the County Commissioners, but removed to Warsaw, Illinois, where he continued to practice his profession for six years, after which he came to Harford county, where he resided until the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion, when he joined the Union army and continued to serve his country until the close of the war. In 1866, he married Miss Hattie Lord, of Manchester, New Hampshire, and settled in Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, where he was engaged in teaching a classical school until the time of his death. Mr. Cooley was born within a few miles of the birthplace of William P. and E.E. Ewing, and Emma Alice Brown and almost within sight of the mansion in which Mrs. Hall wrote the poems which are published in this book. Mr. Cooley was a born poet, a voluminous and beautiful writer, and the author of several poems of considerable length and great merit. Mr. Cooley's widow and son, Marvin L. Cooley, still survive, and at present reside in Darlington. A STORY WITH A MORAL. One ev'ning, as some children play'd Beneath an oak tree's summer shade, A stranger, travel-stained and gray, Beside them halted on his way. As if a spell, upon them thrown, Had changed their agile limbs to stone, Each in the spot where it first view'd Th' approaching wand'rer mutely stood. Ere silence had oppressive grown The old man's voice thus found a tone; "I too was once as blithe and gay-- My days as lightly flew away As if I counted all their hours Upon a dial-plate of flowers; And gentle slumber oft renew'd The joyance of my waking mood, As if my soul in slumber caught The radiance of expiring thought; As if perception's farewell beam Could tinge my bosom with a dream-- That twilight of the mind which throws Such mystic splendor o'er repose. Contrasted with a youth so bright My manhood seems one dreary night, A chilling, cheerless night, like those Which over Arctic regions close. I married one, to my fond eyes An angel draped in human guise. Alas! she had one failing; No secret could she keep In spite of all my railing, And curses loud and deep. No matter what the danger Of gossiping might be, She'd gossip with a stranger As quickly as with me. One can't be always serious, And talking just for show, For that is deleterious To fellowship, and so I oft with her would chatter, Just as I felt inclined, Of any little matter I chanced to call to mind. Alas! on one ill-fated day, I heard an angry neighbor say, 'Don't tell John Jones of your affairs, Don't tell him for your life, Without you wish the world to know, For he will tell his wife.' 'For he will tell his wife' did ring All day through heart and brain; In sleep a nightmare stole his voice, And shouted it again. I spent whole days in meditating How I should break the spell, Which made my wife keep prating Of things she shouldn't tell. Some awful crime I'll improvise, Which I'll to her confide, Upon the instant home I rushed, My hands in blood were dyed. 'Now, Catharine, by your love for me, My secret closely hide.' Her quiet tongue, for full three days, The secret kept so well, I almost grew to hope that she This secret wouldn't tell. Alas! upon the following day She had revealed it, for I found Some surly men with warrants arm'd Were slyly lurking round. They took me to the county jail My tristful Kate pursuing, And all the way she sobb'd and cried 'Oh! what have I been doing?' Before the judge I was arraigned, Who sternly frowning gazed on me, And by his clerk straightway inquired, What was the felon's plea. May't please your honor, I exclaim'd This case you may dismiss-- Now hearken all assembled here, My whole defence is this: I killed a dog--a thievish wretch-- His body may be found, Beneath an apple tree of mine, A few feet under ground, This simple plot I laid in hope To cure my tattling wife; I find, alas! that she must talk, Though talking risk my life. So from her presence then I fled, In spite of all the tears she shed, And since, a wand'ring life I've led, And told the tale where'er I sped." FORTY YEARS AFTER. For twenty guests the feast is laid With luscious wines and viands rare, And perfumes such as might persuade The very gods to revel there. A youthful company gathered here, Just two score years ago to-day, Agreed to meet once ev'ry year Until the last one passed away. And when the group might fewer grow The vacant chairs should still be placed Around the board whereon should glow The glories of the earliest feast. One guest was there, with sunken eye And mem'ry busy with the past-- Could he have chosen the time to die, Some earlier feast had been his last. "But thrice we met" the old man said, But thrice in youthful joy and pride, When all for whom this board was spread Were seated gaily at my side. Then first we placed an empty chair And ev'ry breast was filled with gloom, For he we knew, who should be there, That hour was absent in the tomb. The jest and song were check'd awhile, But quickly we forgot the dead, And o'er each face th' arrested smile In all its former freedom spread. For still our circle seem'd intact. The lofty chorus rose as well As when our numbers had not lack'd That voice the more in mirth to swell. But we parted with a sadder mien And hands were clasped more kindly then, For each one knew where death had been We might expect him o'er again. Ah! wondrous soon our feast before A lessening group was yearly spread, And all our joys were ruffled o'er With somber mem'ries of the dead. The song and jest less rude became, Our voices low and looks more kind, Each toast recall'd some cherish'd name Or brought a buried friend to mind. At length, alas! we were but two With features shrivel'd, shrunk, and changed, Whose faded eyes could scarcely view The vacant seats around us ranged. But fancy, as we passed the bowl, Fill'd ev'ry empty chair again. Inform'd the silent air with soul And shaped the shadowy void to men. The breezy air around us stirr'd With snatches of familiar song, Nor cared we then how fancy err'd Since her delusion made us strong. But now, I am the only guest, The grave--the grave now covers all Who joined me at the annual feast We kept in this deserted hall. He paused and then his goblet fill'd, But never touch'd his lips the brim, His arm was stay'd, his pulses still'd, And ah! his glazing eyes grew dim. The farther objects in the room Have vanish'd from his failing sight; One broad horizon spreads in gloom Around a lessening disc of light. And then he seem'd like one who kept A vigil with suspended breath-- So kindly to his breast had crept Some gentlest messenger of death. THE PAST. Still--still the Earth each primal grace renews, And blooms, or brightens with Creation's hues: Repeats the sun the glories of the sky, Which upward lured the earliest watcher's eye; Yet bids his beams the glowing clouds adorn With all the charms of Earth's initial morn, And duplicates at eve the splendors yet That fixed the glance, that first beheld him set. LOVED AND LOST. Love cannot call her back again, But oh! it may presume With ceaseless accents to complain, All wildly near her tomb. A madd'ning mirage of the mind Still bids her image rise, That form my heart can never find Yet haunts my wearied eyes. Since Earth received its earliest dead, Man's sorrow has been vain; Though useless were the tears they shed, Still I will weep again. The breast, that may its pangs conceal, Is not from torture freed, For still the wound, that will not heal, Alas! must inly bleed. Vain Sophist! ask no reason why The love that cannot save, Will hover with despairing cry Around the dear ones grave. Mine is not frenzy's sudden gust, The passion of an hour, Which sprinkles o'er beloved dust Its brief though burning shower. Then bid not me my tears to check, The effort would but fail, The face, I hid at custom's beck, Would weep behind its veil. The tree its blighted trunk will rear, With sap and verdure gone, And hearts may break, yet many a year All brokenly live on. Earth has no terror like the tomb Which hides my darling's head, Yet seeking her amid its gloom, I grope among the dead. And oh! could love restore that form To its recovered grace, How soon would it again grow warm Within my wild embrace. DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR. KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR. Fierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed So proudly that terrific blade. The feeble bosom scarce can give A throb to show he yet doth live, And in his eye the light which glows, Is but the stare, that death bestows. The filmy veins that circling thread The cooling balls are turning red; And every pang that racks him now, Starts the cold sweat up to his brow, But yet his smile not even death Could from his boyish face unwreath, Or in convulsive writhing show The pangs, that wring the brain below. To the far fight he seeks to gaze, Where battling arms yet madly blaze, And with a gush of manly pride, Weeps as his banner is descried Above the piling smoke-clouds borne, Like the first dubious streaks of morn That o'er the mountains misty height Will kindle in a lovely sight. "A foreign soil my blood doth stain, And the few drops that yet remain Add but still longer to my pain. Land of my birth! thy hills no more May these fast glazing eyes explore, Yet oh! may not my body rest Beneath that sod my heart loves best? My father--home! Joys most adored Dwell in that simple English word-- Go, comrades! Till your field is won Forget me--father, I die thy son." Hark the wild cry rolls on his ear! The foe approach who hovered near; Rings the harsh clang of bick'ring steel In blows his arm no more may deal. "Beside me now no longer be, Ye need not seek to die with me; Go, friends"--his manly bosom swell'd With life the stiff'ning wounds withheld; And struggling to his knees, he shook The sword his hand had not forsook, But to his arm it was denied To slay the foe his heart defied. The faintly wielded steel was left In the slight wound it barely cleft. Borne to the earth by the same thrust, That smote his en'my to the dust, His breast receiv'd their cowardly blows-- The fluttering eye-lids slowly close, Then parting, show the eye beneath White with the searching touch of Death. The last thick drops congeal around The jagged edge of many a wound; See breaking through the marble skin The clammy dews that lurk within, The lip still quivers, but no breath Seeks the unmoving heart beneath. Thou gallant Clay--thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; For in the brightness of such blaze Even Alexander fame decays, Yes--yes, Columbia's noble son Died! Monarchs could no more have done. A VALENTINE. Oh! for a brief poetic mood In which to write a merry line-- A line, which might, could, would or should Do duty as a Valentine. Then to the woods the birds repair In pairs, prepared to woo A mate whose breast shall fondly share This world's huge load of ceaseless care Which grows so light when borne by two. But ah! such language will not suit, I'd better far have still been mute. My mate is dead or else she's flown And I am left to brood alone, To think of joys of vanish'd years And banish thus some present tears; But then our life is but a dream And things are not what they seem. LINES SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND. Like him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish'd most-- So, dearest, do I mourn for thee. For oh! the future is as dark As is the ocean's barren plain, Whose restless waters wear no mark To guide his eyes, who seeks in vain. True, reckless Fancy dares invade The realm of time's uncounted hours, As fondly gay, as if she stray'd In safety through a land of flowers. And still doth hope shine bright and warm-- But oh! the light with which it cheers, My darling one, but glows to form A rainbow o'er a vale of tears. GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858. He is among the very best classical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest in _The Cecil Democrat_, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill. In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the Baltimore _Day_, which he edited while that journal existed. Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank. They are the parents of five children--three of whom survive. Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published. STONEWALL JACKSON. [1863.] AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH. Bury the mighty dead-- Long, long to live in story! Bury the mighty dead In his own shroud of glory. Question not his purpose; Sully not his name, Nor think that adventitious aid Can build or blight his fame, Nor hope, by obloquizing what He strove for, glory's laws Can be gainsaid, or he defiled Who'd honor any cause. Question not his motives, Ye who have felt his might! Who doubts, that ever saw him strike, He aimed to strike for right? His was no base ambition;-- No angry thirst for blood. Naught could avail to lift his arm, But love of common good. Yet, when he deigned to raise it, Who could resist its power? Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe, E'er to forget that hour? His life he held as nothing. His country claimed his all. Ah! what shall dry that country's tears Fast falling o'er his fall? His life he held as nothing, As through the flame he trod; To duty gave he all of earth And all beyond to God. The justness of his effort He never lent to doubt. His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd To put the foe to rout. Mistrusting earth's tribunals, Scorning the tyrant's rod, He chose the fittest Arbiter, 'Twixt foe and sword, his God. And doubted not, a moment, That, when the fight was won, Who rules the fate of nations Would bid His own:--Well done! And doubted not, a moment, As fiercest flashed the fire, The bullet's fatal blast would call:-- Glad summons!--Come up higher! And who would hence recall thee?-- Thy work so nobly done! Enough for mortal brow to wear The crown thy prowess won:-- Grim warrior, grand in battle! Rapt christian, meek in prayer!-- Vain age! that fain would reproduce A character as rare! The world has owned its heroes;-- Its martyrs, great and good, Who rode the storm of power, Or swam the sea of blood:-- Napoleons, Caesars, Cromwells, Melancthons, Luthers brave! But, who than Jackson ever yet Has filled a prouder grave? The cause for which he struggled, May fall before the foe: Stout hearts, devoted to their trust, All moulder, cold and low. The land may prove a charnel-house For millions of the slain, And blood and carnage mark the track Where madmen march amain,-- Fanatic heels may scourge it, Black demons blight the sod; And hell's foul desolation Mock Liberty's fair God.-- The future leave no record, Of mighty struggle there, Save hollowness, and helplessness, And bitter, bald despair.-- Proud cities lose their names e'en; Tall towers fall to earth.-- Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland Forget illustrious birth;-- And yet, upon tradition, Will float the name of him Whose virtues time may tarnish not, Eternity not dim. Whose life on earth was only, So grand, so free, so pure, For brighter realms and sunnier skies, A preparation sure. And whose sweet faith, so child-like, Nor blast, nor surge nor rod, One moment could avert from The bosom of his God. Bury the mighty dead! Long, long to live in story! Bury the hero dead In his own shroud of glory! IN MEMORIAM. FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862. Frank is dead! The mournful message Comes gushing from the ocean's roar. Frank is dead! His mortal passage Has ended on the heavenly shore. In earthly agony he died To join his Saviour crucified. Frank is dead! Time's bitter trials Drove him a wanderer from home, To meet life's lot, share its denials, Or gain a rest where cares ne'er come. His frail form sinking, his grand spirit Careered to realms the blest inherit. Frank is dead! In life's young morning, When heavenly promise lit his day, His smitten spirit, homeward turning, Forsook its tenement of clay. No more to battle here with sin; No more to suffer mid earth's din. Frank is dead! By fever stricken, How long he suffered, and how deep! With none to feel his hot blood quicken, No loved one near to calm his sleep. No mother's presence him to gladden: Naught, naught to cheer--all, all to sadden. Frank is dead! His pangs are over. His gentle spirit hence has flown. Strangers, with earth, his body cover, Strangers attend his dying moan. On stranger forms his eyes last close, To meet A FRIEND in their repose. Frank is dead! Aye! weep, fond mourner! The grand, the beautiful is lost. Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner, On passion's billows tempest-tossed, Has found a source of sweeter bliss In realms that sunder wide from this. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to sorrow, Dead to sadness, dead to pain. Dead! Dead to all save the tomorrow Whose light eternally shall reign. He's dead to young ambition's vow And the big thought that stamped his brow. Frank is dead! Dead to the labors He'd staked his life to triumph in:-- To win his friends, his dying neighbors, And fellows all from death and sin. With steady faith he toiled to fit Christ's armor on and honor it. Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasure Has closed his bright career too soon To realize how rich a treasure The ranks had entered ere high noon. His brilliant promise, dashed in youth, One less is left to fight for truth. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortals. No more we'll see his noble brow Or flashing eye; but in the portals Above, by faith I see him now With gladden'd step and fluttering heart, Marching to share the better part. Frank is dead!! No, never, never! Not dead but only gone before. Back,--back! Thou tear-drop, rising ever; Nor Heaven's fiat now deplore. Wail not the sorrows earth can lend To banish spirits that ascend. And fare thee well, my noble brother! 'Tis hard to think that thou art not; To realize that never other Footstep like thine shall share my cot, And think of all thy heart endured, By sore besetments often tried. But,--Heaven be thanked,--all now is cured And thou, fair boy, art glorified. NEW-YEAR ODE. [1863.] Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear be shed. The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead. His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends his woes. As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peaceful be its close. Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear drop fall. The couch of birth is waiting the egress of the pall. Haste! Hasten the obsequies:--the natal hour is nigh. Waste not a moment weeping when expectation's high. * * * * * Draw back the veil; the curtain lift. Ho! Thirsting hearts, rejoice! The new-born is no puny gift:-- Time's latest, grandest choice. Nurseling and giant! Infant grown! Majestic even now! 'Tis well that such a restless throne Descends to such as thou. * * * * * Dame nature's travail bore thee; Her pangs a world upheaved. A world now bending o'er thee Awaits those pangs relieved. A world is waiting for thee: And shall it be deceived? Ah no! Such pangs were never To mother giv'n in vain. Rise, new-born! Rise and sever Tyranny's clanking chain. Rise, Virtue! Rise forever! The New-Year comes amain! O! Give him welcome ever! Can bleeding hearts refrain? * * * * * All hail! Oh beautiful New-Year! Full, full of promise fraught with cheer. Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Hail! Great deliverer from wrath, Brave pioneer upon the path That leads to better fate! Joy be to thee thy natal day, As dawns Aurora's earliest ray, While youth is fresh and faith is clear And hope is bright with coming cheer! Thou promisest eventful life As, giant-like, thou leap'st to earth, Robed in full majesty at birth; With power to do and will to dare And arm to shield from threat'ning care, And eye to ken the dead past's strife. Thy young life's hand knows yet no stain Of blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain. But, know, Oh Friend! thou'rt ushered in To feel the jar and note the din Of war-blast's rude alarms. Thy elder brother, gone before, Has left upon this nether shore A burden for thine arms. 'Tis thine to choose the part thou'lt take, Oh giant mighty! Thine to make An early choice; lose not an hour. 'Tis crime to waste prodigious power. Great, vast, appalling, is the task By fate assigned to thee. No mask Of indecision now is given. The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. The hour is dark:--the danger nigh. The ravens caw: the eagles cry. The breakers dash--the chasm yawns: The skies are lurid:--chaos dawns. Thunder with thunder-peal is riven As if to shake earth's faith in heaven! All, all is wild! No sun! No moon! Earth, air and sky, in dire commune, Demand--what hand shall guide them now? New-Year, stand forth and bide the call To thee address'd. We stand or fall As thou decree'st. Frown, and we perish. Smile, we rise To joys that savor of the skies. Bid lethargy depart thy brow And strike for right and truth. Young, thou; but hast no youth. No hours are thine for sportive mirth. Minerva-like, mature from birth, Great deeds and valiant thine must be, In wisdom guided, fair and free.-- Deeds that no year hath known before; Fraught not with strife;--drenched not in gore. Free from old taint of fell disease And ancient forms of party strife. Rich in the gentler modes of life With sweeter manners, purer laws, Forerunner of those years of ease That token a sublimer cause! What say'st thou? Giant, young and strong, What impulse heaves thy throbbing breast? Shall warrior plumes bedeck thy crest? Wilt whisper peace? Or shout for war? Wilt plead for right, or bleed for wrong? Wilt peal the bugle-blast afar And urge the cannon's madd'ning roar? Or wing the note through vale and glen:-- Hail! Peace on earth! Good-will to men! Reason return:--let strife be o'er? Thou speak'st not, giant, but I feel Hope's roseate flush upon my brow. Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. New aims thy glory will reveal. Thou heed'st the anguished bosom's smart, And thou wilt choose the better part. Thou'lt live on hist'ry's brightest page A monarch mighty, gentle sage: Great, great for what thou wilt have done And blest in all the course thou'lt run:-- Thy crown not carved in brass or wood, To crumble or decay; But be in endless day, Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good. And truth and peace will round thee weave An amaranthyne wreath of love, Its blessed motto ... trust--believe. And thou wilt share the realm above, Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet, Around one common mercy-seat. All hail, then, beautiful New-Year! Hero of promise, fraught with cheer! Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Thy stainless youth supports our faith That thou wilt break the bonds of death And snap the web of hate. * * * * * And thou farewell, grim tyrant old! Who, who would call thee back! Thou cam'st with bloody footstep, bold; Thou leav'st a blood-stained track. Go! Find a grave in the billowy surge That ne'er can wash thee clean; The wail of millions be thy dirge-- Thy judge--the Great Unseen! And when the resurrection morn Shall seek thy name to blot, Ho! Heed the voice that asks in scorn,-- Thou liv'dst and reign'dst for what? Passion unbridled, stubborn pride, Avengers, thine to rue, Of outraged virtue, truth defied, Shall 'balm in blood thy due, Lost eighteen sixty-two. MY BIRTHDAY. TO S---- 1864. The night is strangely, wildly dark; The thunders fiercely roll, And lightnings flash their angry spark; But thou absorb'st my soul. I have no care for storm-king's cloud, How black soe'er it be;-- No truant thought for earth's dark shroud: I'm thinking, love, of thee. To-night the God of battles views, With deprecating eye, A scene where demons wild infuse A thirst for victory. 'Tis His, not mine to guide the storm; 'Tis His to calm the sea: My spirit hovers 'round thy form. I'm thinking, love, of thee. Time's cycle once again has wrought Its round:--I'm twenty six. Another mile-stone's gained--sad thought-- Toward deep, silent Styx. I count no laurels I have won; Years bring no joy to me, While yet alone I wander on In timid thought of thee. Years six and twenty have been mine To journey on alone: Shall I as many more repine, Before I am undone? Or shall the journey henceforth take A brighter phaze for me? Shall I next six-and-twenty make My journey, love, with thee? If so, good-bye grim doubt and fear: Adieu to arid sand. All Hail! Oh prospect bright and clear! All Hail, oasis grand! Hand joined in hand, heart linked with heart, Come joy, come hope, come glee! United, ne'er on earth to part, I'll always think of thee. If not, Good-bye! The spirit breaks; The fountain soon must dry. If not, good God! The temple shakes; It totters! What am I? A wreck of hope!--An aimless thing! A helmless ship at sea To whose last spar love still must cling, And sigh:--Alas!--for thee. MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends' Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to _The Cecil Democrat_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Gertrude St. Orme." A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW. [JULY 4TH, 1886.] I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He's six years old to-day. I scarce can think six years have passed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name. But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You'll find them, every one. And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie's birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum. At sunrise on those happy days The cannon's deaf'ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four. But now those landmarks all are passed, He's getting fast away, The boy's a man, no baby now, He's six years old to-day. Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy. And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he's right? Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might. I know 'tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day. Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then? For most small boys will imitate What's seen in grown up men. And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man. Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he's six to-day, Some other time I'll tell you more, If--Charlie says I may. MURMURINGS. Falling, falling--gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain. Sweeping by the crazy casement, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things. Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o'er the soul. But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains. And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky. But he pauses not to listen, Onward with demoniac will; Till Aeolian harps in Heaven Softly whisper, "Peace, be still." THE OLD OAK TREE. Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough: In youth it sheltered me, And I'd protect it now. --George P. Morris. 'Tis living yet! Time has not dared To mark it, as his own, Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared This giant, firm and lone. It stands, as stood in years gone by, The chieftain in its shade, And breathed the warning, ere the cry Of war went through the glade. The Council tires then brightly burned Beneath its spreading bough, But oh, alas! the scene has turned, Where burn those fires now? The old oak stands where it did then, The same fresh violets bloom, But far down in the narrow glen, They deck the Indian's tomb. Life then seemed bright and free from care; When this old tree was young The Indian maiden twined her hair, And to her chieftain sung A song, low, gentle, and sincere, In pathos rich and rare; The warrior-lover brushed a tear, For thought was busy there. Yes, busy was the fertile brain, That bid him onward flee, The Indian moon was on the wane And drooped the hawthorne tree. The light canoe of rounded bark Scarce dared to skim the flood, For they had come with meaning dark To ravage lake and wood. * * * * * The conflict ended! but the bow Which twanged across the plain. Dealt its proud owner death's cold blow, And laid him with the slain. But to a better, happier home, Have gone the Indian braves; Where cruel white men cannot come, To call their brothers--slaves. Then let it stand, that aged oak, Among its kindred trees; Tho' now, no more the wigwam smoke Will curl upon the breeze. 'Tis left alone--the last sad thing That marks a nation vast, Then spare it, that its boughs may sing A requiem to the Past. SWEET FLORIDA. Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers, Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold, Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers, And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold. Soft are thy rivulets, gentle thy water-falls, Rippling so merrily toward the broad sea; Fringed with bright daisies, which bloom on thy borders, E'en Nature herself pays a tribute to thee. Sweeter and lovelier than all thy fair sisters, Thy gentleness surely hath fame for thee won, While thy star, not forgotten, shines forth in a glory That crowns the best flag that waves under the sun. Thy name brings a scent of the dogwood and myrtle, The jessamine, too, comes in for a share, With great yellow petals so heavy with perfume, That can with the tube-rose's only compare. Tho' large be the family, there's room for the fairest; No house is too small for a family with love: So Florida, thou who art brightest and dearest, The "Pet of the Household" forever shall prove. Thy rivers are broad and thy lakes fringed with grasses, The glint of the waves of the bright Santa Fe, With her edging of cypress and long-floating mosses, Forever are murmuring a sonnet to thee. While high on a hill sits the Queen of the Villas, Sweet Melrose! whose name is the least of her charms, Waves a welcome to all, to come over the billows And find a safe home 'neath her sheltering arms. And so they are coming, the weak and the weary, From near and from far, the strong and the brave, All ready to drink of the life giving breezes, The only Elixir that truly can save. EVENING. 'Tis Evening! soul enchanting hour, And queenly silence reigns supreme; A shade is cast o'er lake and bower, All nature sinks beneath the power Of sweet oblivion's dream. The Sun--the hero-god of day, Has from this happier half of earth, Passed on with sweet life-giving ray, To smile on millions glad and gay, In sorrow or in mirth. While in his stead, the Heavens above Are shaded with a silver light, So soft, so pure--that angels rove, To guard from evil those who love The God, who made all bright. Then soon that planetary sea Is studded o'er with diadems, Shining alike on land and sea. High, high above the loftiest tree; Proud Nature's priceless gems. Who would not leave the crowded room, The grand, but cold musician's art; To wander 'neath the calm still moon. When nature speaks 'mid wild perfume, So sweetly to the heart. Who would not shun proud Fashion's hall, Escape her cold and torturings ways, To calmly rest where dew-drops fall; Perfumes that mind and soul enthrall, Beneath fair Luna's rays. Who would exchange a home of flowers, Down in a pure and modest dell, For palaces 'mid art-reared bowers, Washed o'er by artificial showers, Where naught but sorrows dwell. Blest hour of thought! to thy pure scene A mild and soothing charm is given, When hearts to hearts in love convene, And roses deck the silvered green Of mingled Earth and Heaven. The truth--that plainly proves a God, Not chance, performed the better part Which teaches us His Heavenly Word: Breathes magic for the singing bird, And links us heart to heart. REV. WILLIAM DUKE. The Rev. William Duke was born in the southern part of what is now Harford county, but was at the time of his birth included in Baltimore county, on the 15th of September, 1757, and died in Elkton on the 31st of May, 1840. He became enamoured of the doctrines of Methodism in early youth, and allied himself with that denomination before its separation from the Protestant Episcopal Church, and was licensed to preach by Rev. Francis Asbury when he was only seventeen years old. Mr. Duke's name appears upon the minutes of the first Conference, held in Philadelphia in 1774, as one of the seven ministers who were that year taken on trial. The next year he was admitted to full membership, and remained in connection with the Conference as a traveling preacher until 1779, when he ceased to travel, and subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church; being impelled to do so by his opposition to the erection of the Methodist Society into an independent Church. Mr. Duke became Rector of North Elk Parish in 1793, but resigned the charge three years later, and removed to Anne Arundel county, but returned to Elkton about a year afterwards; soon after he removed to Kent county, where he taught a parochial school for a short time, but returned to Elkton again in 1799 and opened a school, and preached during the three following years at North East, Elkton, and at the Episcopal Church near New London, Pa. In 1803 he was appointed Professor of Languages in St. John's College, Annapolis, and had charge of St. Ann's Church, in that city, until 1806, when he returned to Elkton, and the next year took charge of the Elkton Academy. Mr. Duke remained in Cecil county until 1812, when he took charge of Charlotte Hall, in St. Mary's county, and continued in charge of the school at that place until 1814, when he returned to Elkton, where he officiated as aforetime until the Spring of 1818, when he was appointed Principal of the Academy. He continued to reside in Elkton until the time of his death. In 1793 Mr. Duke married Hetty Coudon, the daughter of the Rev. Joseph Coudon, a former Rector of North Elk Parish, and the ancestor of the Coudon family of this county. Mr. and Mrs. Duke were the parents of Miss Hetty Duke, who was their only child, and who died in Elkton, February 19th, 1875. Mr. Duke was a very learned man, and is said by the Rev. Ethan Allan, the Historian of "The Old Parishes of Maryland," to have been more of the student than the preacher. He was the author of a pamphlet published in Elkton in 1795, entitled "Observations on the Present State of Religion in Maryland," which is now of great rarity and value. He also published a small volume entitled "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions," which was printed by Samuel and John Adams, of Baltimore, in 1790; and several other poems of considerable length, the most popular of which was entitled "A View of the Woods," which was descriptive of the adventures and experience of Western emigrants in the latter part of the last century. The following selections have been made from "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions." HYMN. And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned; but now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly. --Hebrews 11:15,16. Abr'am, the father of the Jews, The servant, and the friend of God, When call'd from heaven, did not refuse To leave his Syrian abode. His father's house and kindred dear Plead, and dissuaded him in vain; Neither could earthly hope nor fear The noble enterprise restrain. Nor he alone; a host of saints Renounced the world, and nobly chose That heavenly inheritance Which neither death nor sorrow knows. No intervening dangers check Their ardent progress to the skies, Well may they venture, who expect An heavenly and immortal prize. When faith to their delighted view Their future blissful portion brings, They, firm and cheerful, bid adieu To sin, and self, and earthly things. Happy to leave the world behind, Their conduct speaks a noble aim; They seek a city, and shall find The promised new Jerusalem. Nor yet does impotence or fear Their sense of earthly bliss restrain, Did they not heaven to earth prefer, They soon might wed the world again. In heaven their treasure is laid up Beyond the reach of accident, There shall their lively glorious hope Receive its full accomplishment. HYMN. But yield yourselves unto God as those that are alive from the dead; and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God. --Romans 6:13. My heart, the world forsake, And every earthly toy; The Lord of all thy portion make, And in Him all enjoy. May sensible delight, Corrected and refined, A thirst of nobler joys excite, And urge the lingering mind. Should ardent love impel And actuate my soul, Still may celestial fires prevail, And every thought control. Should glory stimulate, And daring deeds propose, That only fame I'd emulate, To triumph in the cross. Or should my yielding powers Acknowledge pleasure's sway, I'd think of sacred streams and bowers, And sweets that ne'er decay. Should soaring science me Her votary avow, My only excellence should be Christ crucified to know. Should wealth my mind impress, With the desire of more, In Christ the fullness I possess, Of Heaven's exhaustless store. With all that nature craves, Fully from thence supplied, No aching want my bosom heaves No wish unsatisfied. REJOICING IN HOPE. Tost on the troubled sea of life, On every side assailed, Involved in passion's stormy strife, In irksome suff'rance held. The faithful word of promise cheers And bears my spirits up, Dispels my dark desponding fears And stablishes my hope. Hope that shall every toil survive, That smoothes the rugged path, That mitigates the ills of life, And soothes the hour of death. And when the storms of life are o'er, And all our conflicts cease, When landed on the heavenly shore To enjoy eternal peace. Hope at the last, her charge resigned, Securely we dismiss, And an abundant entrance find, To the abodes of bliss. Till then our progress she attends To solace and relieve: And waits till every conflict ends To take her final leave. Possessed of all we hoped below, Our utmost wish attained, Our happiness complete, we know Our full perfection gained. Thus may I cheerfully endure, Till thus my warfare past;-- Suffice for me the promise sure, I shall be crowned at last. HYMN. There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God. --Hebrews 4:9. Oh how I languish to possess, A safe and permanent abode! To rest in unmolested peace, And cast my care on thee, my God. In thee I joy, in thee I rest, Though all inferior comforts fail; No hopeless anguish heaves my breast, And no tormenting fears assail. To thee with confidence I look, And calmly wait thy promised aid; I rest securely on that Rock, On which Almighty help is laid. Oh may I on His firmness stand, The ground of my immortal hope; Or nobly rise, at his command, To Pisgah's heaven-aspiring top. That I may with ecstatic view, My future heritage descry, Where pleasures spring forever new, And perfect love shall never die. REMORSE. What racking fear, what painful grief Ensue a pleasant sin! In vain the world proffers relief For maladies within. Its blandishments and smooth deceit No real succor bring; Its remedies but irritate And pleasure leaves a sting. Confusion, shame, and slavish fear O'erwhelm a guilty mind; A burden more than I can bear, My sins upon me bind. Oh had I weighed the matter well Ere my consent was given! Avoided then the gates of hell And urged my way to heaven! Lord, give me strength now to resume My former confidence; Remove my terrors, bid me come With hopeful penitence. In mercy hear my humble cry, Redeem my soul from sin, My guilty conscience pacify And speak the peace serene. MORNING. But now the dawn of day appears, And now the dappled East declares Ambrosial morn again arrived, And nature's slumbering powers revived, And while they into action spring The infant breeze with odorous wing, Perfumes of sweetest scent exhales, And the enlivened sense regales, With sweets exempt from all alloy Which neither irritate nor cloy. Nor less the calmly gladdened sight Enjoys the milder forms of light, Reflected soft in twinkling beams, From numberless translucent gems. But now Aurora dries her tears, And with a gayer mien appears, With cheerful aspect smiles serene, And ushers in the splendid scene Of golden day: while feeble night Precipitates his dreary flight Dispelled by the all cheering sway Of the resplendent God of day, Who, mounted in his royal car, And all arrayed in golden glare With arduous career drives on Ascending his meridian throne: From thence a Sovereign of the day, His full-grown glories to display. EDWIN EVANS EWING. Edwin Evans Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing and brother of William Pinkney Ewing, was born on his father's farm on the Octoraro creek, not far from Rowlandville, in this county, on the 9th of January, 1824. His family is of Scotch-Irish extraction, and settled on the Octoraro more than a century ago. The family has long been distinguished for the intellectuality and literary ability of its members, among whom were the Rev. John Ewing, one of the most eminent scientists and Presbyterian divines of his time, and his daughter Sarah, who became the wife of John Hall, and whose biography is published in this volume. The subject of this sketch spent his youth and early manhood, on his father's farm. Recently when asked for a sketch of his life Mr. Ewing replied: "I didn't have any life. I just growed like Topsy. I didn't have any educating. I just picked it up; and as for poetry, I never wrote any, only rhyme." Notwithstanding this assertion, Mr. Ewing being unable to resist the prompting of the "divinity which stirred within him," when quite young, began to write poetry. There seems to be a subtle influence pervading the romantic Octoraro hills, which if not the direct cause of poetic inspiration seems to encourage its growth, Mr. Ewing being one of five poets who claim that region as their birthplace, or who have profited by a residence therein. When quite young Mr. Ewing wrote poetry which was published in the local journals of Cecil and Lancaster counties, and subsequently contributed poetry to the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, being a contemporary contributor to that journal with his brother, William P. Ewing, and the late David Scott (of James.) In 1856 Mr. Ewing made a trip to the Southwest, traveling extensively on horseback in Texas. He gave an account of his travels and a description of the country through which he passed in a series of letters published in the _Cecil Whig_, which were much admired. In 1861, Mr. Ewing became the proprietor and editor of the _Cecil Whig_, which was the Union organ of the county. Being a man of decided convictions, and unflinching courage, he never lost an opportunity to advocate the cause of the Union, to which he adhered with great devotion, through evil and through good report. In 1876 he disposed of the _Whig_ and the next year bought an interest in the _Kansas Farmer_ and the _Juvenile Magazine_, published in Topeka, Kansas. He subsequently became connected with the _Daily Capital_, and eventually became sole proprietor of the _Kansas Farmer_. The climate of Kansas not agreeing with him, he removed to Highlands, Macon county, N.C., where in 1882 he established the _Blue Ridge Enterprise_ which he soon afterwards disposed of, and in 1885 became the proprietor of the _Midland Journal_, published in the village of Rising Sun, in this county. Mr. Ewing is a brilliant and forcible writer. Like many others Mr. Ewing kept none of his poems except one which is too lengthy to be given a place in this volume. In consequence of this the compiler has only been able to obtain the following specimens of his poetry after great labor and trouble. THE CHERUBIM--A VISION. 'Twas at that season, when the gloom Of cheerless Winter's pass'd away, And flowers spring up, with sweet perfume, To scent the breeze and cheer our way, Where'er we saunter--o'er the hill, Or through the valley--warm and still, Or broken only by the sound Of tinkling rills, which softly flow, And busy bees, that hum around The flowers which on their borders grow, That I, from life's turmoil had strayed To spend an hour in solitude; And where a sparkling fountain played, I laid me down, in pensive mood, To ponder o'er the fleeting day Of youth, that hies so fast away In golden dreams which quickly fly, Like tints that deck a Summer sky. Soon Fancy, on her airy wing, Was sporting mid Elysian bowers, Where flowers of sweetest odor spring, And birds of golden plumage sing, And wanton thro' the sylvan bowers. There lakelets sparkled in the glow, Wreathed round with flowers of many a hue, And golden pebbles shone below The wave that bore the swan of snow, Reflecting, in its mirror true, The flowers which o'er its surface grew, The tints of earth--the hues of sky-- That in its limpid bosom lie. And groups of happy children played Around the verge of each cascade; Or gambol'd o'er the flowery lea In wanton mirth and joyous glee; Pursuing, o'er the sparkling lawn, The insect in its airy flight, Which still eludes, but tempting on From flower to flower, with plumage bright, The hand that woos to stay its flight-- Till soaring high, on pinions wild It leaves the charm'd and tearful child. One maid there was, divinely fair, Whose cheeks, beneath her peerless eyes, Bloomed like the roses, rich and rare, That yield perfume to summer skies; Her shining locks of silky hair Hung round her neck like grapes of gold, And o'er her snowy bosom roll'd, Hiding the blush that mantled there. The brightest of the fairy throng, She led the dancing group along Through tangled brakes and fretted bowers, Where grew the richest, rarest flowers, That wooed the bee to banquet there, Or yielded sweets to Summer air. But she who moved with elfin pace, And taught the infant throng to play, Raised to heaven her cherub face, While that bright celestial ray, Which halos the throne of glory round, Illumed her azure, orient eye, That seemed to penetrate the sky. Bending her gaze upon the ground, Her gentle bosom heaved a sigh, And anxious faces press around, While pearls of pity dim each eye, As tho' they'd weep again to rest The troubled spirit of that breast. "Weep not for me!" the cherub said, While o'er her seraph beauty played A smile like evening's parting beam, That sparkles o'er the glassy stream, Or lingers on a lucid lake-- Whose dimpling wave the zephyrs break. "Far thro' yon skies, where orient day Is shedding his last lingering ray, Bright angels beckon me away;-- I go--I go--a last farewell!" And as she spoke around her fell, From heaven, a bright celestial ray, Whose lustre dimm'd the light of day; And 'mid that heavenly blaze unfold Her glittering pinions tipp'd with gold. While strains of sweet unearthly sound Awoke their dulcet chime around, She soared away on wings of light, Like sparkling meteor of the night; Still lessening, as she further drew Amid the ether of heavenly blue, Till lost within a blazing star That above the horizon shown-- As if from Paradise a car 'Twere sent to bear the cherub home. No more that happy throng is rending, With gladsome shouts the summer air, Nor songs of love to heaven ascending, From hearts that know no guile nor care; But on each peerless infant brow The gloom of care is settling now; While passion madly fires each eye, And swells each bosom beating high; And tongues that lisped an infant name, Now speak in haughty tones of Fame! While some, in senatorial pride, With scorn their fellow-man deride; And others, more sanguinary still, From words of ire appeal to brands, Nor scruple a brother's blood to spill-- Cain-like!--with ensanguined hands Polluting the flowers which smile--in vain Wooing the heart to love again. Long o'er this painful scene I sighed, Where licentious passion, unrestrained, Was left to riot in her pride-- Spreading destruction where'er she reigned. "And was this bright--this fair domain-- With all its beauty, formed in vain? Where Nature, a paradise to grace, Hath loved her every charm to trace, That man, enamored of distress Should mar it into wilderness?" I raised my arm while thus I spoke, And o'er Beauty's broken bowers sighed; But with the effort I awoke, And found myself by Hela's side. DEATH AND BEAUTY. On a lone sequestered mead, Where silver-streamlets flow, I saw a rose and lily twine, And in love and beauty grow; Again to that lone, peaceful spot, From worldly cares I hied-- But the flowers that lately bloom'd so fair, Had wither'd, drooped, and died! Like love's young dream, they passed away, With all their vernal bloom, And they, who lately shone so fair, Now moulder in the tomb! But ere the minstrels left the bowers, And to summer climes had fled, They sang the dirge o'er fading flowers, That by their stems lay dead. Slumbering on its mother's breast A beauteous infant lay, The blush upon its dimpled cheek, Was like a rose in May: But the glow that tinged that cheek so fair, Was but the transient bloom, That brightens with the flitting breath-- A flow'ret of the tomb. The infant oped its azure eyes, And sweetly smiling, said, "Mamma," its gentle spirit ebbing, Was numbered with the dead; It laid its throbbing temples on The mother's heaving breast, And its gentle spirit pass'd to Heaven, With angels bright to rest! Lovely as the morning flowers, That bloom so fresh and gay, I saw a beauteous fair one decked In the bridal's bright array; But she, who had, at morning rise, Exulted in her bloom, Was doom'd ere evening's sun had set, To grace the silent tomb. Alas! that things so beautiful, So soon must pass away, And all of earth that's loveliest Must moulder in the clay; But well we know those charms so bright, Which Heaven hath form'd in love, Tho' ravaged by death's icy hand, Shall bloom again above! TAKE THE HARP. TO KATE. 'Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the "loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures," the beauty and grandeur of the place. Take the harp, nor longer leave it Sighing on the willow tree; Pass thy gentle fingers o'er it, And awake its melody; The streams tho' icy chains may bind them, Still will murmur back thy trill, And the roses wild, though blasted, On thy cheeks are blooming still. Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers The lone groves and valleys fill; And tho' winter's frosts have sear'd them, Thou canst dream they're beauteous still-- Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure, And wild flowers above them rise; What tho' chilly blasts have strewn them, Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs! Take the harp, nor on it dirges Longer let Eolus play; Touch it, and those notes of sadness Change to joyous rhapsody! And tho' the grape, the gift of Autumn, Has been prest to crown the bowl-- Still in thy tresses shine its clusters, While down thy snowy neck they roll. Take the harp, and wake its numbers To thy sister planet's praise, As up the eastern sky she blazes, Followed by the morning rays; Queen of starry heaven beaming, From her azure realm afar; So thou dost shine midst beauty's daughters, Love's bright and glorious morning star. DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL. The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing. I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale Decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away. --Moore. And thou art dead, The gifted, the beautiful, Thy spirit's fled! Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more! Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb-- He hath touched thee--thou hast left us in thy bloom! How oft amid the virgin throng, I've seen thee, fairest, dance along; And thine eyes, so brightly dark, Gleaming like the diamond's spark; But now how dim Those orbs are left-- By Death bereft Of their brightness, And that neck of its whiteness, Where once the curling tress descended, Where once the rose and lily blended, As the warm blush came and flew; Now o'er all hath Death extended His pallid hue-- Sallow and blue; And sunken 'neath the purple lid, Those eyes are hid, Once so bright; And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white, All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds! In its snowy folds-- Then fare thee well, sweet one, Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run, And with the flowers thou art sleeping, And o'er thy grave the friends are weeping Of thine early day. Thou wert lovely--aye, as Spring, When birds and blossoms bloom and sing, The happy, happy hours welcoming Of gentle May. In the past I see thee shining, Like the star of tender morning, A day of love and peace divining, And the sky of Hope adorning. Smiles--that dimpled mouth are wreathing; Music--those rosy lips are breathing, Like morn glancing through the sky, Like the zephyr's softest sigh. Ah, then, who'd dream that aught so fair, Was fleeting as the Summer air? Yet in that hour Disease, so deceitful, stole upon thee, As blight upon a flower; And thou art dead! And thy spirit's past away. Like a dew-drop from the spray, Like a sunbeam from the mountain, Like a bubble from the fountain; And thou art now at rest, In thy damp, narrow cell, With the clod heap'd o'er thy breast; Fare thee well! ASPHODEL. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When raging tempests wildly blow, Mid storm and darkness--wond'rous powers! Heaping the stainless, virgin snow Above thy fragile form, that bowed Beneath the blighting frost that fell, Scattering o'er earth those gorgeous hues, Thy grace and pride, sweet Asphodel. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When dreary winter leaves the plain, And smiling spring leads forth in state, With vestal pride, her flow'ry train, And vernal songs of love and hope, In one harmonious concert swell-- Amid the floral throng I'll turn To thee, alone, sweet Asphodel. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When morning dawns upon the world, And through the golden gates of Heaven, Like fiery cars his beams are hurled, Driving the shades of somber night, Back to their caverned haunts to dwell-- Thou'lt come to me with charms renewed, My peerless flower, sweet Asphodel. WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father's farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing's early life was spent on his father's farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to the _Ladies' Garland_, the _Cecil Whig_ and _Cecil Democrat_. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of the _Daily Atlas_ of that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until the _Atlas_ was merged into the _Gazette_. He then accepted a position on the _Southern Lady's Book_, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New York _Tribune_, New York _Evening Post_ and _Chicago Tribune_. In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865. In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa. Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author. THE ANGEL VOICE. "Oh mother, dear mother, As calmly last night I lay on my pallet An angel in white Hover'd o'er me, and softly Said--'come, brother, come, Away from this world, To a heavenly home!'" "Then let me die, mother-- Tho' sweet birds are singing, And flowers in brightness And beauty are springing On hillside and mountain, O'er meadow and lea, They no longer possess Any sweetness for me." "For that angelic voice, Ringing still in my ear, Has attuned my heart To a holier sphere; And like a caged eagle, My soul pines to stay So long from its home-- Its redeemer away." O, pale grew that mother, And heavy her heart, For she knew her dear boy From her sight must depart, And be laid, cold and stiff, In the earth's humid breast, Where the wicked cease troubling, The weary have rest; But she smoothed down his pillow, And murmured a prayer, For the Giver of mercies Her loved one to spare; But ere she had finished Her pious request, His spirit had flown To the realms of the blest! THEN AND NOW. [MIDNIGHT.] I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again; And though that love has cost me much of pain, Of agony intense, I would live o'er Most willingly, each bitter hour I've known Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heart On one by thee deemed worthier is set, And I must bear the keen and deathless smart, Of passion unrequited, or forget That which is of my very life a part. To cherish it may lead to madness, yet I will brood over it: for oh, The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe. [DAYDAWN.] "I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again;" Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more Devotedly I love thee now, than when Those lines were written. But avails it aught? Have I return? Hold I the slightest part Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? I dare believe so:--nor will soon resign The dream I've cherished long, that some day thou'lt be mine. THE NEGLECTED HARP. I touch not that harp, Let it slumber alone; For its notes but awaken Sad memories of one Whose hand often swept The soft wires along, And aroused them to music, To love, and to song. But Death, the destroyer, Ere grief threw a ray O'er her flowery path, Snatched her rudely away; And the harp that resounded, With loveliest tone, To her delicate touch, Has since slumbered alone. Then awake not a strain-- Let it still repose there, And be breathed on alone By the sweet summer air; For its numbers though lively, Though joyous and light, But cast o'er my spirits A wildering blight. ALONE. Never, no nevermore, Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine, Or on my breast thy weary head recline, As oft of yore. And though thou wert to me Life's only charm, I yet can bear A little while, since thou art free from care, Alone to be. For to my heart is given, The cheering hope, that soon, where pain And partings are unknown, we'll meet again-- In yonder heaven. GONE ASTRAY. Leila, thou art resting well, In thy lonely, narrow cell-- Dark and lonely, narrow cell,-- And I would with thee had died, And was sleeping by thy side,-- In the graveyard by thy side,-- She who gave thee being, she Who made life a joy to me,-- A blessing and a joy to me. Were she with thee, I could bear All life's agony and care,-- Bitter agony and care,-- But alas, she went astray From the straight and narrow way,-- Virtue's straight and narrow way-- And, O misery, became To her sex a thing of shame,-- A thing of infamy and shame. Now, of her and thee bereft, Naught have I to live for left,-- Naught on earth to live for left;-- And with bleeding heart I roam, From a desecrated home,-- A broken, desecrated home,-- Looking, longing for the day When my life shall ebb away,-- To its giver, ebb away. For I feel, a God of love, In the better land above,-- Brighter, better land above,-- To these yearning arms again, With a soul all free from stain,-- Free from every earthly stain,-- Will the wanderer restore, To be tempted nevermore-- Passion-tempted nevermore. LAY OF THE LAST INDIAN. They are gone--They are gone, From their green mountain homes, Where the antelope sports, And the buffalo roams; For the pale faces came, With insidious art, And the red men were forced From their homes to depart! In the land Manitou Bestowed on their sires, Oh! never again Round their bright council-fires, Will they gather, to talk Of the feats they have done, Or, to boast of the scalps By their prowess they've won. For they've gone--they have passed, Like the dew from the spray, And their name to remembrance Grows fainter each day; But for this were they forced From their ancestors' graves; They dared to be freemen, They scorned to be slaves. CHARLES H. EVANS. Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him. Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature of _Agricola_. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware. For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses. INFLUENCES. Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever. Flake follows flake, like sprites, Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realms of mind forever. Beam follows beam, to cheer The cloud a bolt would shiver; Dream follows dream, and fear Gives way to joy forever. The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream, Impress the heart forever. MUSINGS. Few the joys--oh! few and scattered-- That from fleeting life we borrow; And we're paying, ever paying, With an usury of sorrow! If a bright emotion, passing, Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces, Plodding Time--the envious plowman-- Soon a shadowy furrow traces! If a hope--ambition-nurtured-- Gilds our future, ere we've won it, Vaunting Time--the hoary jailor-- Shuts his somber gates upon it! If a heart our bosom seeking, With a fond affection woos it, Heartless Time--remorseless reaper-- Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it! Things of earth, all, all, are shadows! And while we in vain pursue them, Time unclasps his withered fingers-- And our wasted life slips through them. LINES. WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE. Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high, With light-house mingling with the summer sky, How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood, Braving alike the wild winds and the flood? What howling gales have swept those shores along, What tempests dire have piped their dismal song. And lightnings glared those towering trees among? And oft, as now, the summer sun has shed His golden glories round thy mountain head, And tarried there with late and lingering hues, While all below was steeped in twilight dews, And night's proud queen, in ages past, as now, Hung her pale crescent o'er thy beetling brow. Soft lamp--that lights the happy to their rest, But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast, And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glide In lonely sadness up the mountain side; And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past, Some far off knowledge o'er my senses cast, Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale, And of past ages tell mysterious tale-- Speak of those ages of primeval worth, And all the hidden wonders of thy birth-- Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast, And raised the stately masses of thy crest? Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side, Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride, And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil, To alien shrines upon his native soil. It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the story That stained the wreath of many a hero's glory; But Nature's mysteries must ever rest Within the gloomy confines of thy breast, Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed, Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed. MRS. SARAH HALL. Mrs. Sarah Hall was born in Philadelphia October 30th, 1761, and died in that city April 8th, 1830. She was the daughter of the Rev. John Ewing, D.D., a member of the Ewing family of the Eighth district of this county, and one of the most distinguished scholars and divines of his time, and who was for many years Provost of the University of Pennsylvania and pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia. Miss Ewing's early education was confined to learning to read and write, and in acquiring a thorough knowledge of housewifery. In 1782 she married John Hall, a member of the Hall family of the Eighth district, and the newly wedded pair came to reside in the house near Rowlandville, formerly owned by the late Commodore Conner, and now occupied by his son P.S.P. Conner. It was while residing in this old mansion, surrounded by the picturesque scenery of the Octoraro hills, that she wrote the poem entitled "Sketch of a Landscape," which no doubt was inspired by the beauty of the surrounding scenery and the fine view of the "Modest Octoraro," which may be had from the porch of the old historic mansion in which she resided. After a residence of about eight years in Cecil county the family removed to Philadelphia, where Mr. Hall successively filled the offices of Secretary of the Land Office, and United States Marshal for the District of Pennsylvania. The family returned to Maryland in 1805, and resided on Mr. Hall's paternal estate for about six years. Mrs. Hall's literary career commenced with the publication of her writings in the _Port Folio_, a literary magazine published in Philadelphia about the beginning of this century, and of which her son, John E. Hall, subsequently became the editor. She soon attained high rank as a magazine writer, and, until the time of her death, occupied a position second to none of the female writers of this country. Mrs. Hall is best known in the literary world by her book entitled "Conversations on the Bible." It was written after she was fifty years of age and the mother of eleven children, and was so popular as to astonish its author by the rapidity of its sale. SKETCH OF A LANDSCAPE In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806. What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet, That unexpected, strike my charmed ear! They are the Robin's song! This genial morn Deceives the feathered tribe: for yet the sun In Pisces holds his course; nor yet has Spring Advanc'd one legal claim; but though oblique So mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays, Impris'ning winter seems subdued. No dread Of change retards their wing; but off they soar Triumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring. Advent'rous birds, and rash! ye little think, Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst. How soon the blasts of March--the snowy sleets, May turn your hasty flight, to seek again Your wonted warm abodes. Thus prone is youth, Thus easily allured, to put his trust In fair appearance; and with hope elate, And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth, To earn experience in the storms of life! But why thus chide--why not with gratitude Receive and cherish ev'ry gleam of joy? For many an hour can witness, that not oft, My solitude is cheered by feelings such, So blithe--so pleasurable as thy song Sweet Robin, gives. Yet on thy graceful banks, Majestic Susquehanna--joy might dwell! For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores, Or niggard Winter bind them--still the forms Most grand, most elegant, that Nature wears Beneath Columbia's skies, are here combin'd. The wide extended landscape glows with more Than common beauty. Hills rise on hills-- An amphitheater, whose lofty top, The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns-- Whose ever-varying sides present such scenes Smooth or precipitous--harmonious still-- Mild or sublime,--as wake the poet's lay; Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense; The gifts of Ceres, or Diana's shades. The eye enraptur'd roves o'er woods and dells, Or dwells complacent on the numerous signs Of cultivated life. The laborer's decent cot, Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill. The lowlier hut hard by the river's edge, The boat, the seine suspended, tell the place Where in his season hardy fishers toil. More elevated on the grassy slope, The farmer's mansion rises mid his trees; Thence, o'er his fields the master's watchful eye Surveys the whole. He sees his flocks, his herds Excluded from the grain-built cone; all else, While rigid winter reigns, their free domain! Range through the pastures, crop the tender root, Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out, The welcome herb,--now prematurely sprung Through half-thawed earth. Beside him spreading elms, His friendly barrier from th' invading north, Contrast their shields defensive with the willow Whose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn. Before him lie his vegetable stores, His garden, orchards, meadows--all his hopes-- Now bound in icy chains: but ripening suns Shall bring their treasures to his plenteous board. Soon too, the hum of busy man shall wake Th' adjacent shores. The baited hook, the net, Drawn skilful round the wat'ry cove, shall bring Their prize delicious to the rural feast. Here blooms the laurel on the rugged breaks, Umbrageous, verdant, through the circling year His bushy mantle scorning winds or snows-- While there--two ample streams confluent grace-- Complete the picture--animate the whole! Broad o'er the plain the Susquehanna rolls, His rapid waves far sounding as he comes. Through many a distant clime and verdant vale, A thousand springy caverns yield their rills, Augmenting still his force. The torrent grows, Spreads deep and wide, till braving all restraint Ev'n mountain ridges feel the imperious press; Forced from their ancient rock-bound base--they leave Their monumental sides, erect, to guard The pass--and tell to future days, and years, The wond'rous tale! Meanwhile, The conqueror flood holds on his course, Resistless ever--sinuous, or direct. Unconscious tribes beneath his surface play, Nor heed the laden barques, his surface bear; Now gliding swiftly by the threat'ning rocks, Now swimming smoothly to the distant bay. To meet and bring his liberal tribute too, The modest Octoraro winds his way-- Not ostentatious like a boasting world Their little charities proclaiming loud-- But silent through the glade retir'd and wild, Between the shaded banks on either hand, Till circling yonder meed--he yields his name. Nor proudly, Susquehanna! boast thy gain, For thence, not far, thou too, like him shall give Thy congregated waters, title--all, To swell the nobler name of Chesapeake! And is not such a scene as this the spell, That lulls the restless passions into peace? Yes. Cold must be the sordid heart, unmov'd By Nature's bounties: but they cannot fill, That ardent craving in the mind of man, For social intercourse,--the healthful play-- The moral gem--the light of intellect-- Communion sweet with those we love! WITH A ROSE IN JANUARY. Will you accept this bud my dear, Fit emblem of the coming year: The bud expands, the flower blooms, And gives awhile its rich perfumes: Its strength decays, its leaf descends, Its sweets are gone--its beauty ends, Such is the year.--The morning brings The bud of pleasure in its wings: Hope, health, and fortune, smile their day, And charm each threat'ning cloud away: But gathering ills increase their force, And though concealed--make sure their course. They come--they press--they stand confest, And disappointment tells the rest. LIFE. SUGGESTED BY A SUMMER EVENING. 'Tis early eve--the sun's last trembling glance, Still hovers o'er and gilds the western wild, And slowly leaves the haunts of solitude. Venus, bright mistress of the musing hour, Above the horizon lifts her beck'ning torch; Stars, in their order, follow one by one The graceful movement of their brilliant queen, Obedient to the hand that fix'd them all, And said to each--Be this thy place. Refreshing airs revive man's sinking strength, And hallowed thoughts come rushing to the heart! Now from her eastern clime the golden Moon, Set in a frame of azure, lifts her shield, And all creation wakes to life renewed! Not long she holds supreme her joyous course; Her foes in sullen vapors fitful rise, And envious, hovering over her splendid path, Now thin--now dense, impede her kindly ray. In hasty, partial gleams, of light and shade, She holds her purposed way.--Now darker clouds Collect, combine, advance--she falls--'twould seem To rise no more--sudden they break--they pass, Once more she shines--bright sovereign of the skies! Thus 'tis with life--it is not dubious hope In early youth--'tis joy--joy unalloy'd; Joy blooms within, all objects take the tint, And glowing colors paint the vista's length. Not long, life dances on the plastic scene, Care's haggard form invades each flow'ry path; Disease, with pallid hue, leads on her train, And Sorrow sheds her tears in wasting showers! But Pain and Grief pass on, and harrowing Care Awhile put on some pleasing, treacherous shape; Then hope revives, health blooms! love smiles-- And wealth and honors crown the distant day. How long? Envenom'd ills collect all 'round, And while short-sighted man his fragile schemes Pursues--not grasps--blow after blow fall swift, Fall reckless--and he sinks beneath their weight! To rise no more? Like yon triumphant Moon, That "walks in brightness" now, beyond the clouds, Through patient suffering, man shall surely rise To dwell above that orb, in light ineffable, Where pain--where sin--where sorrows, never come! MRS. SALLIE WILLIAMS HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hardcastle's maiden name was Sallie Williams Minter. She was born in Bedford county, Virginia, June 19, 1841. Reared in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, whose lofty summits tower in magnificent grandeur far above the wooded heights and billowy green hills of the surrounding country, it is little wonder that the subject of this sketch should have been early imbued with the spirit of poesy, and led to the cultivation of tastes and the selection of themes which the grand and picturesque in nature are apt to suggest. But in addition to these favorable surroundings, a literary and thoughtful turn of mind was inherited from her father and grandfather--the latter having been eminent in his day as the author of a religious work, replete with keen arguments and logical conclusions. The former also was a writer of ability, and having a thorough knowledge of the politics of his State, frequently discussed them in the local journals with a ready and trenchant pen. Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own age, were published in the _Virginia Sentinel_. She was an occasional contributor to the _Literacy Companion_, _Magnolia Weekly_, and other Southern periodicals. Mrs. Hardcastle was married in 1863 to Dr. Jerome H. Hardcastle, then a surgeon in the hospital at Liberty, Va. After the war they came to Maryland, and subsequently, in 1876, to Cecilton, in this county, where they have since resided. They are the parents of five daughters and one son. Like many other persons, Mrs. Hardcastle neglected to carefully preserve her poetical writings. And was so unfortunate as to lose most of the few in her possession at the time of the evacuation of Richmond, in consequence of which the following poems are all it has been practicable to obtain, which is a matter of regret, inasmuch as they are by no means the best of her writings. ON RECEIPT OF A BOUQUET. I thank thee, my friend, for thy delicate gift, These fair and beautiful flowers, They come to me now, like a boon from above, To gladden my pensive hours. All the brilliant bloom, of the summer days, These lovely flowers restore; And my childhood's home, with its fields and flowers, Comes back to me once more. How fragile and fair!--some pale, some blushing, All breathing rarest perfume-- But brighter and fairer they seem, my friend, Because from thee they come. I know that this beauty is frail and brief-- That their fragrance and bloom must depart, But like the mem'ry of thee, these flowers will live Forever enshrined in my heart. OCTOBER. Oh, days of the lovely October, How dear thou art to me; Words are weak, when my soul would speak, In language taught by thee. Not alone do thy glorious sunsets, Nor thy trees of a thousand dyes, But all touch my heart with thy sweet spell, Oh, earth, and air, and skies. In the gardens that shone with beauty, The flowers have faded, I know, And here, by my favorite pathway, The roses no longer may blow. But the leaves are burning with splendor, And I'll weave them in garlands bright, As I did in the sweet days of childhood, When my heart was aglow with delight. I've ruby and sapphire, blended with gold, And here's an emerald green, A parting gift, for my coronet, From summer's dying queen. Oh, loveliest month of the year, Too soon will thy glories depart, But not the sweet faith thou'st wakened, Within this worshiping heart. For though, like all beauty of earth, Thou'rt trammeled by earthly decay, Yet my soul is lifted by thine, To glories that fade not away. OLD LETTERS. TO MRS. ANNIE P----. "Burn my old letters"--ah! for you These words are easy to say, For you, who know not the light they brought To many a darksome day. And, then, old letters to me are links To those days forever gone; For we cling to the past as age would cling To youth, in its rosy dawn. But the wintry air is chill without, And the fire is faint and low, So I'll gather them up--the page of to-day With the date of long ago. Gather them up and cast them in Like trash, to the greedy flame; And I marvel not that the world hath said, "Friendship is only a name!" For the human heart's a changeful thing, And sometime we would borrow The light, that other days have given, To cheer us on the morrow. And so, as I sit in the merry light Of the blaze that upward flashes, I think, like these, our dearest hopes May come to dust and ashes. JUNE ROSES. What marvelous new-born glory Is flushing the garden and lawn! Hath the queen of all blossoming beauty Come forth with the early dawn? Like the first faint flush of morn, To the watchers, aweary with night,-- Like treasures long hidden away, Ye burst on my joyous sight. Not e'en the "first rose of Summer," Could yesterday be seen-- Only a tint like the sea-shell, Deep in a prison of green. Did the lover-like kiss of the south wind, While wand'ring o'er forest and lake, Bid thee start in thy slumbering beauty, And crimson with blushes awake? 'Tis long since the fragrant lilac Flourished and drooped at thy side, While many a frail young flow'ret since Hath quietly blossomed and died. And for days the pale, proud lily In regal beauty hath shown, Catching the sun's warm glances Ere the young roses had blown. But perfumed breezes are whispering: "To-day the roses have come," And the cottage will rival the palace, Decked in thy radiant bloom. MUSIC. The spirit is often enraptured With sweet tokens of love divine, But seldom in language so plain As spoken through music, to mine. Then my soul flings wide her portals, And visions of Paradise throng, While I bow, in silent devotion, To the Author of genius and song. The pleasures of earth are but few, And scarce for our sorrows repay, But we catch, in sweet moments like this, A glimpse of the perfect day. When I reach the Celestial City And gaze from her golden tower, Methinks my freed spirit would turn Far back, to this rapturous hour. And as angels are harping their songs-- Sweet songs of a heavenly birth-- I'll listen to hear the same touch That played us this prelude on earth. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. We loved thee--yes, we loved thee, But the angels loved thee too; And so thou now art sleeping 'Neath the sky so bright and blue. Sleeping now thy last long slumber, In the low and quiet tomb, Where life's ills can ne'er disturb thee-- Where sorrow ne'er can come. What tho' our hearts are bleeding, And our lonely spirits mourn, That thou with Spring's sweet flow'rets Wilt never more return, We would not call thee back, dear friend, To life's dull path again; Where thorns amid the flowers, Would often give thee pain; But sweetly rest thee, dear one, In thy long and dreamless sleep, Nor heed the sighs above thee, And the blinding tears we weep. MRS. MARY ELIZA IRELAND. Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland, the daughter of Joseph Haines and Harriet (Kirk) Haines, was born in the village of Brick Meeting House, now called Calvert, January 9, 1834. In early life she married John M. Ireland, son of Colonel Joseph Ireland, of Kent county, Md. They are the parents of three children, one of whom died in infancy. They now reside in Baltimore, where Mr. Ireland holds the position of United States storekeeper in the Internal Revenue Department. Until the past few years Mrs. Ireland has always lived in the old homestead where she was born and married, and from whence her parents were removed by death. Her first literary effort was a short story written when quite a young girl, entitled "Ellen Linwood," and published in the _Cecil Whig_, then edited by the late Palmer C. Ricketts, under the _nom de plume_ of "Marie Norman." For several years after the publication of "Ellen Linwood" Mrs. Ireland occasionally contributed to the _Cecil Whig_ and Oxford _Press_. Some years ago she wrote a story for _Arthur's Magazine_, and being in Philadelphia soon after it was written, she took it to the publishing house, and there met for the first time T.S. Arthur, whom she had known from childhood through his books. He received her kindly, promised to read her story, and to let her know his decision the next day. That decision was, that though entertaining and well written, it was scarcely suited to his magazine. He suggested another periodical where it would likely meet with favor. He also asked for another story, and presented her with a set of the magazines that she might see the style of writing that he desired. Her next story for _Arthur's_ was a success, and from that time until his death he remained the candid critic of all she sent him for publication, as well as of some stories published elsewhere, and the kind literary adviser and friend. She retained her first story (which he had declined) for three years, made some changes in it, and he accepted and published it. Since then she has been an acceptable contributor to _Cottage Hearth_, _Household_, and other domestic magazines, besides the _Literary World_, _Ladies' Cabinet_, _Woman's Journal_, and several church papers; and has written two prize stories, which took first prizes. In 1882 her short stories were collected and connected into a continued story, which was accepted and published by J.B. Lippincott & Co., under the title of "Timothy; His Neighbors and His Friends." Many letters of appreciation from distant parts of the Union testified to the merit of the book, and she was encouraged to accede to the request of the Presbyterian Observer Company of Baltimore to write a serial for their paper. It was entitled "Ivandale," and was warmly commended by judges of literary work. Wishing to read German literature in the original, she undertook the study of German, and as she had no time which she was willing to devote to regular lessons, she obtained a German pronouncing reader, and without instruction from any one she succeeded in learning to read and translate, pronouncing correctly enough to be understood by any German. This knowledge of the language has been a well-spring of pleasure to her, and well repays her for the few moments' attention she daily bestowed upon it. She has translated several books, two of which were published as serials in the _Oxford Press_, and the Lutheran Board of Publication have published one of her translations, entitled "Betty's Decision." Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our language and periodicals through the medium of her pen. Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home. Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose. AT THE PARTY. I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair; She picked it to pieces while standing there. I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes; She turned them upon me in cold surprise. Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love; My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove. I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown; She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown. I asked her to dance in most penitent tone; On the arm of a rival she left me alone. This gave me a hint; I veered from my track, And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back. I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh, And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh. It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life! This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife. MOTHER AND SON. 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