Orange buds a maiden wearsOn the blissful wedding morn;Snowy buds on golden hairTell of love and faith new born.Ripened now the perfect fruit,Fifty sunny years have passed;Golden fruit on snowy hairTells of love and faith that last.
Orange buds a maiden wearsOn the blissful wedding morn;Snowy buds on golden hairTell of love and faith new born.
Ripened now the perfect fruit,Fifty sunny years have passed;Golden fruit on snowy hairTells of love and faith that last.
Mr. Meredith, a Philadelphian by birth, and also a banker in New York City, is also one of our summer residents, his main interest in Morristown coming, as he says, from the fact that his grandmother was a Morristown Ogden. He served as an officer in the United States Navy with Farragut at the battle of Mobile Bay and was afterwards his secretary.
Mr. Meredith is perhaps best known by his spirited poem, entitled "Farragut", which appeared inThe Century, in 1890, and heads the group of "Various Poems" in Stedman and Hutchinson's Library of American Literature.
Besides this, Mr. Meredith has written forThe New York Timesand other journals and publications at various times. He wrote forThe Centurya War article on "Farragut's Capture of New Orleans", which may be found in Volume IV of the published series. A novel appeared with his name, in 1890, entitled "Not of Her Father's Race", in which the "Fox Hunt" is, the author tells us, a study of a bag chase in which he took part some years ago near Morristown, although he has laid the scene in Newport. We give the poem, "Farragut".
Farragut, Farragut,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave Farragut,Thunderbolt stroke,Watches the hoary mistLift from the bay,Till his flag, glory-kissed,Greets the young day.Far, by gray Morgan's walls,Looms the black fleet.Hark, deck to rampart callsWith the drum's beat!Buoy your chains overboard,While the steam hums;Men! to the battlement,Farragut comes.See, as the hurricaneHurtles in wrathSquadrons of cloud amainBack from its path!Back to the parapet,To the guns' lips,Thunderbolt FarragutHurls the black ships.Now through the battle's roarClear the boy sings,"By the mark fathoms four,"While his lead swings.Steady the wheelmen five"Nor' by East keep her,""Steady" but two alive:How the shells sweep her!Lashed to the mast that swaysOver red decks,Over the flame that playsRound the torn wrecks,Over the dying lipsFramed for a cheer,Farragut leads his ships,Guides the line clear.On by heights cannon-browed,While the spars quiver;Onward still flames the cloudWhere the hulks shiver.See, yon fort's star is set,Storm and fire past.Cheer him, lads—Farragut,Lashed to the mast!Oh! while Atlantic's breastBears a white sail,While the Gulf's towering crestTops a green vale;Men thy bold deeds shall tell,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave FarragutThunderbolt stroke!
Farragut, Farragut,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave Farragut,Thunderbolt stroke,Watches the hoary mistLift from the bay,Till his flag, glory-kissed,Greets the young day.
Far, by gray Morgan's walls,Looms the black fleet.Hark, deck to rampart callsWith the drum's beat!Buoy your chains overboard,While the steam hums;Men! to the battlement,Farragut comes.
See, as the hurricaneHurtles in wrathSquadrons of cloud amainBack from its path!Back to the parapet,To the guns' lips,Thunderbolt FarragutHurls the black ships.
Now through the battle's roarClear the boy sings,"By the mark fathoms four,"While his lead swings.Steady the wheelmen five"Nor' by East keep her,""Steady" but two alive:How the shells sweep her!
Lashed to the mast that swaysOver red decks,Over the flame that playsRound the torn wrecks,Over the dying lipsFramed for a cheer,Farragut leads his ships,Guides the line clear.
On by heights cannon-browed,While the spars quiver;Onward still flames the cloudWhere the hulks shiver.See, yon fort's star is set,Storm and fire past.Cheer him, lads—Farragut,Lashed to the mast!
Oh! while Atlantic's breastBears a white sail,While the Gulf's towering crestTops a green vale;Men thy bold deeds shall tell,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave FarragutThunderbolt stroke!
Miss Johnson, the niece of Mr. J. Henry Johnson, one of Morristown's old residents, and the last preceptor of the old Academy, will be found again among "Historians". She has written and published a large number of poems, besides, and from them we select the following:
Shall I tell you a story of Christmas time?Of what Nellie found by her Christmas tree?If I tell it at all, it must be in rhymeFor it seems like a song to Nellie and meThat ripples along to a breezy tune,Like a brook that sings through the woods in June;And yet it was dark November weatherWhen song and story began together."Papa", said Nellie, with wistful tone,"When God sends little children here,Do beautiful angels flutter downAs once when they brought our Saviour dear?Don't they sing in the sky, where we can't seeAnd listen up there to Harry and me?'Cause I prayed last night for the bestest thingsHeavenly Father sends us, and Harry saidI might ask for a sister who hadn't wingsA dear little sister to sleep in my bed;For my other one went away, you know,To sing with the angels long ago,And I want another to stay with meA dear little sister like Daisy Lee.So high, Papa! Look, don't you see?Just up to my chin. Heavenly Father knows'Bout her dress and her shoes and her curly hair'Cause I told him all, and so I s'poseThe first little sister He has to spareHe'll send her down here, oh won't she beA dear little sister for Harry and me!""Yes, my Nellie", her father said,One gentle hand on the curly headWith tender caress and whispered wordToo low for her ear, 'though a Bright-one heardAnd passed it up, meet signal givenFrom love on earth to love in heaven;"Yes, my Nellie, wait and see!We are all in our Heavenly Father's careAnd He'll send what is best for you and meWhen we look to Him with a loving prayer".The days passed on. 'Twas that happy timeWhen bells ring out with their Christmas chime;There were people at work all over the landBusy for Santa Claus, heart and hand,And some in cabin and work-shop dimWho wouldn't have work if it wasn't for him;And Harry and Nellie?—There were noneIn that Christmas time had a gayer tree.Papa was at work at early dawnAnd the children all tip-toe to see;But the dark December day wore onE'er the door was opened noiselessly,And the light streamed out in the dusky hallFrom a beautiful cedar bright and tall.Starry tapers were gleaming there,Toy and trumpet and banner fair,The topmost flag on the ceiling boreWhile the laden branches swept the floor;While gay little Rover frisking in,Led the children in frolic and dinAs they spied each treasure and in their gleeShouted with joy round the Christmas tree,While Papa stood back in a corner to see."Oh! Harry", said Nellie, "I do declareHere's a basket for me!" She opened the lidAnd pulled back the blanket folded thereAnd what d'ye think was safely hidBut a dear live baby so fast asleepThat it never waked up with the children's shoutTill Nellie asked, "is it ours to keep?"And kissed its hand as she stood in doubt."Of course," said Harry, "don't angels knowWhen God has told them which way to go?That's our little sister we wanted so!""Little sister", said Nellie, "I'm very glad,I know you're the best Heavenly Father hadAnd now you're ours and you're going to stay'Cause the angels have left you and gone away"."No, my Nellie", a voice replied,As Papa drew near to Nellie's side,"Let us pray they may watch over this little oneDay by day, till life is done,That she may be glad through eternityShe was ever left 'neath our Christmas tree".
Shall I tell you a story of Christmas time?Of what Nellie found by her Christmas tree?If I tell it at all, it must be in rhymeFor it seems like a song to Nellie and meThat ripples along to a breezy tune,Like a brook that sings through the woods in June;And yet it was dark November weatherWhen song and story began together.
"Papa", said Nellie, with wistful tone,"When God sends little children here,Do beautiful angels flutter downAs once when they brought our Saviour dear?Don't they sing in the sky, where we can't seeAnd listen up there to Harry and me?'Cause I prayed last night for the bestest thingsHeavenly Father sends us, and Harry saidI might ask for a sister who hadn't wingsA dear little sister to sleep in my bed;For my other one went away, you know,To sing with the angels long ago,And I want another to stay with meA dear little sister like Daisy Lee.So high, Papa! Look, don't you see?Just up to my chin. Heavenly Father knows'Bout her dress and her shoes and her curly hair'Cause I told him all, and so I s'poseThe first little sister He has to spareHe'll send her down here, oh won't she beA dear little sister for Harry and me!"
"Yes, my Nellie", her father said,One gentle hand on the curly headWith tender caress and whispered wordToo low for her ear, 'though a Bright-one heardAnd passed it up, meet signal givenFrom love on earth to love in heaven;"Yes, my Nellie, wait and see!We are all in our Heavenly Father's careAnd He'll send what is best for you and meWhen we look to Him with a loving prayer".
The days passed on. 'Twas that happy timeWhen bells ring out with their Christmas chime;There were people at work all over the landBusy for Santa Claus, heart and hand,And some in cabin and work-shop dimWho wouldn't have work if it wasn't for him;And Harry and Nellie?—There were noneIn that Christmas time had a gayer tree.Papa was at work at early dawnAnd the children all tip-toe to see;But the dark December day wore onE'er the door was opened noiselessly,And the light streamed out in the dusky hallFrom a beautiful cedar bright and tall.Starry tapers were gleaming there,Toy and trumpet and banner fair,The topmost flag on the ceiling boreWhile the laden branches swept the floor;While gay little Rover frisking in,Led the children in frolic and dinAs they spied each treasure and in their gleeShouted with joy round the Christmas tree,While Papa stood back in a corner to see.
"Oh! Harry", said Nellie, "I do declareHere's a basket for me!" She opened the lidAnd pulled back the blanket folded thereAnd what d'ye think was safely hidBut a dear live baby so fast asleepThat it never waked up with the children's shoutTill Nellie asked, "is it ours to keep?"And kissed its hand as she stood in doubt.
"Of course," said Harry, "don't angels knowWhen God has told them which way to go?That's our little sister we wanted so!"
"Little sister", said Nellie, "I'm very glad,I know you're the best Heavenly Father hadAnd now you're ours and you're going to stay'Cause the angels have left you and gone away"."No, my Nellie", a voice replied,As Papa drew near to Nellie's side,"Let us pray they may watch over this little oneDay by day, till life is done,That she may be glad through eternityShe was ever left 'neath our Christmas tree".
Our gifted young townswoman, Miss Garrard, who has often entertained us with her rare dramatic talent, has contributed, for a number of years, articles in prose and verse to well-known magazines and journals, notably toLippincott's MagazineandLife. InLippincottfor June, 1890, we find a very pretty poem embodying a clever thought and entitled "A Coquette's Motto". In a previous number appears "A Trip to Tophet", which is a sparkling and graphic description of a descent into a silver-mine at Virginia City, California. In it occurs the following picture of the visitor's surroundings:
"The next few minutes will always be a haunting memory to me. The long, dark passages, the burning atmosphere, the scattered lights, the weird figures of the miners appearing, only to vanish the next moment in the surrounding gloom, all recur like some infernal dream".
We select to represent Miss Garrard, the first poem she published inLife:
You hang upon her boudoir wall,Plaque de Limoges!She prizes you above them allPlaque de Limoges!Yet do your blossoms never move,Although she looks on them with love,And treasures your hard buds aboveThe gathered bloom of field and grove,Insensate, cold Limoges!Brilliant in hue your every flower,Plaque de Limoges!Copied from some French maiden's bower,Plaque de Limoges!But still you let my lady stand—The fairest lady in the land—Caressing you with her soft hand,Nor breathe, nor stir at her command,Cold-hearted clay—Limoges!Would that I in your place might be,Plaque de Limoges!That she might stand and gaze on me,Plaque de Limoges!I'd live in love a little space,Then—fling my flowers from their place,At her dear feet to sue for grace,Until she'd raise them to her face,Happy, but crushed Limoges!
You hang upon her boudoir wall,Plaque de Limoges!She prizes you above them allPlaque de Limoges!Yet do your blossoms never move,Although she looks on them with love,And treasures your hard buds aboveThe gathered bloom of field and grove,Insensate, cold Limoges!
Brilliant in hue your every flower,Plaque de Limoges!Copied from some French maiden's bower,Plaque de Limoges!But still you let my lady stand—The fairest lady in the land—Caressing you with her soft hand,Nor breathe, nor stir at her command,Cold-hearted clay—Limoges!
Would that I in your place might be,Plaque de Limoges!That she might stand and gaze on me,Plaque de Limoges!I'd live in love a little space,Then—fling my flowers from their place,At her dear feet to sue for grace,Until she'd raise them to her face,Happy, but crushed Limoges!
Though Miss Dodge finds her place naturally and kindly in the society of our poets, all readers ofThe Centurywill remember a charming prose paper of hers called "An Island of the Sea", beautifully illustrated by Thomas Moran and published in 1877. Before and since that time, her pen has not been idle, for short, prose articles have been scattered here and there, in various periodicals, and it is difficult to select from the number of thoughtful and delicate poems now before us, one to represent her. The poem, "A Legend of St. Sophia in 1453", is full of spirit and fire. It was written in 1878, when the advance of the Russian forces towards Constantinople seemed to point to the fulfillment of ancient prophecy and the restoration of Christian dominion over the stronghold of Islam. The poem entitled "Satisfied" was first published inThe Churchmanand afterwards placed, without the author's knowledge, in a collection called "The Palace of the King", published by Randolph & Co. Among the other poems are: "Our Daily Bread", "Spring Song", "Telling Fortunes", "September Memories", and "To a Night-Blooming Cereus", which last we give principally because, besides being a beautiful expression of a beautiful thought,it was written under the inspiration of a flower sent to the writer from an ancient plant in a Morristown conservatory.
O fleeting wonder, glory of a night,Only less evanescent than the gleamThat marks the lightning's track, or some swift dreamThat comes and, vanishing, eludes our sight!How canst thou be content, thy whole rich streamOf life to lavish on this hour's delight,And perish ere one morning's praise requiteThy gift of peerless splendor? It doth seemThou art a type of that pure steadfast heartWhich hath no wish but to perform His willWho called it into being, no desireBut to be fair for Him; no other partDoth choose, but here its fragrance to distilFor one brief moment ere He bid "Come higher"!
O fleeting wonder, glory of a night,Only less evanescent than the gleamThat marks the lightning's track, or some swift dreamThat comes and, vanishing, eludes our sight!How canst thou be content, thy whole rich streamOf life to lavish on this hour's delight,And perish ere one morning's praise requiteThy gift of peerless splendor? It doth seemThou art a type of that pure steadfast heartWhich hath no wish but to perform His willWho called it into being, no desireBut to be fair for Him; no other partDoth choose, but here its fragrance to distilFor one brief moment ere He bid "Come higher"!
Mr. Platt, the faithful principal of our Morris Academy, has of late, "at odd moments and in vacations," as he says, written verses of local reference and others, upon various subjects, whichhave been published in our local papers and elsewhere.
Born at Elizabeth, N. J., Mr. Platt lived there until 1883. He was graduated at Williams' College in 1877, taught in the Rev. J. F. Pingry's School in Elizabeth for six years, came to Morristown and took charge of the Morris Academy in 1883, and has retained that position to the present time.
Among the poems which refer to local interests are "Fort Nonsense," which we give in the opening chapter on "Historic Morristown"; "The Old First Church"; "The Lyceum" and "The Washington Headquarters", which last will follow this short sketch, as embodying so much that is interesting of that historic building and its surroundings.
Other of the poems might, perhaps, for some special qualities, better represent Mr. Platt than this; there is the excellent and gay little parody, which we would like to give, of "That Old Latin Grammar". "The Wild Lily" is charming. Then there are "Memorial Day"; "Easter Song"; "Modern Progress"; "A Myth"; and "John Greenleaf Whittier", the last written and published upon the occasion of the poet's death September 16th, 1892. Besides these, there are the "Ballades of the Holidays" which form a series by themselves, dealing in part with the subject of popular maxims, and including poems for Christmas, NewYear's Day, Discovery Day and other holidays. We give
What mean these cannon standing here,These staring, muzzled dogs of war?Heedless and mute, they cause no fear,Like lions caged, forbid to roar.Thisgun[A]was made when good Queen AnneRuled upon Merry England's throne;Captured by valiant JerseymenEre George the Third our rights would own."Old Nat",[B]the little cur on wheels,Protector of our sister city,Was kept to bite the British heels,A yelping terror, bold and gritty.Thatsavage beast, the old "Crown Prince",[C]A British bull-dog, glum, thick-set,At Springfield's fight was made to wince,And now we keep him for a pet.Upon this grassy knoll they stand,A venerable, peaceful pack;Their throats once tuned to music grand,And stained with gore their muzzles black.But come, that portal swinging free,A welcome offers, as of yore,When, sheltered 'neath this old roof-tree,Our patriot-chieftain trod this floor.And with him in that trying dayWas gathered here a glorious band;This house received more chiefs, they say,Than any other in our land.[D]Hither magnanimous Schuyler came,And stern Steuben from o'er the water;Here Hamilton, of brilliant fame,Once met and courted Schuyler's daughter.And Knox, who leads the gunner-tribes,Whose shot the trembling foeman riddles,A roaring chief,[E]his cash subscribesTo pay the mirth-inspiring fiddles.[F]The "fighting Quaker", General Greene,Helped Knox to foot the fiddlers' bill;And here the intrepid "Put." was seen,And Arnold—black his memory still.And Kosciusko, scorning fear,Beside him noble Lafayette;And gallant "Light Horse Harry" hereHis kindly chief for counsel met."Mad Antony" was here a guest,—Madly he charged, but shrewdly planned;And many another in whose breastWas faithful counsel for our land.Among these worthies was a dameOf mingled dignity and grace;Linked with the warrior-statesman's fameIs Martha's comely, smiling face.But look around, to right to left;Pass through these rooms, once Martha's pride,The dining hall of guests bereft,The kitchen with its fire-place wide.See the huge logs, the swinging crane,The Old Man's seat by chimney ingle,The pots and kettles, all the trainOf brass and pewter, here they mingle.In the large hall above, beholdThe flags, the eagle poised for flight:While sabres, bayonets, flint-locks old,Tell of the struggle, and the fight.Old faded letters bear the sealOf men who battled for a stamp;A cradle and a spinning-wheelBespeak the home behind the camp.Apartments opening from the hallShow chairs and desks of quaint old style,And curious pictures on the wallProvoke a reverential smile.Musing, we loiter in each roomAnd linger with our vanished sires;We hear the deep, far-echoing boomThat spoke of old in flashing fires.But deepening shadows bid us go,The western sun is sinking fast;We take our leave with footsteps slow,Farewell, ye treasures of the past.A century and more has gone,Since these old relics saw their day;That day was but the opening dawnOf one that has not passed away.Our banner is no worthless rag,With patriot pride hearts still beat high;And there, above, still waves the flagFor which our fathers dared to die.
What mean these cannon standing here,These staring, muzzled dogs of war?Heedless and mute, they cause no fear,Like lions caged, forbid to roar.
Thisgun[A]was made when good Queen AnneRuled upon Merry England's throne;Captured by valiant JerseymenEre George the Third our rights would own.
"Old Nat",[B]the little cur on wheels,Protector of our sister city,Was kept to bite the British heels,A yelping terror, bold and gritty.
Thatsavage beast, the old "Crown Prince",[C]A British bull-dog, glum, thick-set,At Springfield's fight was made to wince,And now we keep him for a pet.
Upon this grassy knoll they stand,A venerable, peaceful pack;Their throats once tuned to music grand,And stained with gore their muzzles black.
But come, that portal swinging free,A welcome offers, as of yore,When, sheltered 'neath this old roof-tree,Our patriot-chieftain trod this floor.
And with him in that trying dayWas gathered here a glorious band;This house received more chiefs, they say,Than any other in our land.[D]
Hither magnanimous Schuyler came,And stern Steuben from o'er the water;Here Hamilton, of brilliant fame,Once met and courted Schuyler's daughter.
And Knox, who leads the gunner-tribes,Whose shot the trembling foeman riddles,A roaring chief,[E]his cash subscribesTo pay the mirth-inspiring fiddles.[F]
The "fighting Quaker", General Greene,Helped Knox to foot the fiddlers' bill;And here the intrepid "Put." was seen,And Arnold—black his memory still.
And Kosciusko, scorning fear,Beside him noble Lafayette;And gallant "Light Horse Harry" hereHis kindly chief for counsel met.
"Mad Antony" was here a guest,—Madly he charged, but shrewdly planned;And many another in whose breastWas faithful counsel for our land.
Among these worthies was a dameOf mingled dignity and grace;Linked with the warrior-statesman's fameIs Martha's comely, smiling face.
But look around, to right to left;Pass through these rooms, once Martha's pride,The dining hall of guests bereft,The kitchen with its fire-place wide.
See the huge logs, the swinging crane,The Old Man's seat by chimney ingle,The pots and kettles, all the trainOf brass and pewter, here they mingle.
In the large hall above, beholdThe flags, the eagle poised for flight:While sabres, bayonets, flint-locks old,Tell of the struggle, and the fight.
Old faded letters bear the sealOf men who battled for a stamp;A cradle and a spinning-wheelBespeak the home behind the camp.
Apartments opening from the hallShow chairs and desks of quaint old style,And curious pictures on the wallProvoke a reverential smile.
Musing, we loiter in each roomAnd linger with our vanished sires;We hear the deep, far-echoing boomThat spoke of old in flashing fires.
But deepening shadows bid us go,The western sun is sinking fast;We take our leave with footsteps slow,Farewell, ye treasures of the past.
A century and more has gone,Since these old relics saw their day;That day was but the opening dawnOf one that has not passed away.
Our banner is no worthless rag,With patriot pride hearts still beat high;And there, above, still waves the flagFor which our fathers dared to die.
Mrs. Cutler's graceful pen has already contributed to this volume the sketch of Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest and also another to follow of Mrs. Julia McNair Wright. Her pen has been busy at occasional intervals from girlhood, when as a school-girl her essays were, as a rule, selected and read aloud in the chapel, on Friday afternoons, and a poem securing the gold medal crowned the success.
Living since her marriage, in the old historic house of Mr. Cutler's great-grandfather, the Hon. Silas Condict, fearless patriot of the Revolution, and President of the Council of Safety during the whole of that period that "tried men's souls", it is little wonder that the traditions of '76 clinging about the spot should nurture and develop the poetic spirit of the girl. It was in 1799, after Mr. Condict's return from Congress that he built the present house familiar to us all, but the old house stands near by, full of the most interesting stories and traditions of revolutionary days.
Mrs. Cutler has written many articles, often by request, for papers or magazines, and verses prompted by circumstances or surroundings, or composed when strongly impressed upon an especial subject.
FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1791, SESSION HOUSE AND MANSE. MORRIS COUNTY SOLDIER'S MONUMENT, 1871.FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1791,SESSION HOUSE AND MANSE.MORRIS COUNTY SOLDIER'S MONUMENT, 1871.
Before us lies a lovely poem of childhood, entitled "Childish Faith", founded on fact, but we select from the many poems of Mrs. Cutler, the Centennial Poem given below and written on the occasion of the Centennial of the old First Church.
The moon shines brightly down, o'er hill and daleAs it shone down, One Hundred years ago,On these same scenes. The stars look down from HeavenAs they did then, as calm, serene, and bright—Fit emblems of the God, who changes not.Only in him can we find sure repose'Mid change, decay and death, who is the sameTo-day as yesterday, forevermore.Through the clear air peal forth the silvery notes,Of thy old Bell, thou venerable pile,Thou dear old Church, whose birthday rare,We come to celebrate with tender love.One Hundred years! How long; and yet, how shortWhen counted with the centuries of the pastThat help to make the ages of the world:How long when measured by our daily cares,The joys, the sorrows that these years have broughtTo us and ours. "Our fathers, where are they?"The men of strength, one hundred years ago,As full of courage, purpose, will, as we,Have gone to join the "innumerable throng"That worship in the Father's House above.Their children, girls and boys, like the fair flowers,Have blossomed, faded, and then passed away,Leaving their children and grandchildren, too,To fill their places, take their part in life.How oft, dear Church, these walls have heard the vowsThat bound two hearts in one. How oft the treadOf those that bore the sainted dead to rest.How oft the voices, soft and low, of thoseWho, trusting in a covenant-keeping GodGave here their little ones to God. A faithWhich He has blessed, as thou canst truly tell,In generations past, and will in days to come.How many servants of the most high God,Beneath thy roof have uttered words divine,Taught by the Spirit, leading souls to ChristAnd reaping, even here, their great reward.Many of these have entered into restSuch as remains for those who love the Lord.Others to-day, have gathered here to tellWhat God has done in years gone by, and bearGlad testimony to the truth, that in this placeHis name has honored been.—'Tis sad to sayFarewell. But 'tis decreed, that thou must go.Time levels all; and it will lay thee low.But o'er thy dust full many a tear shall fall,And many a prayer ascend, that the true God,Our Father's God, will, with their children dwell,And that the stately pile which soon shall rise,Where now, thou art, a monument shall beOf generations past, recording allThe truth and mercies of a loving God.Oct. 14th, 1891.
The moon shines brightly down, o'er hill and daleAs it shone down, One Hundred years ago,On these same scenes. The stars look down from HeavenAs they did then, as calm, serene, and bright—Fit emblems of the God, who changes not.Only in him can we find sure repose'Mid change, decay and death, who is the sameTo-day as yesterday, forevermore.Through the clear air peal forth the silvery notes,Of thy old Bell, thou venerable pile,Thou dear old Church, whose birthday rare,We come to celebrate with tender love.One Hundred years! How long; and yet, how shortWhen counted with the centuries of the pastThat help to make the ages of the world:How long when measured by our daily cares,The joys, the sorrows that these years have broughtTo us and ours. "Our fathers, where are they?"The men of strength, one hundred years ago,As full of courage, purpose, will, as we,Have gone to join the "innumerable throng"That worship in the Father's House above.Their children, girls and boys, like the fair flowers,Have blossomed, faded, and then passed away,Leaving their children and grandchildren, too,To fill their places, take their part in life.How oft, dear Church, these walls have heard the vowsThat bound two hearts in one. How oft the treadOf those that bore the sainted dead to rest.How oft the voices, soft and low, of thoseWho, trusting in a covenant-keeping GodGave here their little ones to God. A faithWhich He has blessed, as thou canst truly tell,In generations past, and will in days to come.How many servants of the most high God,Beneath thy roof have uttered words divine,Taught by the Spirit, leading souls to ChristAnd reaping, even here, their great reward.Many of these have entered into restSuch as remains for those who love the Lord.Others to-day, have gathered here to tellWhat God has done in years gone by, and bearGlad testimony to the truth, that in this placeHis name has honored been.—'Tis sad to sayFarewell. But 'tis decreed, that thou must go.Time levels all; and it will lay thee low.But o'er thy dust full many a tear shall fall,And many a prayer ascend, that the true God,Our Father's God, will, with their children dwell,And that the stately pile which soon shall rise,Where now, thou art, a monument shall beOf generations past, recording allThe truth and mercies of a loving God.Oct. 14th, 1891.
The rhythmic, airy verses of Miss Coursen, full of the spirit of trees, flowers, the clouds, the winds and the insinuating and lovely sounds of nature, charm us into writing the author down as one of Morristown's young poets. The verses have attractive titles which in themselves suggest to us musical thoughts, such as "To the Winds in January"; "June Roses"; "In the Fields"; and "What the Katydids Say". We quote the latter for its bright beauty.
"Katy did it!" "Katy didn't!"Doesn't Katy wish she had?"Katy did!" that sounds so pleasant,"Katy didn't" sounds so bad.Katy didn't—lazy Katy,Didn't do her lessons well?Didn't set her stitches nicely?Didn't do what? Who can tell?But the livelong autumn eveningSounds from every bush and tree,So that all the world can hear it,"Katy didn't" oh dear me!Who would like to hear foreverOf the things they hadn't doneIn shrill chorus, sounding nightly,From the setting of the sun.But again, who wouldn't like itIf they every night could hear,"Yes she did it, Katy did it",Sounding for them loud and clear?So if you've an "awful lesson",Or "a horrid seam to sew",Just you stop and think a minute,Don't decide to "let it go".In the evening, if you listen,All the Katydids will say"Yes she did it, did it, did it!"Or, "she didn't". Now which way?
"Katy did it!" "Katy didn't!"Doesn't Katy wish she had?"Katy did!" that sounds so pleasant,"Katy didn't" sounds so bad.
Katy didn't—lazy Katy,Didn't do her lessons well?Didn't set her stitches nicely?Didn't do what? Who can tell?
But the livelong autumn eveningSounds from every bush and tree,So that all the world can hear it,"Katy didn't" oh dear me!
Who would like to hear foreverOf the things they hadn't doneIn shrill chorus, sounding nightly,From the setting of the sun.
But again, who wouldn't like itIf they every night could hear,"Yes she did it, Katy did it",Sounding for them loud and clear?
So if you've an "awful lesson",Or "a horrid seam to sew",Just you stop and think a minute,Don't decide to "let it go".
In the evening, if you listen,All the Katydids will say"Yes she did it, did it, did it!"Or, "she didn't". Now which way?
Miss Stone, long a resident of Morristown, has published many poems in prominent journals and magazines, also stories, but always under an assumed name. She will take a place in another group,that ofNovelists and Story-Writers. She is represented here by her poem on "Easter Thoughts".
Sometimes within our hearts, the good lies dead,Slain by untoward circumstances, or by our own free will,And through the world we walk with bowèd head;Or with our senses blinded to our choice,Thinking that "good is evil—evil good;"Or, with determined pride to still the voiceThat whispers of a "Resurrection morn."This is that morn—the resurrection hourOf all the good that has within us died,The hour to throw aside with passionate forceThe cruel bonds of wrong and blindness—pride—And rise unto a level high of power,Of strength—of purity—while those we love rejoiceWith "clouds of angel witnesses" above,And all the dear ones, who before have gone.And we ascend, in the triumphant joyAnd peace, and rapture of a changèd selfThat now transfigured stands—no more the toyOf circumstance—or pride, or sin, to blight—Until we reach sublimest heights—And stand erect, eyes fixed upon the Right—Strong in the strength that wills all wrong to still,Will—pointing upwards to th' ascended Lord,Bless, aye, thrice bless, this fair, sweet Easter Dawn.
Sometimes within our hearts, the good lies dead,Slain by untoward circumstances, or by our own free will,And through the world we walk with bowèd head;Or with our senses blinded to our choice,Thinking that "good is evil—evil good;"Or, with determined pride to still the voiceThat whispers of a "Resurrection morn."This is that morn—the resurrection hourOf all the good that has within us died,The hour to throw aside with passionate forceThe cruel bonds of wrong and blindness—pride—And rise unto a level high of power,Of strength—of purity—while those we love rejoiceWith "clouds of angel witnesses" above,And all the dear ones, who before have gone.
And we ascend, in the triumphant joyAnd peace, and rapture of a changèd selfThat now transfigured stands—no more the toyOf circumstance—or pride, or sin, to blight—Until we reach sublimest heights—And stand erect, eyes fixed upon the Right—Strong in the strength that wills all wrong to still,Will—pointing upwards to th' ascended Lord,Bless, aye, thrice bless, this fair, sweet Easter Dawn.
The Rev. Mr. Brewerton was pastor of the Baptist Church in Morristown in 1861, and during the early years of our Civil War. He was very patriotic and public-spirited and founded a Company of boy Zouaves in the town, which is well remembered, for at that time the war-spirit was the order of the day. He wrote a number of poems which were published in the Morristown papers and others. Of these, the following is one, published January 30, 1861.
Our soldiers with our sailors stand,A bulwark firm and true,To guard the banner of our land,The Red, the White, the Blue.The forts that frown along the coast,The ramparts on the steep,Are held by men who never boast,But true allegiance keep.While still in thunder tones shall speakOur giants on the tide,Rebuking those who madly seekTo tame the eagle's pride.While breezes blow or sounding seaBe whitened by a sail,The banner of the brave and trueShall float, nor fear the gale.While Ironsides commands the fleet,Shall patriot vows be heard,Where pennants fly or war drums beat,True to their oaths and word.Then back, ye traitors! back, for shame!Nor dare to touch a fold;We'll guard it till the sunshine waneAnd stars of night grow old.Thus ever may that flag unrentAt peak and staff be borne,Nor e'er from mast or battlementBy traitor hands be torn.
Our soldiers with our sailors stand,A bulwark firm and true,To guard the banner of our land,The Red, the White, the Blue.
The forts that frown along the coast,The ramparts on the steep,Are held by men who never boast,But true allegiance keep.
While still in thunder tones shall speakOur giants on the tide,Rebuking those who madly seekTo tame the eagle's pride.
While breezes blow or sounding seaBe whitened by a sail,The banner of the brave and trueShall float, nor fear the gale.
While Ironsides commands the fleet,Shall patriot vows be heard,Where pennants fly or war drums beat,True to their oaths and word.
Then back, ye traitors! back, for shame!Nor dare to touch a fold;We'll guard it till the sunshine waneAnd stars of night grow old.
Thus ever may that flag unrentAt peak and staff be borne,Nor e'er from mast or battlementBy traitor hands be torn.
Mrs. Abell has for several years contributed poems and articles to various papers and magazines. From the poems we select the following, which was copied in a Southern paper as well as in two others, fromThe New York Magazinein which it first appeared:
Behind the mask—the smiling faceIs often full of woe,And sorrow treads a restless paceWhere wealth and beauty go.Behind the mask—who knows the careThat grim and silent rests,And all the burdens each may bearWithin the secret breast?Behind the mask—who knows the tearsThat from the heart arise,And in the weary flight of yearsHow many pass with sighs?Behind the mask—who knows the strainThat each life may endure,And all its grief and countless painThat wealth can never cure?Behind the mask—we never knowHow many troubles hide,And with the world and fashion showSome spectre walks beside.Behind the mask—some future day,When all shall be made plain;Our burdens then will pass awayAnd count for each his gain.
Behind the mask—the smiling faceIs often full of woe,And sorrow treads a restless paceWhere wealth and beauty go.
Behind the mask—who knows the careThat grim and silent rests,And all the burdens each may bearWithin the secret breast?
Behind the mask—who knows the tearsThat from the heart arise,And in the weary flight of yearsHow many pass with sighs?
Behind the mask—who knows the strainThat each life may endure,And all its grief and countless painThat wealth can never cure?
Behind the mask—we never knowHow many troubles hide,And with the world and fashion showSome spectre walks beside.
Behind the mask—some future day,When all shall be made plain;Our burdens then will pass awayAnd count for each his gain.
The following is by one of the young writers of Morristown, written at Yale University and published in theYale Courantof February, 1891:
To him who, wearied in the noontide glare,Seeks cool refreshment in thy quiet shade,In all thy beauteous rainbow tints arrayed,How sweet! O dashing brook, thy waters are!Sure, such a glen fair Dian with her trainChose to disport in, when Actæon boldThat sight with mortal eyes dared to beholdWhich mortals may not see and life retain.To such a glen I, too, at noonday creep,Leaving the dusty road and haunts of men,To quaff thy purling, sparkling ripples; thenTo plunge within thy clear, cold basin deep.Alone in Nature's lap (this mossy sod)I lie; feel her sweet breath upon me blow;Hear her melodious woodland voice, and knowHer passing love, the eternal love of God!
To him who, wearied in the noontide glare,Seeks cool refreshment in thy quiet shade,In all thy beauteous rainbow tints arrayed,How sweet! O dashing brook, thy waters are!
Sure, such a glen fair Dian with her trainChose to disport in, when Actæon boldThat sight with mortal eyes dared to beholdWhich mortals may not see and life retain.
To such a glen I, too, at noonday creep,Leaving the dusty road and haunts of men,To quaff thy purling, sparkling ripples; thenTo plunge within thy clear, cold basin deep.
Alone in Nature's lap (this mossy sod)I lie; feel her sweet breath upon me blow;Hear her melodious woodland voice, and knowHer passing love, the eternal love of God!
FOOTNOTES:[A]Inscription on this Cannon:—Gun made in Queen Anne's time. Captured with a British vessel by a party of Jerseymen in the year 1780, near Perth Amboy. Presented by the township of Woodbridge, New Jersey, in 1874.[B]Inscription on "Old Nat:"—This cannon was furnished Capt. Nathaniel Camp by Gen. George Washington for the protection of Newark N. J. against the British. Presented to the Association by Mr. Bruen H. Camp, of Newark, N. J.[C]The inscription upon it is as follows:—The "Crown Prince Gun." Captured from the British at Springfield. Used as an alarm gun at Short Hills to end of Revolutionary War. Given in charge by General Benoni Hathaway to Colonel Wm. Brittin on the last training at Morristown, and by his son, Wm. Jackson Brittin, with the consent of the public authorities, presented to the Association in the year 1890.[D]The list of officers of the Revolutionary army mentioned in the poem is taken from a printed placard which hangs in the hall of the Headquarters.[E]Knox is called a roaring chief because when crossing the Delaware with Washington his "stentorian lungs" did good service in keeping the army together.[F]The reference to the fiddlers is based upon an old subscription paper for defraying the expenses of a "Dancing Assembly," signed by several persons, among them Nathaniel Greene and H. Knox, each $400,paid.This paper may be seen in the collection made by Mrs. J. W. Roberts.
[A]Inscription on this Cannon:—Gun made in Queen Anne's time. Captured with a British vessel by a party of Jerseymen in the year 1780, near Perth Amboy. Presented by the township of Woodbridge, New Jersey, in 1874.
[A]Inscription on this Cannon:—
Gun made in Queen Anne's time. Captured with a British vessel by a party of Jerseymen in the year 1780, near Perth Amboy. Presented by the township of Woodbridge, New Jersey, in 1874.
[B]Inscription on "Old Nat:"—This cannon was furnished Capt. Nathaniel Camp by Gen. George Washington for the protection of Newark N. J. against the British. Presented to the Association by Mr. Bruen H. Camp, of Newark, N. J.
[B]Inscription on "Old Nat:"—
This cannon was furnished Capt. Nathaniel Camp by Gen. George Washington for the protection of Newark N. J. against the British. Presented to the Association by Mr. Bruen H. Camp, of Newark, N. J.
[C]The inscription upon it is as follows:—The "Crown Prince Gun." Captured from the British at Springfield. Used as an alarm gun at Short Hills to end of Revolutionary War. Given in charge by General Benoni Hathaway to Colonel Wm. Brittin on the last training at Morristown, and by his son, Wm. Jackson Brittin, with the consent of the public authorities, presented to the Association in the year 1890.
[C]The inscription upon it is as follows:—
The "Crown Prince Gun." Captured from the British at Springfield. Used as an alarm gun at Short Hills to end of Revolutionary War. Given in charge by General Benoni Hathaway to Colonel Wm. Brittin on the last training at Morristown, and by his son, Wm. Jackson Brittin, with the consent of the public authorities, presented to the Association in the year 1890.
[D]The list of officers of the Revolutionary army mentioned in the poem is taken from a printed placard which hangs in the hall of the Headquarters.
[D]The list of officers of the Revolutionary army mentioned in the poem is taken from a printed placard which hangs in the hall of the Headquarters.
[E]Knox is called a roaring chief because when crossing the Delaware with Washington his "stentorian lungs" did good service in keeping the army together.
[E]Knox is called a roaring chief because when crossing the Delaware with Washington his "stentorian lungs" did good service in keeping the army together.
[F]The reference to the fiddlers is based upon an old subscription paper for defraying the expenses of a "Dancing Assembly," signed by several persons, among them Nathaniel Greene and H. Knox, each $400,paid.This paper may be seen in the collection made by Mrs. J. W. Roberts.
[F]The reference to the fiddlers is based upon an old subscription paper for defraying the expenses of a "Dancing Assembly," signed by several persons, among them Nathaniel Greene and H. Knox, each $400,paid.
This paper may be seen in the collection made by Mrs. J. W. Roberts.
Our fellow townsman of old New Jersey name, whose enthusiastic love for music, and especially for church music, is well known, has manifested his interest in this direction by compiling a collection of hymns known as "Songs of Praise. A Selection of Standard Hymns and Tunes". It is published by Anson D. F. Randolph & Company, and "meets", says the compiler, "a universally acknowledged want for a collection of Hymns to be used in Sunday Schools and Social Meetings".
Says Charles H. Morse inThe Christian Unionof August 20th, 1892: "If music is a pattern and type of Heaven, then, indeed, are those whose missionis to provide the music for our worship burdened with a weight of responsibility and called to a blessed ministry second only to that of the pastor who stands at the desk to speak the words of Life".
To compile from various sources a collection of hymns acceptable to varied classes of minds, requires much discernment, great care and large range of knowledge on the subject, as well as a comprehension of what is needed which comes from long and wide experience, study and observation, in addition to natural genius.
Although born in Philadelphia, Mr. Stockton belongs to an old and distinguished New Jersey family, and he has, after many wanderings, at last selected his home in the State of his ancestors.
Within a few years he has purchased and fitted up a quaint and attractive mansion in the suburbs of Morristown, overlooking the beautiful Loantika Valley, where in the Revolutionary days the tents of the suffering patriots were pitched or their log huts constructed for the bitter winter. Beyond the long and narrow valley, the homes of prominent residentsof Morristown appear on the Western limiting range of hills, and are charmingly picturesque.
This home Mr. Stockton has named "The Holt" and his legend, taken from Turberville, an old English poet, is painted over the fire-place in his Study which is over the Library on the South corner of the House: