■I IkiLi w the Poets add Poetry OF SE0IL SOUGTY, MARYLAND, COLLECTED A^CD EDITED BY george'johnston, AUTHOR OF THE HISTORY OF CECIL COUNTY. A verse may finde him whom a sermon (lies, And turn delight into a sacrifice. —Herbert. ELKTON.MD: ^£^ PUBLISHED BY TOE EDITOR, "1887" Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by GEORGE JOHNSTON, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. THE APPEAL ' POWER PRESS TR4NT, ELKTON. MARYLAND.' • •' ' ' PREFACE. This volume owes its existence to the desire of some of the teachers and pupils of the public schools in the northeastern part of Cecil county, to do honor to the memory of the late School Commissioner David Scott. Shortly after Mr. Scott's death, some of the parties referred to, proposed to collect enough money by voluntary contributions to erect a monu- ment over his grave, in order to perpetuate his memory, and also to show the high regard in which he was held by them. This project being brought to the knowledge of the editor, he ventured to express the opinion that the best monument Mr. Scott could have, would be the collection and publication of his poems in book form. This suggestion met the ap- probation of the originators of the project, who asked the writer to undertake the work of collecting the poems and editing the book. Subsequent investiga- tion showed that Mr. Scott had not left enough poems to justify their publication in a volume by themselves; and the original plan of the work was changed, so as to include, so far as it has been practicable to do so, the writings of all the native poets of the county, and those who though not natives, have resided and written in it. Owing to causes not necessary to state it was im- practicable, in some cases, to make as creditable a selection as could have been made had it been possi- ble to have had access to all the poetry of the differ- ent writers. In a few instances the book contains all the poetry of the different writers that it has been PREFxVCE. practicable to obtain. Herein, it is hoped, will be found sufficient apology, if any apology is needed, for the character of some of the matter in the book. If any apology is needed for the prominence given to the poems of David Scott (of John,) it may be found in the foregoing statement concerning the origin of the book ; and in the fact, that, for more than a quarter of a century, the editor was probably his most intimate friend. So intimate indeed were the relations between Mr. Scott and the writer, that the latter had the pleasure of reading many of his friend's poems before they were published. The same may be said in a more extended sense, of the poems ot David Scott (of James) to whose example and teach- ing, as well as to that of the other Mr. Scott — for he was a pupil of each of them — the writer owes much of whatever literary ability he may possess. The editor is also on terms of intimacy with many of the other contemporary writers whose poetry ap- pears in the book, and has striven to do justice to their literary ability, by the selection of such of their poems as are best calculated, in his opinion, to do credit to them, without offending the taste of the most fastidious readers of the book. From the foregoing statement it will be apparent that the object of the editor was not to produce a book of poetical jems, but only to select the poems best adapted to the exemplification of the diversified talents of their authors. The work has been a labor of love; and though conscious that it has been im- perfectly 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 Pennsyl- vania. What effect, if any, the pure atmosphere and picturesque scenery of the country along the banks and romantic hills of the Susquehanna and Octo- raro may have had to do with producing or develop- ing 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 Eolger 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 ob- tained 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.) PAOF.. Biography 17 Lines Suggested by the Singing of a Bird 19 An Eastern Tale 20 The Market-Man's License 24 Lines on the death of Mrs. Elizabeth Scolt 25 My Schoolboy Days 26 The Donation Visit 29 Lines on the death of Miss Mary Hayes 31 Lines on the death of Miss Eleanora Henderson 32 Lines on the death of Mrs. Burnite 34 Stanzas read at the Seventy-second Anniversary of the birth- day of Joseph Steele ^ To Mary . 3 S Impromptu to Mrs. Anna C. Baker 39 Lament for the year 1877 39 Verses presented to my Daughter 41 Lines on the death of a young lady of Wilmington .... 42 Youthful Reminiscences 42 Stanzas to a little girl on her birthday ....-.-... 4=; To Miss Mary Bain . . . 46 Stanzas addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott ... 48 Birthday Verses written for a little girl on her ninth birthday c,o Boll Call 51 In Memoriam Rensellaer Biddle 52 Stanzas written on the fly leaf of a child's Bible 53 Christmas Greeting, 1877 53 Anniversary Poem read at the anniversary of the Seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson 54 Lines on the death of Jane Flounders ^6 What is Matter? 57 Anniversary Hymn 59 The Intellectual Telegraph 61 Lines on an Indian Arrow-Head 62 Acrostic to Miss Annie Eliza McNamee 63 Minutes of the Jackson Hail Debating Society, Dec. 5, 1S77 63 Retrospection 66 Acrostic to Miss Florence Wilson McNamee 67 The Book of Books 68 The Lesson of the Seasons 69 John A. Calhoun, My Joe John 72 CONTENTS. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Biography 75 My Brother 77 My Father. In Memoriam, 1857 78 At the Nightfall 81 '1 he Midnight Chime 82 May-Thalia ' 83 Memories 85 The Old Homestead 87 Gurtha 88 In Memoriam. John B. Abrahams 90 Missive to . 92 Chick- A- Dee's Song 94 To My Sister 95 Measuring the Baby 96 The Light of Dreams 98 Ben Ha'fed'sMeed 99 Winter Bound 102 Misled 102 At Milking lime 103 The Singer's Song 105 Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving 106 In Hoc Signo Vinces 109 How Katie Saved the Train in Off the Skidloe 114 Life's Crosses 115 NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS. Biography 118 The Mother to her dead boy 120 To a Dove 121 Fall of Superstition 123 The Infant St. John the Baptist 125 Shelley's Obsequies 126 The Fountain Revisited 127 Death of Samson 128 An Infant's prayer 130 JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. Biography 131 A Story with a Moral 132 Forty Years After 134 The Past 136 CONTENTS. PAGE. Loved and Lost 137 Death of Henry Clay, Jr 138 A Valentine 140 Lines suggested on visiting the grave of a dear Friend . . . 140 GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. Biography 142 Stonewall Jackson 142 In Memo ria m 14^ New Year Ode 147 My Birthday i s 2 MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Biography 154 A Birthday Greeting ic;4 Murmurings 156 The Old Oak Tree 157 Sweet Florida 158 Evening 159 REV. WILLIAM DUKE. Biography 161 Hymn 162 Hymn 163 Rejoicing in Hope 164 Hymn 165 Remorse 166 Morning 167 EDWIN EVANS EWING. Biography 168 The Ciierubiui 169 Heath and Beauty 172 Take the Harp 174 Heath of the Beautiful 175 Asphodel 176 CONTENTS. WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. Biography 178 The Angel Voice 179 Then and Now 180 The Neglected Harp 181 Alone 182 Clone Astray 182 Lay of die Last Indian 183 CHARLES H. EVANS. Biography 185 Influences , . . . 1S5 Musings 186 Lines' ••.... 186 MRS. SARAH HALL. Biography 188 Sketch of a Landscape 189 With a Rose in January 191 Life 192 MRS. SALLIE W. HARDCASTLE. Biography 194 On Receipt of a Bouquet 195 October 195 Old Letters 196 June Roses 197 Music 198 Lines on the death of a Friend 199 MRS. MARY E. IRELAND. Biography 200 At the Party 201 Mother and Son 202 The Missionary's Story 203 CONTENTS. PAGE. Transition 204 Dorothy Moore- 205 Homeward Bound ' 208 GEORGE JOHNSTON. Biography 210 Here and Hereafter 212 The Tut tie's Sermon 214 Sk)e 216 If You don't believe it, try it 217 Bye and Bye 219 WILLIAM JAMES JONES. Biography 220 Autumn 221 Mary's Grave 221 To Anselmo 222 Flowers 225 Life . . . ; 224 JOHN HENRY KIMBLE. Biography 226 His Last Tune 227 Advice to an Ambitious Youth 22S Too Late 230 After the Shower 231 Tribute to the Memory of David Scott (of John) 232 Spnng • 2 54 JAMES McCAULEY. Biography 236 Henry Clay . . . ■ ■ 236 Virtuous Age ..;... 237 Acrostic 237 Work To-day 2^S On the death of a Child 23S ^P'' in g ■'..-.. .239 Hope . , -, .--.-, 240 Autumn ............... 240 CONTENTS. mrs. ida Mccormick. Biography 241 My Fancy Land 241 With the Tide 243 The Old Fashion 245 My Baby and the Rose 246 FOLGER McKINSEY. Biography 247 Waiting their Crowns , 248 Sea Echoes , 250 Where Fancy Dwells 251 At Key's Grave .... 253 The Eternal Life 254 MRS. ROSALIENE R. MURPHY. Biography 256 Woman's Rights 256 Only A Baby 25S To Helen 259 RACHEL E. PATTERSON. Biography 260 Tudge Not 260 The Wish 261 The Christian's Anchor 262 CALLANDER PATTERSON. Biography 264 God is Great 264 TOBIAS RUDULPH. Biography- 266 Selection from Tancred .,,.„ 267 CONTEXTS. PAGE. ZEBULON RUDULPH. Biography 270 The Surprise 271 Thoughts on the dentil of my grandchild Fanny 272 The Decree 273 A view from Mount Carmel 274 MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS. -1 ' ■> Biography The Miller's Romance 277 The Last Time 278 Only a Simple Maid 279 The Mystic Clock 280 Ruhe and Will 282 The Legend of St. Bavon 2S4 DAVID SCOTT (of James.) Biography 2S6 The Forced Alliance 287 My Cottage Home 2S8 The Mighty One 289 The Surviving Thought 291 The Working-Man's Song 292 Ode to Death 293 HENRY YANDERFORD. Biography , 296 On the Mountains 297 Progress , .. 298 W i n t er 300 Lines Written in St. Ann's Cemetery 301 Merry May , . 302 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 " Scotfs 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 lead- ing 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 shap- ing 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 Assem- bly 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 after- wards 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, winch 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. 2 1$ DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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 disas- trous effect upon Mr. Scott's prospects, owing probably to which he ^ r as 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 Con- stitutional Convention, his colleagues being Thomas P. Jones, George Earle and the late Joseph li. Pugfi. 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 pro- vided 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. Golds- borough, whom he had previously nominated in the Republican State Convention for the office of Comptroller of the State Treas- ury, 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 snaviter 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 existence. He was appointed School Commissioner in 1882, which office he filled with great acceptability to the public until incapacitated by the disease which terminated his life. Mr. Scott, though one of the most amiable of men, was fond of argument when properly conducted, and from the time he was twenty years of age until nearly the close of his life was always ready to participate in a debate if he could find any person to DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) I9 oppose him; and thought it no hardship to walk any where within a radius of four or five miles, in the coldest weather, in order to attend a debating society. He was possessed of a large and varied stock of information and a very retentive memory, which enabled him to quote correctly nearly everything of importance with which he had ever been familiar. His ability in this direc- tion, coupled with a keen sense of the ridiculous and satirical, rendered him an opponent with whom few debaters were able to successfully contend. But it was as a companion, a friend and a poet that he was best known among the people of his neighbor- hood, to which his genial character and kind and amiable dispo- tion greatly endeared him. Mr. Scott began to write poetry when about twenty-one years of age, and continued to do so, though sometimes at long inter- vals, until a short time before his death. His early poems were printed in " The Cecil Whig," but being published anonymously cannot be identified. Like many others, he did not preserve his writings, and a few of his best poems have been lost. Of his poetic ability and religious belief, we do not care to speak, but prefer that the reader should form his own judgment of them from the data derived from a perusal of his poems. In 1844, Mr. Scott married Miss Agatha R. Fulton, a most estimable lady, who, with their son Howard Scott and daughter Miss Annie Mary Scott, survive him. In conclusion, the editor thinks it not improper to say that he enjoyed the pleasure of Mr. Scott's intimate friendship for nearly thirty years, and esteemed him as his best and most intimate friend. And that while his friend was only mortal, and subject to mortal frailities, he had a kind and generous heart; a soul which shrank from even the semblance of meanness, and was the embodiment of every trait which ennobles and elevates humanity. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE SINGING OF A BIRD EARLY IN MARCH, 1868. eg^JiNG on, sweet feathered warbler, sing! b>rj Mount higher on thy joyous wing, ! frrjp And let thy morning anthem ring 4 Full on my- ear; • f Thou art the only sign of spring V I see or hear. 20 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) The earth is buried deep in snow; The muffled streams refuse to flow, The rattling" mill can scarcely go, For ice and frost; The beauty of the vale below In death is lost. Save thine, no note of joy is heard — Thy kindred songsters of the wood Have long since gone, and thou, sweet bird Art left behind — A faithful friend, whose every word Is sweet and kind. Hut Spring will come, as thou wilt see, With blooming flower and budding tree, And song of bird and hum of bee Their charms to lend; But I will cherish none like thee, My constant friend. Like the dear friends who ne'er forsake me- Whatever sorrows overtake me — In spite of all my faults which make me Myself detest, They still cling to and kindly take me Unto their breast. AN EASTERN TALE. ADDRESSED TO MRS. S. C. CHOATE. Persian lady we're informed — This happened long, long years before The Christian era ever dawned, A thousand years, it may be more, The date and narrative are so obscure, I have to Weary pilgrim, take thy rest, Thine has been a tiresome road; Aching head and tortur'd breast. Added to thy sralliner load. v «-v Patient sufferer, dry thy tears, All thy sorrows now are o'er; Foes without, or inward fears, Never can afflict thee more. Faithful soldier of the cross, All thy conflicts now are done; Earthly triumphs are but Toss, Thine is an immortal one. 26 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) Palms of vict'ry thou shall bear, And a crown of fadeless light Will be given thee to wear, And a robe oi spotless white. Thou shalt join the countless throng, Which, through tribulation, came: And repeat the angels' song — " Worthy! worthy is His name Who hath conquered death and hell; Captive led captivity; Always doing, all things well; Giving us the victory!" MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS. The following poem was read at the forty-fifth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. James Swaney, on January nth, 1883. Mr. and Mrs. Swaney 's residence is not far from the site of the school house where Mr. Scott first went to school. ££)EAR friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here; 'Tis fit that we should make this call Thus early in the year. That time flies rapidly along, And hurries us away, Has been the theme of many a song, And it is mine to-day. I stand where in my childhood's days, I often stood before, But nothing meets my altered gaze As in the days of yore. The trees I climbed in youthful glee, Or slept beneath their shade, Have disappeared — no trace I see Of them upon the glade. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 2J The school house, too, which stood near by, Has long- since ceased to be; To find its site I often try, No trace of it I see. The road I traveled to and fro, With nimble feet and spry, I cannot find, but well I know- It must have been hard by. The pond where skating once I fell Upon the ice so hard — I lost my senses for a spell, And hence became a bard — Is dry land now where grain or grass Is growing year by year; I see the spot, as oft I pass, No ice nor pond is there. A barn is standing on the spot Where once the school house stood; A dwelling on the playground lot, A cornfield in the wood. I mourn not for these altered scenes, Although it seems so strange That all are changed; I know it means That everything must change. I mourn the loss of early friends, My schoolboy friends so dear; I count upon my fingers' ends The few remaining here. In early youth some found their graves, With friends and kindred by; While some beneath the ocean's waves In dreamless slumbers lie; While many more, in distant lands, No friends nor kindred near, 28 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) Are laid to rest by strangers' hands, Without one friendly tear. A few survive, both far and near, But O! how changed are they! Like the small band assembled here, Enfeebled, old, and gray. Strange feelings rise within my soul, My eyes o'erflow with tears, As backward I attempt to roll The flood of by-gone years. This honored pair we come to greet, For five-and-forty years Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Have worn the nuptial gears. The heat and burden of the day They honestly have borne, Until their heads are growing gray, Their limbs with toil are worn. In all the ups and downs of life — Of which they've had their share — They never knew domestic strife, Or, if at all, 'twas rare. They now seem standing on the verge Of that unfathomed sea, Just waiting for the final surge That opes eternity. When comes that surge, or soon or late, May they in peace depart; And meet within the shining gate, No more to grieve or part. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 20. THE DONATION VISIT. The following poem was read upon the occasion of a donation visit V.y the Head of Christiana congregation to their pastor, Rev. James L. Yallandighain. AIR ladies dear, and gentlemen, I thought not to be here to-day: But I'm a slave, and therefore, when My muse commands, I must obey. I've struggled hard against her power, And dashed her yoke in scorn away, And then returned, within an hour, And meekly bowed and owned her sway. I know the ground on which I stand And tremble like an aspen when I see around, on every hand, Such learned and such gifted men, Who really have been to college, .And know the Latin and the Greek; And are so charged with general knowledge That it requires no little cheek In an obscure and modest bard To meet a galaxy so bright, — Indeed, I find it rather hard To face the music here to-night. Dear friends, we've met, as it is meet That we should meet at such a time, Each other and our host to greet, — Or guest, 'tis all the same in rhyme. No king nor queen do I revere; The majesty of God I own. An honest man, though poor, is peer To him that sits upon a throne. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) I long to see the coming day When wicked wars and strifes shall cease, And ignorance and crime give way Before the march of truth and peace. That welcome day is drawing near; I sometimes think I see its dawn; The trampling of the hosts I hear, By science, truth and love led on. I see the murderous cannon fused, With its death-dealing shot and shell, For making railway carwheels used, Or civil railway tracks as well. And small arms, too, will then be wrought Into machines for cutting wheat; While those who used them will be taught To labor for their bread and meat. God speed the day, — 'tis bound to come, But not as comes the lightning's stroke; But slowly, as the acorn dumb Expands into the giant oak. Now, reverend sir, I turn to you, To say what all your flock well know; You, as a pastor kind and true, Have led the way we ought to go. You have rejoiced in all our joys, And sympathised with us in trouble; You have baptized our girls and boys — And often you have made them double. With all your gifts and talents rare. You meekly take the servants place, And guard the sheep with jealous care And hold the lambs in your embrace. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) In all the ups and downs of life We've found in you a constant friend; 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 vours can never die. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES. nother star has left the sky, Another flower has ceased to bloom; 173 The fairest are the first to die, | ^ The best go earliest to the tomb. t 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) " 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, j '.-y LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON, She is not dead, but sleepeth. — Lake S : 32, ^he 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, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 33 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, Olmother, 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 wecp'ng, 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 rigl t. 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 ? 34 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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. EURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1 8 78. HOU, my friend, in dust art sleeping, Closed thine eyes to all below; ^15 Round thy grave kind friends are weeping, Ling' ring, loath to let thee go. T 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, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 35 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. gj^>ear friends and neighbors, one and all, Hj =)} 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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 lie 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 ratter kind than cross, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 37 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. 38 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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. ^ n 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 39 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 blow- ing a gale. §N 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 ^i^You had little need to spread it out wide. *jb To encircle so many you wish'd for no more Y 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. Y 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. 40 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 41 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. *ITO deceive, 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 42 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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, ^sHiLL 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. iHEIR 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 43 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, 44 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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 w T ild 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 45 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. Y 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," W^ith neither bound nor shore. There may we find some blissful isle Where basking in our Saviours smile, We'll meet to part no more, 46 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) TO MISS MARY BAIN. TrfcifpY cousin fair, dear Mary B, Excuse my long neglect I pray, a And pardon too, the homely strain, In which I sin^ 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 47 My trees will bloom and bear their fruit, My carp-pond glitter in the sun; Mv 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, 48 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 'Twill be the majesty of brain, A majesty that must endure, Till thrones of king's 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 ScoU, upon the occasion of the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 18S2. <2_y^iND gentlemen and ladies fair, %^'RaS have a word or two to say, (^SJas If you have got the time to spare, 1 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, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 49 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, 4 50 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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. §N the morning of life's day, All before is bright and gay, All behind is like a dream, i Or the morn's uncertain beam, ^t? 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 51 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 Temp'ars. ■all 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. 52 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) IN MEMORIAM RENSELLAER I3IDDLE. noble heart is sleeping" here, Beneath this lowly mound; With reverence let us draw near, For this is holy ground. %l? 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." DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 53 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE. ear 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. 'he rolling seasons come and go, DHd As ebbs the tide again to flow, CdP And Christmas which seemed far away ejL A year ago, is near to-day. -jt And day and night in quick succession, y 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, 54 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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. o 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 55 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 succes- sion, 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 56 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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. £2jl2HE mysteries of life and death, fj^ Lie hidden from all human ken, @k) 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. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 57 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. ow 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. 58 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 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, the dog I chide, The flesh and fish and fowl we feed on Are kindred, too; is that agreed on? Then kindred blood I quite disown, Though it descended from a throne, For it connects us down, also, With everything that's mean and low — Insects and reptiles, foul and clean, And men a thousand times more mean. Let's hear no more of noble blood, For noble brains, or actions good, Are only marks of true nobility. The kindred which'I claim with you, Connects us with the just and true, And great in purpose, heart and soul, And makes us parts of that great whole Whose bonds of all embracing love A golden chain will ever prove To bind us to the good above. Then strive to elevate mankind By operating on the mind; The empire of good will extend, A helping hand in trouble lend, Go to thy brother in distress, One kindly word may make it less, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 59 A single word, when fitly spoken, May heal a heart with sorrow broken, A smile may overcome your foe, And make his heart with friendship glow, A frown might turn his heart to steel. And all its tendencies congeal, Be it our constant aim to cure The woes our fellow men endure, Teach them to act toward each other As they would act toward a brother. Thus may our circle wider grow, The golden chain still brighter glow; And may our kindred souls, in love United live, here and above, With all the good and wise and pure, While endless ages shall endure. ANNIVERSARY HYMN. Written for the anniversary of the Jackson Sabbath School, Aug. 23rd, 1870. G212HE ever rolling flood of years, ■i)!^ Is bearing us, our hopes and fears, (Sjfa With all we are or crave, I Into that fathomless abyss — •4- A world of endless woe or bliss, Y Beyond the darksome grave. One year of priceless time has passed, Since we in Sabbath school were class' d, To read and sing and pray; To hear the counsels of the good; Have we improved them as we should ? How stands the case to-day ? How have we used this fleeting year ? Have we grown wiser? O, I fear, And tremble to reflect, How sadly it has gone to loss, 6o DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) How I have shunn'd my daily cross, Some idol to erect. To gain some trifling, selfish end, It may be I have wronged a friend, And turned his love to hate; How many idle words I've said; How many broken vows I've made; How shunn'd the narrow gate! O Lord ! forgive our wanderings wide, Our oft departures from thy side, And keep us in thy fold; Be thou our Shepherd and our all; Protect these lambs, lest any fall, And perish in the cold. On this our Anniversary, Help us to put our trust in Thee, And lean upon Thy arm; Direct us through the coming year; Protect us, for the wolf is near, And shield us from all harm. Our Superintendent superintend; On him Thy special blessings send, And guide him in the way; Enrich our Treasurer with Thy grace, So that he may adorn the place, He fills so well to-day. Write on our Secretary's heart Thy perfect law; and O, impart, To our Librarian dear, The volume of thy perfect love Which cometh only from above, And casteth out all fear. In pastures green, O lead us still! And help us all to do thy will, And all our wants supply; DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 6 1 Help us in every grace to grow, And when we quit thy fold below, Receive us all on high. Then, by life's river broad and bright, Our blissful day will have no night; On that immortal plain May all the Jackson scholars meet, And all their loving teachers greet, And never part again. THE INTELLECTUAL TELEGRAPH. ADDRESSED TO MISS C. CASHO. > ear friend ! O, how my blood warms at that word, pj And thrills and courses through my every vein; My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr'd — £ . Friend! Friend! repeats it o'er and o'er again. y I'll make a song of that sweet word, and sing It oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours, Till list'ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring, And echo answers, Friend ! with all her powers. 'Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubt If any can explain, though all have seen, How kindred spirits find each other out, Though deserts vast or oceans lie between. Some golden sympathetic cords unseen, Unite their souls as if with bands of steel, So finely strung, so sensitively keen, The slightest touch all in the circle feel. Their pulses distance electricity, And leave the struggling solar rays behind, The slightest throb pervades immensity. And instant reaches the remotest mind, 62 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 'Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me, Which raises me above this earthly clod, To think the cords which bind our souls may be Connected some way with the throne of God. I sometimes think my wild and strange desires, And longings after something yet unknown, Are currents passing on those hidden wires To lead me on and upward to that throne. These visions often do I entertain, And, if they are but visions, and the birth Of fancy, still they are not all in vain; They lift the soul above the things of earth. They teach her how to use her wings though weak, And all unequal to the upward flight — The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak, Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight. LINES ON AN INDIAN ARROW-HEAD. '^''UDE relic of a lost and savage race Memento of a people proud and cold! Sole lasting monument to mark the place Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled. Cold is the hand that fashion' d thee, rude dart! Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow ! And cold the dust of the heroic heart, Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow. Unnumbered years have o'er their ashes flown; Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone; All that remains is this rude pointed stone, To tell of nations mighty as our own. Such is earth's pregnant lesson; through all time Kingdom succeeds to kingdom — empires fall; From out their ashes, others rise and climb, Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 63 ACROSTIC TO MISS ANNIE ELIZA M'NAMEE. y much respected, fair young friend In youth's bright sunshine glowing: Some friendly token I would send, Some trifle, worth your knowing. A lovely bird; the garden's pride; Nurs'd with the utmost care, No flow'r, in all the gardens wide; Incited hopes so rare: Each passing day develops more Each beauty, than the day before. Lovely in form, in features mild; In thy deportment pure: Zealous for right, e'en from a child, A friend, both true and sure. May thy maturer years be bright, Cloudless and fair thy skies; No storms to fright, nor frosts to blight, And cause thy fears to rise. May thy last days, in peace go past, Each being better than the last; Eternally thy joys grow brighter — ■ So prays D. Scott the humble writer. MINUTES OF THE JACKSON HALL DEBATING SOCIETY, DEC. 5, I 87 7. Y muse inspire me, while I tell The weighty matters that befell On Monday night at Jackson Hall December fifth. I'll tell it all, Day and year I'll tell you even, 'Twas eighteen hundred seventy-seven. 64 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) The Jacksonites were out in force, No common thing was up of course, But something rare and rich and great, 'Twas nothing short of a debate; What was the question ? Let me see, Yes; "Can christians consistently Engage in war against a brother And at the same time love each other ?" But first and foremost let me say, My muse has taken me astray, So I'll return to the beginning- Digression is my common sinning For which your pardon I implore, If granted, I will sin no more, That is no more till the next time, For when I'm forging out a rhyme, The narrative which I would fix up, I somehow rather oddly mix up. A president must first be got, So they elected James M. Scott, He said he'd serve; (and that was clever,) A little while, but not forever. A paper called a " constitution," Was read and on some person's motion, Was all adopted, at a word, A thing that seemed to me absurd. Then instantly to work they went, And filled the chair of president, And William Henderson they took, They knew their man just like a book. A scribe was wanted next to keep, A record of their doings deep, On looking round they cast the lot, And so it fell on David Scott. A treasurer was next in order When looking up and down the border, For one to hoard the gold and silver, The mantle fell on Joseph Miller. The executive committee Was now to fill and here we see A piece of work I apprehend, DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 65 May lead to trouble in the end, For while they only wanted five, Yet six they got, as I'm alive, First they installed Peter Jaquett, Then John Creswell, two men well met, James Law, but they were not enough, And so they added William Tuft. One more was wanted that was plain, That one was found in John McKane, But when the rive were call'd to meet There were but lour came to the seat; There are but four, said one so racy, So they elected William Gracy. Now you perceive this grave committee Which numbers five both wise and witty, Has got into a pretty fix W r ith but five seats and numbers six. The question for the next debate Was then selected, which I'll state If I have only got the gumption To make some word rhyme with resumption, '■ Should Congress now repeal the act To pay all debts in gold in fact." The speakers now were trotted out Their sides to choose and take a bout Upon the question, which I stated As having been so well debated, Namely, " Can christians go to war," The very devil might abhor To contemplate this proposition Offspring of pride and superstition That brothers by a second birth, Should make a very hell of earth. The war of words waxed loud and long, Each side was right, the other wrong; The speakers eager for the fray, Wished their ten minutes half a day; But time and tide will wait for none, So glibly did the gabble run, That nine o'clock soon spoiled the fun, And all that rising tide of words, 66 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) Was smothered never to be heard. The fight is o'er, the race is run, And soon we'll know which side has won, But this is not so easy done; Indeed I have a world of pity For the executive committee Who hear in silence all this clatter And then decide upon the matter; To give each speaker justice due, And sift the error from the true, Is not an easy thing to do. To decide what facts have any bearing Upon the question they are hearing, And generally keep in hand The arguments, so strong and grand, And draw from them a just conclusion Without a mixture of confusion ; The negative got the decision Unanimous, without division. The speakers then took their position, Upon the doubtful proposition Of the repeal of gold resumption, Upon the plausible presumption, That those who pay must have the money, That laws of Congress, (that seems funny,) Are not above the laws of trade, And therefore cannot be obeyed. Here now my muse, poor worthless jade, Deserted, as I was afraid From the beginning she would do; So I must say good-night to you, And these long rambling minutes close, In just the dullest kind of prose. OiCc RETROSPECTION. he phantoms have flown which I cherished; The dreams which delighted have passed; (cfa My castles in air have all perished — 4 I grieved o'er the fall of the last. %§? Y 'Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow; DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 67 It passed like a vapor away — As the mist which hangs over the meadow Dissolves in the sun's burning ray. The joys of my youth are all shattered; My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore; The friends of my childhood are scattered; Their faces I'll see never more. Some are estranged, some have gone under; The battle of life is severe. When I stand by their graves, the wonder, The mystery, seems to be clear: They were vet'rans more noble than I; And placed in the van of the fight, They fell where the hero would die, When he bleeds for truth and the right. The battle of life is proceeding — The rear will advance to the van; I'll follow where duty is leading, And fall at my post like a man. ACROSTIC TO MISS FLORENCE WILSON m'nAMEE. aiden, lovely, young and gay, In the bloom of life's young May! Sweet perfumes are in the air; Songs of gladness ev'ry where! Flowers are springing round thy way, Lovely flowers, bright and gay: Over head and all about Rings one constant joyous shout! Earth is carpeted with green, Nature greets you as her queen. Call the trees and flow'rs your own. 68 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) Each will bow before your throne. While in youth's enchanting maze, Incline thy steps to wisdom's ways! Lead a quiet peaceful life; Swiftly fly from noise and strife; Own thy Lord before mankind; ' Neath his banner you will find More than all this world can give; Contentment while on earth you live, Nearer to your journey's end, All your aspirations tend: May you end your days in peace; Earthly ties in joy release; Eternally thy joys increase; That this may be thy joyous lot Ever prays thy friend D. Scott. THE BOOK OF BOOKS. Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan , June ist, 1868. e_^> STEEMED young friend •Sffcfc This book I send, I know full well thou wilt receive; For thou canst read Its shining creed, Y And understand it and believe. Oh could I say As much to-day, What joys would thrill this heart of grief, I do believe. Oh Lord, receive My prayer — help Thou mine unbelief! This book though small, Is more than all The wealth of India to thee; Oh priceless treasure! Rich beyond measure Are all who build their hopes on thee. DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 69 THE LESSON OF THE SEASONS. Written for a little girl on her eleventh birthday. ^I^leeting time is on the wing — ■ Surely Winter, joyous Spring, Glowing Summer, Autumn sere, Mark the changes of the year. Late the earth was green and fair, Flowers were blooming everywhere; Birds were singing in the trees, While the balmy healthful breeze, Laden with perfume and song, Health and beauty flowed along. But a change comes o'er the scene; Still the fields and trees are green, And the birds keep singing on, Though the early flowers are gone; And the melting noon-day heat, Strips the shoes from little feet, And the coats from little backs; While the paddling bare-foot tracks, In the brooklet which I see, Tell of youthful sports and glee. Hay is rip'ning on the plain, Fields are rich in golden grain, Mowers rattle sharp and shrill, Reapers echo from the hill, Farmer, dark and brown with heat, Push your labor — it is sweet, For the hope, in which you plow, And sow, you are reaping now. Corn, which late, was scarcely seen, Struggling slowly into green, 'Neath the Summer's torrid glow — How like magic it does grow; Rising to majestic height, Drinks the sunbeams with delight, Sends its rootlets through the soil, Foraging for hidden spoil; 70 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) Riches more than golden ore, Silent workers they explore: With their apparatus small, Noiselessly they gather all. When their work is done, behold Treasures, richer far than gold, Fill the farmers store-house wide — And his grateful soul beside. But the scene must change again, Hill and dell and spreading plain, Speak so all can comprehend Summer's reign is at an end. Forests, gorgeously arrayed, (Queens such dresses ne'er displayed) Grace the coronation scene Of the lovely Autumn queen. Birds, with multifarious notes, Ringing from ten thousand throats, Shout aloud that Summer's dead, And Autumn reigns in her stead. Now another change behold — All the varied tints of gold, Purple, crimson, orange, green — Every hue and shade between, That bedecked the forest trees, Now lie scattered by the breeze. The birds have flown. Faithless friends Love the most when they're best fed; And when they have gained their ends, Shamefully have turned and fled. Winter claims his wide domain, And begins his frigid reign. Thus the seasons come and go: Spring gives place to Summer's glow; Then comes mellow Autumn's sway, Rip'ning fruits and short' ning day; Gorgeous woods in crimson dress, Surpassing queens in loveliness. Then the Frost King mounts the throne, Claims the empire for his own; Hail and rain and sleet and snow DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 7 1 Are his ministers that go On the swift wings of the blast, At his bidding, fierce and fast. Like the seasons of the year, Your young life will change, my dear. Now you're in your early Spring, Hope and joy are on the wing; Flow' rets blooming fresh and gay, Shed their fragrance round your way. Summer's heat is coming fast, And your Spring will soon be past; For, where you are, I have been; All that you see, I have seen. Hopes that beamed around my way, Cast their light on yours to-day. All that you do, I have done; All your childish ways I've run, All your joys and pangs I've had — All that make you gay or sad; I have sported in the brook, Truant from my work or book; Chased the butterfly and bee, Robb'd the bird's nest on the tree; Damm'd the brook and built my mill; Flew my kite from hill to hill; Sported with my top and ball — Childish joys, I know them all. Childish sorrows, too I've felt — Anguish that my heart would melt; Tears have wet my burning cheek, Caused by thoughts I could not speak. Mysteries then confused my brain, Which have since become more plain; Much that then seemed plain and clear Has grown darker year by year; When my artless prayers I said, Skies were near — just over head; And the angels seemed so near, I could whisper in their ear. All that I have learned since then, I would give, if once again, 72 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) Those bright visions would return. For I find, the more I learn, Further off the skies appear, And the angels come not near. Though in better words I pray, Heaven seems so far away, That I wish, but wish in vain, That the skies were near again; That no other words I knew, But those simple ones and few, That the angels used to hear, When I whispered in their ear. I would barter all the fame, Wealth and learning that I claim, Which a life of toil have cost, For those priceless seasons lost. JOHN A. CALHOUN, MY JOE JOHN. A PARODY. This poem wps the outgrowth of a newspaper controversy be- tween John A. Calhoun, a school teacher of this county, and one of the trustees of Jackson Hall, who wrote above the signature of " Turkey," in which Mr. Calhoun said some rather hard things about the school trustees of the county. The poem was written at the request of the trustee, who was the other party engaged in the controversy. §ohn A. Calhoun, my Joe John, " I wonder what you mean ?" You're always getting in some scrape and get- gicj ting off your spleen; yk Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however y things may go; You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name; It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it de- fame DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) 73 By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know, Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the "Turkey" let alone; My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own. '■ There's nothing in a name," John, and this you ought to know, That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour; Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour. But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go, Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim; So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low, And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice ; And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are . ...not nice;) And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show, And use those "open eyes" of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. 74 DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools; And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low, By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace, And may your honest name, John, so mightily in- crease, That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow — But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. T EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Emma Alice Browne was born about forty-five years ago, in an unpretentious cottage, which is still standing near the north- east corner of the cross-roads, on the top of Mount Pleasant, or Vinegar Hill, as it was then called, about a mile west of Colora. She is the oldest child of William A. Browne and Hester A. Touchstone, sister of the late James Touchstone. Her father was the youngest son of William Brown, who married Ann Spear, of Chester county, and settled a few yards north of the State Line, in what is now Lewisville, Chester county, Pennsylvania, where his son William was born, early in the present century. He was a stonemason by trade, and though comparatively uneducated, was possessed of a brilliant imagination, and so highly endowed by nature with poetic ability that he frequently amused and delighted his fellow-workmen by singing songs which he extemporized while at his work. There is no doubt that his granddaughter, the subject of this sketch, inherited much of her poetic talent from him ; though her family is connected with that of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, the English poetess, whom though in some respects she resembles, we hesitate not to say she greatly surpasses in grandeur of conception and beauty of expression. William Brown was a half-brother of the mother of the editor of this book; consequently Emma and he are cousins. If, there- fore, this sketch should seem to exceed or fall short of the truth, the reader must attribute its imperfections to the inability of the writer to do justice to the subject, or to the great, but he hopes pardonable, admiration which he has long entertained for his relative's literary productions. The Brown family are of Scotch-Irish extraction, and trace their lineage away back through a long line of ancestors to the time when the name was spelled Brawn, because of the great muscular development of the rugged old Scotch Highlander who founded it. William Brown's early education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood where he was born. He was endowed by nature with a logical mind, a vivid imagination and great prac- tical common sense ; and a memory so tenacious as to enable him to repeat a sermon almost, if not quite, verbatim, a year after he had heard it delivered. Early in life he became an exemplary member of the Methodist Church, and was ordained as a Local Preacher in the Methodist Protestant persuasion, by the Rev. John G. Wilson, very early in the history of that denomination, in the old Harmony Church, not far south of Rowlandville. Subsequently he was admitted to the Conference as a traveling minister and sent to southeastern Pennsylvania, where he continued to preach the gospel with much success until his death, which occurred when his daughter Emma was a child about eight years of age. 76 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Emma's education began on her father's knee, when she was little if any more than three years old. Before she was four years old she could repeat Anacreon's Ode to a Grasshopper, which her father had learned from a quaint old volume of heathen mythology, and taught his little daughter to repeat, by reciting it aloud to her, as she sat upon his knee. Subsequently, and before she had learned to read, he taught her in the same manner " Byron's Apostrophe to the Ocean," Campbell's " Battle of Hohenlinden," and Byron's "Destruction of Sennacherib," all of which seem to have made a deep impression upon her infantile mind, particularly the latter, in speaking of which she characterizes it as " a poem whose barbaric glitter and splendor captivated my imagination even at that early period, and fired my fancy with wild visions of Oriental magnificence and sublimity, so that I believe all my after life caught color and warmth and form from those early impres- sions of the gorgeous word-painting of the East." Emma's subse- quent educati6n was limited to a few weeks' attendance at a young ladies' seminary at West Chester, Pennsylvania, and a like ex- perience of a few weeks in Wilmington, Delaware, when she was about sixteen years old. But her mind was so full of poesy that there was no room in it for ordinary matters and things, and the duties of a student soon became so irksome that she left both the institutions in disgust. Of her it may be truly said, " she lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came," for she composed verses at four years of age, and published poems at ten. Her first effusions appeared in a local paper at Reading, Pa. Being a born poetess, her success as a writer was assured from the first, and her warmth of expression and richness of imagery, combined with a curious quaintness, the outgrowth of the deep vein of mysticism that per- vades her nature, soon attracted the attention of the literati of this country, one of the most distinguished of whom, the late George D. Prentice, did not hesitate to pronounce her the most extraordinary woman of America ; " for," said he, " if she can't find a word to suit her purpose, she makes one." While some of her earlier poems may have lacked the artistic finish and depth o\ meaning of those of mature years, they had a beauty and fresh- ness peculiar to themselves, which captivated the minds and rarely failed to make a deep impression upon the hearts of those who read them. In 1855, the family came to Port Deposit, where they remained about two years, and then went West, Emma having secured a good paying position on the Missouri Republican, for which she wrote her only continued story, " Not Wanted." For the last twenty years she has been a regular contributor to the New York Ledger, In 1864, Emma came East and was married to Captain J. Lewis Beaver, of Carroll county, Maryland, whose acquaintance she made while he was a wounded invalid in the Naval School PIos- pital at Annapolis. After her marriage, she continued to write under her maiden name, and has always been known in the literary world as Emma Alice Browne, though all the rest of the family spell the name without the final vowel. Her marriage was EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 77 not a fortunate one, and the writer in deference to the wishes of his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother's poetic talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some very creditable verses, which have been published. Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for paint- ing, which seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long been as a poetess. She resides in an- ville, Illinois, and is about publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen. The following selections have been made with the view of showing the versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author. Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more than thirty years ago. EARLIER POEMS. MY BROTHER. brier rose clamber; And cover the chamber — The chamber, so dreary and lone — ■ Where with meekly-closed lips, And eyes in eclipse, My brother lies under the stone. Oh, violets, cover, The narrow roof over, Oh, cover the window and door! For never the lights, Through the long days and nights, Make shadows across the floor! The lilies are blooming, The lilies are white, Where his play haunts used to be; And the sweet cherry blossoms Blow over the bosoms Of birds in the old roof tree. 78 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. When I hear on the hills The shout of the storm, In the valley the roar of the river; I shiver and shake, On the hearth stone warm, As I think of his cold "forever." His white hands are folded, And never again, With the song of the robin or plover, When the Summer has come, With her bees and her grain, Will he play in the meadow clover. Oh, dear little brother, My sweet little brother, In the palace above the sun, Oh, pray the good angels, The glorious evangels, To take me — when life is done. MY FATHER. IN MEMORIAM, 1 85 7. Tbe"late George I). Prentice in speaking of this poem used the following language : " To our minds there is nothing in all the In Memoriam of Tennyson more beautiful than the following holy tribute to a dead father from our young correspondent at Pleasant Grove." The poem was first published in the " Louirville Jour- nal " of which Mr. Prentice was the editor. v Father! Orphan lips unknown To love's sweet uses sob the word My father! dim with anguish, heard In Heaven between a storm of moan And the white calm that faith hath fixed For solace, far beyond the world, Where, all our starry dreams unfurled, We drink the wine of peace unmixed. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 79 Mine! folded in the awful trust That draws the world's face down in awe, Holding her breath, as if she saw God's secret written in the dust — My father! oh, the dreary years The dreary winds have wailed across Since his path, from the hills of loss, Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres. What time the Angel at our door Said soft, between our orphan-moan — Arise! oh, soul! the night is done And day hath bloomed forevermore! I locked my icy hand across My sobbing heart and sadly cried — I lose thee in the glorified — The world is darkened with my loss! Oh, Angel! cried I— wrath complete! With awful brows and eyes intense! (For faith's white robe of reverence Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet) Oh, Angel, help me out of strife! I could have borne all mortal pain — I could have lived my life in vain — But this hath touched my inner life! And eighteen hundred fifty- seven Hath filled a decade of slow years Since first my orphan cries and tears Broke wild across the walls of Heaven. This eve his grave is winter-white! And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills I hear across the Northern hills The solemn footsteps of the night! Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high! Blow o'er the dismal space of woods — Blow down the roaring Northern floods And let the dreary day go by! Blow, wind, from out the shining West, SO EMMA ALICE BROWNE. And wrap the hazy world in glow — Blow wind and drift about my snow The summer oi his endless rest! For he has fallen fast asleep And cannot give me moan for moan — My heart is heavy as a stone And there is no one left to weep! My soul is heavy and doth lie Reaching up from my wretchedness — Reaching up blindly for redress The stern gray walls of entity! Once in the golden spring-time hours, In the sweet garden of my youth, There fell a seed of bitter truth That sprang and shadowed all the flower:- Alone! The roses died apace And pale the mournful violet blew — Only the royal lily grew And glorified the lonesome place! In me the growth of human ills Than human love had reached no higher, But Seraphim with lips of fire Have won me to the shining hills — I cannot hide my soul in art — I cannot mend my life's defect — This thunderous space of intellect God gave me for a peaceful heart! Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still, The heavy night is coming on, But heavier lie the shadows drawn About his grave so low and chill — From out the awful sphere of God, Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low! My soul is weary and would go Where never foot of mortal trod! EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 8-1 AT THE NIGHTFALL. ® muse alone in the fading light, Where the mournful winds forever rigs Sweep down from the dim old hills of night, 4 Like the wail of a haunted river. f y Alone! by the grave of a buried love, The ghostly mist is parted, Where the stars shine faint in the blue above, Like the smile of the broken-hearted. The living turn from my fond embrace, As if no love were needed ; The tears I wept on thy young dead face Were never more unheeded Than my wild prayer for peace unwoii — One pure affection only, One faithful heart to lean upon, When life is sad and lonely. The low grassy roof, my glorious dead, Is bright with the buttercup's blossom, And the night-blooming roses burn dimly and red On the green sod that covers thy bosom. Thy pale hands are folded, oh beautiful saint, Like lily-buds chilly and dew-wet, And the smile on thy lip is as solemn and faint As the beams of a norland sunset. The angel that won thee a long time ago To the shore of the glorious immortals, In the sphere of the starland shall wed us, I know, When I pass through the beautiful portals, 6 82 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. THE MIDNIGHT CHIME. Suggested by the tolling of the bell on the sash factory in Port Deposit on a stormy night in January, 1856. S2HE rain is the loudest and wildest §B Of rains that ever fell; ^■7) And the winds like an army of chanters > Through the desolate pine-woods swell, iv?And hark ! through the shout of the tempest, The sound of the midnight bell. Now close on the storm it rises, Now sadly it sinks with a moan — Like a human heart in its anguish, Crushing a fruitless groan — Like a soul that goes wailing and pining, Thro' the motherless world, alone. Is it hung in an ancient turret? Is it swung by a mortal hand ? Is it chiming in woe or gladness, Its symphonies sweet and grand ? Is it rung for a shadowy sorrow, In the shadowy phantom land ? Alas for the beautiful guesses That live in a poet's rhyme — 'Tis only the bell of the factory Tolling its woe sublime; And the wind is the ghostly ringer, Ringing the midnight chime. Toll, mournful bell of the tempest, Through my dreams by sleep unblest; My bosom is throbbing as madly To surges of wild unrest — E'en as thy heart of iron Is beating thy brazen breast! EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 83 MAY-THALIA. TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD. ihy lay — a sweet sung bridal hymn, i:|5t»' Wedding the Old year to the New, £-7> 'Mid starry buds, and silver dew, £ And brooks, and birds in woodlands dim — y That touched the hidden veins of thought With the electric force of strife, Thrilled the dumb marble of my life Unto a perfect beauty wrought. And straight, unclasping from my brow The thorny crown of lost delight, The solemn grandeur of the night Flashed on me from old years, as now. The budding of my days is past! And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast. Ah me! but in the Poet's heart Some pools of troubled water lie! The hidden founts of agony, That keep the better springs apart. What comfort is there in the Earth! What height, or depth, where we may hide Our life long anguish, and abide The ripening unto newer birth! But Poet, in thy song is power To lift the flood gates of my woe, And bid its solemn surging flow Far from the triumph of this hour. Yea, rising from life's evil things, My soul, long blinded from the light, 84 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Starlit across the purple night Sweeps the red lightning of her wings! I will be free! there is a strength In the full blowing of our youth To climb the rosied hills of truth From the dry desert's burning length. From far a voice shouts to my fate As shout the choiring Angels, when The fiery cross of suffering men Falls broken at the narrow gate! Be brave! be noble, and sublime Thyself unto a higher aim — Keeping thy nature white of blame In all the dreary walks of time! Oh musty creeds in mouldy books! Blind teachers of the blind are ye — A plainer wisdom talks with me In God's full psalmody of brooks. The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course. The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul> Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour. Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips- God's all-sublime Apocalypse — His awful poem writ in stars! Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the /Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light! EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 85 To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming. And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay — Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South- land bowers, Against the blushing face of May — A passion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills! MEMORIES. JHIle the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, >And along the dreary moorlands, Shine the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart. And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words. Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul. Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset 86 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest. All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro. Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave. Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears. Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms — Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies — Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blushing And my heavy heart to woe. Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith ? Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path ? EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 87 No reply ! — the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding- sorrow Still my aching bosom fills. Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night. Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb. Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity — In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me! THE OLD HOMESTEAD. Yp remember the dear little cabin Yj £ That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of sunshine That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow — smooth shorn, — How the dew-drops lay flashing and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn. How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland, Like a red- cloud of sunset afar, And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond Like the pale silver rim of a star; How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus, With the birds that sang high in the trees; And how the bright shadows of sunset Trailed goldenly down on the breeze. I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, 88 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman's strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain. For he dwelt in a lordly castle That towered half-way up the hill, And we in a poor little cabin In the shade of the weather-brown mill, Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer Came down with his knightly train, And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees That shadowed his golden grain. Ah! wearily sighed our mother, When the mistletoe boughs lay shed; But never the curse of the orphan Was breathed on the rich man's head; And when again the gentle summer Had gladdened the earth once more, No branches of gnarled oaks olden Made shadows across the floor. GURTHA. ^he lone winds creep with a snakish hiss f)H(| Among the dwarfish bushes, Sp And with deep sighing sadly kiss The wild brook's border rushes; The woods are dark, save here and there The glow-worm shineth faintly, And o'er the hills one lonely star That trembles white and saintly. Ah! well I know this mournful eve So like an evening olden; EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 89 With many a goodly harvest sheaf The upland fields were golden; The lily moon in bridal white Leaned o'er the sea, her lover, And stars with beauty filled the Night — The wind sang in the clover. The halls were bright with revelry, The beakers red with wassail; And music's grandest symphony Rung thro' the ancient castle; And she, the brightest of the throng, With wedding-veil and roses, Seemed like the beauty of a song Between the organ's pauses. My memory paints her sweetly meek, With her long sunny tresses, And how the blushes on her cheek Kissed back their warm caresses; But like an angry cloud that cleaves Down thro' the mists of glory, I see the flowers a pale hand weaves Around a forehead gory. The road was lone that lay between His, and her father's castle, And many a stirrup-cup, I ween, Quaffed he of generous wassail. My soul drank in a larger draught From the burning well of hate, The hand that sped the murderous shaft Was guided by my fate. Red shadows lay upon the sward That night, instead of golden — And long the bride's maids wait the lord In the bridal-chamber olden; Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers That bound the milk-white forehead — The star has sunk, the red moon glowers Down slopes of blackness horrid. 90 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. IN MEMORIAM. JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 2 2 YEARS. He giveth His beloved sleep. — Psalms 12J ; 2 ci^^rom heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night. •Jc Against the dim, dilating skies y Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise — I see — with flashing sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand — The conquering constellation stand! And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp — the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon. Far down the dimly shining bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden ships away — The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro! With mournful thought I sit alone — My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan. I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest; While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 9 1 The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars — and deep and strong The river moans an undersong. Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never! His lips have lost your song forever! His lips, that done with pleadings vain — And human sighing, born of pain — Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain. The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange — The tireless nations forward range — ■ Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth — being blest, With chill hands cross' d on silent breast. Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint ? His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit ! 'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day! And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres Height over height the heavens expand — I see him in God's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand; 92 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned. Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow — Found worthy unto death art thou! And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine; Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse! For very truly hath been said — For the pale living — not the dead — Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed! MISSIVE TO ^3URPLE shafts of sunset fire Glory-crown the passionate sea, Throbbing with a fierce desire For the blue immensity. Floods of pale and scarlet flame Sweep the bases ol the hills, With a blushing unto shame Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills. Slowly to the gorgeous West Twilight paces from the East, Like a dark, unbidden guest Going to a marriage feast. Dian — palaced in the blue — O'er the eve-star, newly born, EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 93 Shakes a sweet baptismal dew From her pearly drinking-horn. Not the Ocean's fiery soul Throbbing up thro' all his deeps — Not the sunset tides that roll Gloriously against the steeps Of the hills, that to the stars Lift their regal wedded brows, Glittering, through the golden bars Clasping close their nuptial snows. Not the palace lights of Hesper In the Queendom of the Moon, Win me from that lovely vesper— The last one of our last June. Oh the golden-tressed minutes! Oh the silver-footed hours! Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets, In a woodland full of flowers! When my wild heart beat so lightly It forgot its mortal shroud; And an Angel trembled brightly In the fold of every cloud. Wo ! That storms of sorrow-strife Hold the pitying light apart, And the golden waves of life Beat against a breaking heart. Saddest fate that e'er has been Woven in the loom of years, Our sworn faith has come between, Heavy with the wine of tears. Broken vow and slighted trust — ■ Hope's white garments soiled and torn- 94 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Passion trampled in the dust By the iron heel of scorn. Thou art dead, to me, as those Folded safe from mortal strife; Dead ! as tho' the grave-mould froze The red rivers of thy life! Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love! With my grief co-heir sublime! Storms and sorrows ever prove True inheritors of Time. Hush! An Angel holds my heart From its breaking — tho' I stand, From the happy world apart, On a broad and barren sand. I will love thee tho' I die! Love thee, with my ancient faith! For immortal voices cry: Love is mightier than Death! CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG. .S^Jweet, sweet, sweet! (gg) High up in the budding vine fep Fve woven and hidden a dainty retreat gig For this little brown darling of mine! i Along the garden borders, f Out of the rich dark mold, The daffodils and jonquils Are pushing their heads of gold; And high in her bower-chamber The little brown mother sits, While to and fro, as the west winds blow, Her pretty shadow flits. Weet, weet, weet! Safe in the branching vine, EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 95 Pillowed on woven grasses sweet, Our pearly treasures shine; And all day long in the sunlight, By vernal breezes fanned, The daffodil and the jonquil Their jeweled discs expand; And two and fro, as the west winds blow, In the airy house a-swing, The feeble life in the pearly eggs She warms with brooding wing! Sweet, sweet, sweet! Under a flowery spray Downy heads and little pink feet Are cunningly tucked away! Along the shining furrows, The rows of sprouting corn Flash in the sun, and the orchards Are blushing red as morn ; And the time o' the year for toil is here, And idle song and play With the jonquils, and the daffodils, Must wait for another May. LATER POEMS. TO MY SISTER. M. A. KENNON. " God's dera- love is over all.' 1 ear, the random words you said Once, as we two walked apart, Still keep ringing in my head, Still keep singing in my heart: Like the lone pipe of a bird, Like a tuneful waterfall 96 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Far in desert places heard — " God's dear love is over all!" Thro' the ceaseless toil and strife They have taught me to be strong! Fashioned all my narrow life To the measure of a song! They have kept me brave and true — • Saved my feet from many a fall, Since, what ever fate may do, God's dear love is over all! Lying in your chamber low, Neath the daisies and the dew, Can you hear me ? Can you know All the good I owe to you ? You, whose spirit dwells alway Free from earthly taint and thrall! You who taught me that sweet day God's dear love is over all! From your holy, far off Heaven, When the beams of twilight wane, Thro' the jasper gates of even Breathe those trustful words again; They shall aid -and cheer me still, What-so-ever fate befall, Since thro' every good and ill God's clear love is over all! "!IT>< MEASURING THE BABY. E measured the riotous baby ^Mf'l Against the cottage wall: 9 GpZ A lily grew at the threshold, And the boy was just so tall; A royal tiger lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dews to hold. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 97 Without the blue birds whistled, High up in the old roof trees; And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow, That danced on the lattice sill! His eyes were wide as blue-bells, His mouth like a flower unblown, Two little barefeet, like funny white mice, Peept out from his snowy gown ; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture. That yet had a touch of pain — When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy aeain! Ah me! In a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain We measured the Boy to-day! And the little bare feet, that were dimpled, And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose! Up from the dainty pillow, White as the rising dawn, The fair little face lav smiling With the light of Heaven thereon! And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropt from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine, That crept to the shrouded sill ! We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rose-wood casket That waited him below; 98 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. And out of the darkened chamber We crept with a childless moan: To the height of the sinless Angels Our little one had grown ! THE LIGHT OF DREAMS. AST night I walked in happy dreams, The paths I used to know; I heard a sound of running streams, ojf^ And saw the violets blow; *j[tr I breathed a scent of daffodils; And faint and far withdrawn, A light upon the distant hills, Like morning, led me on. And childish hands clung fast to mine, And little pattering feet Trod with me thro' the still sunshine Of by-ways green and sweet; The flax-flower eyes of tender blue, The locks of palest gold, Were just the eyes and locks I knew And loved, and lost — of old! By many a green familiar lane Our pathway seemed to run Between long fields of waving grain, And slopes of dew and sun; And still we seemed to breathe alway A scent of daffodils, And that soft light of breaking day Shone on the distant hills. And out of slumber suddenly I seemed to wake, and know The little feet, that followed me, Were ashes long ago | EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 99 And in a burst of rapturous tears I clung to her and said : " Dear Pitty-pat! The lonesome years They told me you were dead! " O, when the mother drew, of old, About her loving- knee The little heads of dusk and gold, I know that we were three! And then there was an empty chair — A stillness, strange and new: We could not find you anywhere — ■ And we were only two!" She pointed where serenely bright The hills yet glowed afar: " Sweet sister, yon ineffable light Is but the gates ajar! And evermore, by night and day, We children still are three, Tho' I have gone a little way To open the gates, ' ' said she. Then all in colors faint and fine The morning round me shone, The little hands slipt out of mine, And I was left alone; But still I smelled the daffodils, I heard the running streams; And that far glory on the hills — Was it the light of dreams ? BEN HAFED'S MEED. Hafed, when the vernal rain Warmed the chill heart of earth again, Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground, Within the dank and narrow round That compassed his obscure domain; With earnest zeal) thro' heat and cold, IOO EMMA ALICE BROWNE. He wrought and turned the sluggish mold, And all in furrows straight and fair He sowed the yellow seed with care, Trusting the harvest — as of old. Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright, The long days melted into night, And beautiful, on either hand, Outspread the shining summer land, And all his neighbor's fields were white. Long drawn, beneath the genial skies, He saw deep- fruited vineyards rise; On every hill the bladed corn Flashed like the falchions of the morn Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes. But in the garden, dull and bare, Where he had wrought with patient care, No cluster purpled on the vine, No blossom made the furrows shine With hints of harvest anywhere! Ben Hafed, scorning to complain, Bent to his thankless toil again: ' ' I slight no task I find to do, Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few, Thou wilt not count my labor vain ?" His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands, Stood by and mocked his empty hands: 1 ' Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil The grim warfare that yields no spoil ? Why spend thy zest on barren sands ? The circling seasons come and go, And others garner as they sow; But year by year, in sun and rain, Thoutill'st these fields with toil and pain, Where only tares and thistles grow!" W 7 ith quiet mien Ben Hafed heard, And answered not by sign or word, EMMA ALICE BROWNE. IOI Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense Of loss made sweet thro' recompense, In God's good time, within him stirred. With no vain protest or lament, Low to the stubborn glebe he bent: ' ' I till the fields Thou gavest me, And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee," He said — and plodded on, content. And ever, with the golden seeds, He sowed an hundred gracious deeds — Some act of helpful charity, A saving word of cheer, may be, To some poor soul in bitter need! And life wore on from gold to gray; The world went by, another way: " Tho' long and wearisome my task, Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask, And Thou will grant me that, some day!" One morn upon his humble bed, They found Ben Hafed lying dead, God's light upon his worn old face, And God's ineffable peace and grace Folding him round from feet to head. And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled The glebe but late so bare and cold, Between fair rows of tree and vine Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine, Shone all in glorious harvest gold! And One whose face was strangely bright With loving ruth — whose garments white Were spotless as the lilies sweet That sprang beneath His shining feet — Moved slowly thro' those fields of light; " Blest be Ben Hafed's work — thrice blest!" He said, and gathered to His breast The harvest sown in toil and tears: " Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years, Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!" 102 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. WINTER BOUND. F I could live to see beyond the night, The first spring morning break with fiery thrills, iAnd tremble into rose and violet light Along the distant hills! If I could hear the first wild note that swells The blue bird's silvery throat when spring is here, And all the sweet, wind ruffled lily bells Ring out the joyous matins of the year! Only to smell the budding lilac blooms The balmy airs from sprouting brake and wold, Rich with the strange ineffable perfumes Of growing grass and newly furrowed mold ! If I could hear the rushing waters call In the wild exultation of release, Dear, I might turn my face unto the wall And fall asleep in peace! MISLED. 2^hro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom, With a glitter of gorses here and there, 6fc> Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom, >As> ^ty l° ve ' I f°H° w y° u everywhere! ■jr By faint sweet signs my soul divines, Y Dear heart, at dawning you came this way, By the jangled bells of the columbines, And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay. By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn, Thro' shine and shade of dingle and glade, Fast and far as I hurry on My eager seeking you still evade. But, were you shod with the errant breeze, Spirit of shadow and fire and dew, EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 103 O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas Still would I follow and find out you. Like a dazzle of sparks from a glowing brand, 'Mid the tender green of the feathery fern And nodding sedge, by the light gale fanned, The Indian pinks in the sunlight burn; And the wide, cool cups of the corn flower brim With the sapphire' s splendor of heaven' s own blue, In sylvan hollows and dingles dim, Still sweet with a hint of the morn — and you ! For here is the print of your slender foot, And the rose that fell from your braided hair, In the lush deep moss at the bilberry's root — And the scent of lilacs is in the air! Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood? Do roses drop from the bilberry bough ? Answer me, little Red Riding Hood! You are hiding there in the bracken, now! Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle — I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue — Your yellow locks — ah, you know full well Your scarlet mantle has told on you; Come out this minute, you laughing minx! — By all the dryads of wood and wold! 5 Tis only a cluster of Indian pinks And corn flowers, under the gorses' gold. AT MILKING-TIME. >oe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown! Make haste; the milking-time is come! "ct^The bells are ringing in the town, jfg Tho' all the green hillside is dumb, Jb And Morn's white curtain, half withdrawn, Y Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn." Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: " Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail! 104 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. See the vapors, white as curd, By the waking winds are stirred, And the east is brightening slow — ■ Tom is long a-field, I know ! "Coe, Bell! Come Bright! Miss Lilywhite, I see you hiding in the croft! By yon steep stair of ruddy light The sun is climbing fast aloft; What makes the stealthy, creeping chill That hangs about the morning still ?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: ' ' Some one saunters up the vale, Pauses at the brook awhile, Dawdles at the meadow stile — ■ Well ! if loitering be a crime, Some one takes his own sweet time! "So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow, Keep your pink nose out of the pail! How dull the morning is — how low The churning vapors coil and trail! How dim the sky, and far away! What ails the sunshine and the day ?' ' Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: ' ' But for that preposterous tale Nancy Mixer brought from town, ' Tom is courting Kitty Brown,' I'd not walked with Willie Snow, Just to tease my Tom, you know! "So! stand still, my thistledown! Tom is coming thro' the gate, But his forehead wears a frown, And he never was so late! Till that vexing demon, Doubt, Angered us, and we fell out!" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: " Tom roosts on the topmost rail, Chewing straws, and looking grim When I choose to peep at him; EMMA ALICE BROWNE. IO5 Wonder if he's sulking still, All about my walk with Will ? "Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite, Hasten field ward, every one; All the heavens are growing bright, And the milking time is done; I will speak to him, and see If his lordship answers me: ' Tom!' He tumbles off the rail, Stoops to lift the brimming pail; With a mutual pleading glance Lip meets lip — mayhap by chance — ■ And — but need I whisper why ? — Tom is happy — and so am I!" THE SINGER'S SONG. ^ weary heart of mine, a-iJlg Keep still, and make no sign! ^t^The world hath learned a newer joy- ^ig A sweeter song than thine! •X Tho' all the brooks of June f Should lilt and pipe in tune. The music by and by would cloy — The world forgets so soon! So thou mayest put away Thy little broken lay; Perhaps some wistful, loving soul May take it up some day — Take up the broken thread, Dear heart, when thou art dead, And weave into diviner song The things thou wouldst have said! Rest thou, and make no sign, The world, O, heart of mine, Is listening for the hand that smites A grander chord than thine! 106 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. The loftier strains that teach Great truths beyond thy reach; Whose far faint echo they have heard In thy poor stammering speech. Thy little broken bars, That wailing discord mars, To vast triumphal harmonies Shall swell beyond the stars. So rest thee, heart, and cease; Awhile, in glad release, Keep silence here, with God, amid The lilies of His peace. AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING. [llt! ow Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown; The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid, And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid! We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight The harvest was short, and the apple crop light; The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost, And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost; A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be — But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me! But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best, And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest; I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine, Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine! He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word, But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain, And I knew he was fretting for Robert again ! EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 1 07 Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray; What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies! And in youth — why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad! But the curse came upon him — the spell of unrest — Like a voice calling out of the infinite West — And Archibald Grace, he was going — and so We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go! There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: Be spry as a cricket; he don't like to wait! Here's the firkin o' butter, as yellow as gold — And the eggs, in this basket — ten dozen all told. Tell father be sure and remember the tea — And the spice and the yard o' green gingham for me; And the sugar for baking: — and ask him to go To the office — there might be a letter, you know! May Providence go with your father to town, And soften the heart o' this rich Captain Brown. He's the stranger that's buying the Sunnyside place, We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace, Along with the mortgage that's jest falling due, And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew; And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel. You raised her, I know; and it's hard she must go; But father will pay every dollar we owe; It's his way, to be honest and fair as the day; And he always was dreadfully set in his way. I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; 10-3 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 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! EMMA ALICE BROWNE. IO9 IN HOC SIGNO VINCES! (UNDER THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER.) J^eneatii the solemn stars that light -^jljgThe dread infinitudes of night, ^Jp Mid wintry solitudes that lie gJLj Where lonely Heeia's toweling pyre yt Reddens an awful space of sky y 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! IIO EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 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, EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Ill The bounteous years shall come and go Unvexed; and all humanity, Nursed to a loftier type, shall grow Like to that image undented, That fair reflex of Deity, Who, first, beneath the morning skies And glowing palms of paradise, A God-like man, awoke and smiled!" * * >I< >K 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 prophecv, The affirmation: " By and by!" els HOW KATIE SAVED THE TRAIN. 'he floods were out. Far as the bound #)cK? Of sight was one stupendous round (d^ 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, for 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. 112 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 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, EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 113 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 s'de 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! 114 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. OFF THE SKIDLOE. 'ITH leagues of wasteful water ringed about, Ms And wrapped in sheeted foam from base to peak, ^kx A sheer, stupendous monolith, wrought out p^L By the slow, ceaseless labor of the deeps, ^jp In awful isolation, old as Time, Y 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. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. I15 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. ife! 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 : 1 Take ye a rose at Christmas tide. Il6 EMMA ALICE BROWNE. 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. Mv 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 mv 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- EMMA ALICE BROWNE. IV] 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, Mary- land, on the 1 2th 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. W T hile 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. In- deed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.' Though we have no Shakspeares, 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 amuse- ment 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 monu- ments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural develop- ment 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, JMomunent, Athenceum, NATHAN C* BROOKS. i 19 and Protestant, of tha same city. In 1830 he edited Hie Ame- thyst, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to Atkinson's Casket, and The Lady's Book,o{ which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for Burton's Magazine, and Graham's, The A T ew York Mirror, The Ladies' Compan- ion, and the Llome Journal ; and the following annuals, The Gift, The Christian Keepsake, and The Religions Souvenir. He contributed also prose and poetry to The Southern Literary Mes- senger, 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 Revo- lution," etc. In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherish- ed 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 num- ber 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 183 1 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 organiza- tion 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 presi- dent, 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 follow- ing poems are selected as specimens of his style. 120 NATHAN C. BROOKS. THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY. he flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, (of* 5 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, f 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 ! NATHAN C. BROOKS. 121 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. 'he fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, csi 6P And there breathes a low and plaintive sound \c> From each stream and solemn wood around. C 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, 122 NATHAN C, BROOKS. 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? NATHAN C, BROOKS. 123 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. he star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, (at 3 And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile. xf^ 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' pros- trate 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.* 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. *The Pantheon that was built to all the gods was transformed into a Christian temple. 124 NATHAN C. BROOKS. 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 moulder- ing 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, O uenched 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, NATHAN C. BROOKS. I 2< 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. THE INFANT ST. JOHN, THE BAPTIST. tTV^-> sweeter than the breath of southern wind \]j With all its perfumes is the whisper' d prayer cr& From infant lips, and gentler than the hind, Aq The feet that bear jK The heaven-directed youth in wisdom's pathway f 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. 126 NATHAN C. BROOKS. SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES. Ibi tu c a lent em Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici. — Horace. Percy Bysshe Shelley, an eminent English poet, while sailing in the Mediterranean sea, in 1822, was drowned oft" the coast of Tus- cany in a squall which wrecked the boat in which he had em- barked. Two weeks afterwards his body was washed ashore. The Tuscan quarantine regulations at that time required that what- ever 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. §eneath the axle of departing day The weary waters on the horizon's verge Blush' d like the cheek of children tired in play, els As bore , the sur £ e J Jh The poet's wasted form with slow and mourn - ^ ful 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, NATHAN C. BROOKS. 1 27 The melancholy pile of death was reared Aloft to heaven, And on its pillared height the corpse to torches 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. m? THE FOUNTAIN REVISITED. et the classic pilgrim rove, By Egeria's fount to stand, P Or sit in Vancluse's grot of love, Afar from his native land ; y j^ Let him drink of the crystal tides y 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, . . 128 NATHAN C. BROOKS. 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. ithin Philistia's princely hall a glorious festival, eftfe And on the fluctuant ether floats The music of the timbrel's notes, 'jfc While living waves of voices gush, Y 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, <%*? NATHAN C. BROOKS. 1 29 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 Loin 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. 9 I30 NATHAN C. BROOKS. 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. 'HE day is spent, on the calm evening hours, Like whispered prayer, come nature's sounds (st 5 abroad, g^cjAnd with bowed heads the pure and gentle flowers "j(r Shake from their censers perfume to their God; y 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 Commission- ers, but removed to Warsaw, Illinois, where he continued to prac- tice 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 Dar- lington, 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^ 132 JOHN M. COOLEY. A STORY WITH A MORAL. ,ne 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; 4 ' I too was once as blithe and gay — My days as lightlv 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 JOHN M. COOLEY. I33 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 — 134 JOHN M. COOLEY, 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. e^QR 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, JOHN M. COOLEY. I35 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 runted 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. i £> But fancy, as we passed the bowl, Fill'd ev'ry empty chair again. I36 JOHN M. COOLEY. 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. I till — 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 JOHN M. COOLEY. I37 LOVED AND LOST. ove cannot call her back again, But oh! it may presume With ceaseless accents to complain, All wildly near her tomb. Y 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. 138 JOHN M. COOLEY, 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, §ierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed qI^ So proudly that terrific blade. •X The feeble bosom scarce can give y 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. JOHN M. COOLKY. 1 39 " 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 uninoving heart beneath. Thou gallant Clay — thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; I40 JOHN M. COOLEY. 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. yv H ! for a brief poetic mood 13 In which to write a merry line — £p 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. jp ike him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish' d most — So, dearest, do I mourn for thee. *f y 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. JOHN M. COOLEY. 14I 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 nth, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a mili- tary academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Del- aware, 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 th e same day purchased an interest in 77ie 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 edito- rial 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 IiMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH. &J "h URY the mighty dead — Long, long to live in story! Bury the mighty dead $, In his own shroud of glory. y Question not his purpose; ~Sul!y not his name, GEORGE W. CRU1KSHANK. 1 43 ■ — ' ■ 1 — — * 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 alb 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, 144 GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. 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, Ail 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, GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. I45 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 1 862. jg^RANK is dead! The mournful message Comes gushing from the ocean's roar. Frank is dead! His mortal passage i 3 Has ended on the heavenly shore. ^'f- J 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, howeward turning. Forsook its tenement of clay. 10 I46 GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. 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, GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. 1 47 His brilliant promise, dashed in youth, One less is left to fight for truth. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortal?. 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,] §et the bier move onward. — Let no tear be shed. The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead. Oj^g His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends "X his woes. Y As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peace- ful be its close. Let the bier move onward. — Let no tear drop fall. I48 GEORGE W. CRUIKSHAKK. 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 expecta- tion'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. GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK, 1 49 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 pith 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' It 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 laith in heaven! All. all is wild! No sun! No moon! 150 GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. 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. Fiee 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. GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. 151 Thou' It 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' It 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? 152 GEORGE W. CRUIKSHANK. 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. ^he night is strangely, wildly dark; •Qli§ The thunders fiercely roll, 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 news- papers under the signature of Agricola. In 1873 Mr. Evans mar- ried 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 acquaint- ance with the Muses. INFLUENCES. ^Jtop 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. 1 86 CHARLES H. EVANS. MUSINGS. e^EW the joys — oh! few and scattered- •|