John Marchborn Cooley, the eldest son of the late Corbin Cooley, was born at the Cooley homestead, on the Susquehanna river, in Cecil county, a short distance below the junction of that stream and the Octoraro creek, on the first of March, 1827; and died at Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, April 13th, 1878.
In childhood he showed a taste for learning, and in early youth was sent to West Nottingham Academy, where he received his education. While at the Academy he is said to have been always willing to write the compositions of his fellow students, and to help them with any literary work in which they were engaged.
Mr. Cooley studied law in the office of the late Col. John C. Groome, and was admitted to the Elkton bar on the 4th of April, 1850. He practiced his profession in Elkton for a short time, during a part of which he was counsel to the County Commissioners, but removed to Warsaw, Illinois, where he continued to practice his profession for six years, after which he came to Harford county, where he resided until the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion, when he joined the Union army and continued to serve his country until the close of the war. In 1866, he married Miss Hattie Lord, of Manchester, New Hampshire, and settled in Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, where he was engaged in teaching a classical school until the time of his death.
Mr. Cooley was born within a few miles of the birthplace of William P. and E.E. Ewing, and Emma Alice Brown and almost within sight of the mansion in which Mrs. Hall wrote the poems which are published in this book.
Mr. Cooley was a born poet, a voluminous and beautiful writer, and the author of several poems of considerable length and great merit.
Mr. Cooley’s widow and son, Marvin L. Cooley, still survive, and at present reside in Darlington.
One ev’ning, as some children play’dBeneath 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’dTh’ approaching wand’rer mutely stood.Ere silence had oppressive grownThe old man’s voice thus found a tone;“I too was once as blithe and gay—My days as lightly flew awayAs if I counted all their hoursUpon a dial-plate of flowers;And gentle slumber oft renew’dThe joyance of my waking mood,As if my soul in slumber caughtThe radiance of expiring thought;As if perception’s farewell beamCould tinge my bosom with a dream—That twilight of the mind which throwsSuch mystic splendor o’er repose.Contrasted with a youth so brightMy manhood seems one dreary night,A chilling, cheerless night, like thoseWhich over Arctic regions close.I married one, to my fond eyesAn angel draped in human guise.Alas! she had one failing;No secret could she keepIn spite of all my railing,And curses loud and deep.No matter what the dangerOf gossiping might be,She’d gossip with a strangerAs quickly as with me.One can’t be always serious,And talking just for show,For that is deleteriousTo fellowship, and soI oft with her would chatter,Just as I felt inclined,Of any little matterI 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 ringAll day through heart and brain;In sleep a nightmare stole his voice,And shouted it again.I spent whole days in meditatingHow I should break the spell,Which made my wife keep pratingOf 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 sheThis secret wouldn’t tell.Alas! upon the following dayShe had revealed it, for I foundSome surly men with warrants arm’dWere slyly lurking round.They took me to the county jailMy 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’dThis case you may dismiss—Now hearken all assembled here,My whole defence is this:I killed a dog—a thievish wretch—His body may be found,Beneath an apple tree of mine,A few feet under ground,This simple plot I laid in hopeTo 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.”
For twenty guests the feast is laidWith luscious wines and viands rare,And perfumes such as might persuadeThe very gods to revel there.
A youthful company gathered here,Just two score years ago to-day,Agreed to meet once ev’ry yearUntil the last one passed away.
And when the group might fewer growThe vacant chairs should still be placedAround the board whereon should glowThe glories of the earliest feast.
One guest was there, with sunken eyeAnd mem’ry busy with the past—Could he have chosen the time to die,Some earlier feast had been his last.
“But thrice we met” the old man said,But thrice in youthful joy and pride,When all for whom this board was spreadWere seated gaily at my side.
Then first we placed an empty chairAnd 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 smileIn all its former freedom spread.
For still our circle seem’d intact.The lofty chorus rose as wellAs when our numbers had not lack’dThat voice the more in mirth to swell.
But we parted with a sadder mienAnd hands were clasped more kindly then,For each one knew where death had beenWe might expect him o’er again.
Ah! wondrous soon our feast beforeA lessening group was yearly spread,And all our joys were ruffled o’erWith 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 nameOr brought a buried friend to mind.
At length, alas! we were but twoWith features shrivel’d, shrunk, and changed,Whose faded eyes could scarcely viewThe vacant seats around us ranged.
But fancy, as we passed the bowl,Fill’d ev’ry empty chair again.Inform’d the silent air with soulAnd shaped the shadowy void to men.
The breezy air around us stirr’dWith snatches of familiar song,Nor cared we then how fancy err’dSince her delusion made us strong.
But now, I am the only guest,The grave—the grave now covers allWho joined me at the annual feastWe 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 roomHave vanish’d from his failing sight;One broad horizon spreads in gloomAround a lessening disc of light.
And then he seem’d like one who keptA vigil with suspended breath—So kindly to his breast had creptSome gentlest messenger of death.
Still—still the Earth each primal grace renews,And blooms, or brightens with Creation’s hues:Repeats the sun the glories of the sky,Which upward lured the earliest watcher’s eye;Yet bids his beams the glowing clouds adornWith all the charms of Earth’s initial morn,And duplicates at eve the splendors yetThat fixed the glance, that first beheld him set.
Love cannot call her back again,But oh! it may presumeWith ceaseless accents to complain,All wildly near her tomb.
A madd’ning mirage of the mindStill bids her image rise,That form my heart can never findYet 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 whyThe love that cannot save,Will hover with despairing cryAround the dear ones grave.
Mine is not frenzy’s sudden gust,The passion of an hour,Which sprinkles o’er beloved dustIts 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 yearAll brokenly live on.
Earth has no terror like the tombWhich hides my darling’s head,Yet seeking her amid its gloom,I grope among the dead.
And oh! could love restore that formTo its recovered grace,How soon would it again grow warmWithin my wild embrace.
Fierce as the sword upon his thigh,Doth gleam the panting soldier’s eye,But nerveless hangs the arm that swayedSo proudly that terrific blade.The feeble bosom scarce can giveA 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 threadThe 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 deathCould from his boyish face unwreath,Or in convulsive writhing showThe 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 descriedAbove the piling smoke-clouds borne,Like the first dubious streaks of mornThat o’er the mountains misty heightWill kindle in a lovely sight.
“A foreign soil my blood doth stain,And the few drops that yet remainAdd but still longer to my pain.Land of my birth! thy hills no moreMay these fast glazing eyes explore,Yet oh! may not my body restBeneath that sod my heart loves best?My father—home! Joys most adoredDwell in that simple English word—Go, comrades! Till your field is wonForget 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 steelIn 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’dWith life the stiff’ning wounds withheld;And struggling to his knees, he shookThe sword his hand had not forsook,But to his arm it was deniedTo slay the foe his heart defied.The faintly wielded steel was leftIn 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 beneathWhite with the searching touch of Death.The last thick drops congeal aroundThe jagged edge of many a wound;See breaking through the marble skinThe clammy dews that lurk within,The lip still quivers, but no breathSeeks the unmoving heart beneath.
Thou gallant Clay—thy name doth castA halo o’er the glorious past;For in the brightness of such blazeEven Alexander fame decays,Yes—yes, Columbia’s noble sonDied! Monarchs could no more have done.
Oh! for a brief poetic moodIn which to write a merry line—A line, which might, could, would or shouldDo duty as a Valentine.Then to the woods the birds repairIn pairs, prepared to wooA mate whose breast shall fondly shareThis world’s huge load of ceaseless careWhich 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 flownAnd I am left to brood alone,To think of joys of vanish’d yearsAnd banish thus some present tears;But then our life is but a dreamAnd things are not what they seem.
Like him who mourns a jewel lostIn some unfathomable sea,The precious gem he cherish’d most—So, dearest, do I mourn for thee.
For oh! the future is as darkAs is the ocean’s barren plain,Whose restless waters wear no markTo guide his eyes, who seeks in vain.
True, reckless Fancy dares invadeThe realm of time’s uncounted hours,As fondly gay, as if she stray’dIn 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 formA rainbow o’er a vale of tears.
George W. Cruikshankwas born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858.
He is among the very best classical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest inThe Cecil Democrat, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill.
In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the BaltimoreDay, which he edited while that journal existed.
Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank. They are the parents of five children—three of whom survive.
Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published.
Bury the mighty dead—Long, long to live in story!Bury the mighty deadIn his own shroud of glory.
Question not his purpose;Sully not his name,Nor think that adventitious aidCan build or blight his fame,Nor hope, by obloquizing whatHe strove for, glory’s lawsCan be gainsaid, or he defiledWho’d honor any cause.
Question not his motives,Ye who have felt his might!Who doubts, that ever saw him strike,He aimed to strike for right?His was no base ambition;—No angry thirst for blood.Naught could avail to lift his arm,But love of common good.Yet, when he deigned to raise it,Who could resist its power?Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe,E’er to forget that hour?
His life he held as nothing.His country claimed his all.Ah! what shall dry that country’s tearsFast falling o’er his fall?His life he held as nothing,As through the flame he trod;To duty gave he all of earthAnd all beyond to God.The justness of his effortHe never lent to doubt.His aim, his arm, his all was fix’dTo 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 nationsWould bid His own:—Well done!And doubted not, a moment,As fiercest flashed the fire,The bullet’s fatal blast would call:—Glad summons!—Come up higher!
And who would hence recall thee?—Thy work so nobly done!Enough for mortal brow to wearThe crown thy prowess won:—Grim warrior, grand in battle!Rapt christian, meek in prayer!—Vain age! that fain would reproduceA 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, Cæsars, Cromwells,Melancthons, Luthers brave!But, who than Jackson ever yetHas filled a prouder grave?
The cause for which he struggled,May fall before the foe:Stout hearts, devoted to their trust,All moulder, cold and low.The land may prove a charnel-houseFor millions of the slain,And blood and carnage mark the trackWhere madmen march amain,—Fanatic heels may scourge it,Black demons blight the sod;And hell’s foul desolationMock 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 WestmorelandForget illustrious birth;—And yet, upon tradition,Will float the name of himWhose 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 fromThe bosom of his God.
Bury the mighty dead!Long, long to live in story!Bury the hero deadIn his own shroud of glory!
Frank is dead! The mournful messageComes gushing from the ocean’s roar.Frank is dead! His mortal passageHas ended on the heavenly shore.In earthly agony he diedTo join his Saviour crucified.
Frank is dead! Time’s bitter trialsDrove 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 spiritCareered to realms the blest inherit.
Frank is dead! In life’s young morning,When heavenly promise lit his day,His smitten spirit, homeward turning,Forsook its tenement of clay.No more to battle here with sin;No more to suffer mid earth’s din.
Frank is dead! By fever stricken,How long he suffered, and how deep!With none to feel his hot blood quicken,No loved one near to calm his sleep.No mother’s presence him to gladden:Naught, naught to cheer—all, all to sadden.
Frank is dead! His pangs are over.His gentle spirit hence has flown.Strangers, with earth, his body cover,Strangers attend his dying moan.On stranger forms his eyes last close,To meet A FRIEND in their repose.
Frank is dead! Aye! weep, fond mourner!The grand, the beautiful is lost.Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner,On passion’s billows tempest-tossed,Has found a source of sweeter blissIn 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 tomorrowWhose light eternally shall reign.He’s dead to young ambition’s vowAnd the big thought that stamped his brow.
Frank is dead! Dead to the laborsHe’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 fitChrist’s armor on and honor it.
Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasureHas closed his bright career too soonTo realize how rich a treasureThe ranks had entered ere high noon.His brilliant promise, dashed in youth,One less is left to fight for truth.
Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortals.No more we’ll see his noble browOr flashing eye; but in the portalsAbove, by faith I see him nowWith 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 lendTo banish spirits that ascend.
And fare thee well, my noble brother!’Tis hard to think that thou art not;To realize that never otherFootstep 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 curedAnd thou, fair boy, art glorified.
Let the bier move onward.—Let no tear be shed.The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead.His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends his woes.As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peaceful be its close.
Let the bier move onward.—Let no tear drop fall.The couch of birth is waiting the egress of the pall.Haste! Hasten the obsequies:—the natal hour is nigh.Waste not a moment weeping when expectation’s high.
* * * * * *
Draw back the veil; the curtain lift.Ho! Thirsting hearts, rejoice!The new-born is no puny gift:—Time’s latest, grandest choice.
Nurseling and giant! Infant grown!Majestic even now!’Tis well that such a restless throneDescends to such as thou.
* * * * * *
Dame nature’s travail bore thee;Her pangs a world upheaved.A world now bending o’er theeAwaits those pangs relieved.A world is waiting for thee:And shall it be deceived?
Ah no! Such pangs were neverTo mother giv’n in vain.Rise, new-born! Rise and severTyranny’s clanking chain.Rise, Virtue! Rise forever!The New-Year comes amain!O! Give him welcome ever!Can bleeding hearts refrain?
* * * * * *
All hail! Oh beautiful New-Year!Full, full of promise fraught with cheer.Bright promise of the glad returnOf glowing fires that erst did burnOn hearths long desolate!Hail! Great deliverer from wrath,Brave pioneer upon the pathThat leads to better fate!Joy be to thee thy natal day,As dawns Aurora’s earliest ray,While youth is fresh and faith is clearAnd hope is bright with coming cheer!Thou promisest eventful lifeAs, giant-like, thou leap’st to earth,Robed in full majesty at birth;With power to do and will to dareAnd arm to shield from threat’ning care,And eye to ken the dead past’s strife.
Thy young life’s hand knows yet no stainOf blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain.But, know, Oh Friend! thou’rt ushered inTo feel the jar and note the dinOf war-blast’s rude alarms.Thy elder brother, gone before,Has left upon this nether shoreA burden for thine arms.
’Tis thine to choose the part thou’lt take,Oh giant mighty! Thine to makeAn early choice; lose not an hour.’Tis crime to waste prodigious power.Great, vast, appalling, is the taskBy fate assigned to thee. No maskOf 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 rivenAs if to shake earth’s faith in heaven!All, all is wild! No sun! No moon!Earth, air and sky, in dire commune,Demand—what hand shall guide them now?
New-Year, stand forth and bide the callTo thee address’d.We stand or fallAs thou decree’st.Frown, and we perish. Smile, we riseTo joys that savor of the skies.Bid lethargy depart thy browAnd strike for right and truth.Young, thou; but hast no youth.No hours are thine for sportive mirth.Minerva-like, mature from birth,Great deeds and valiant thine must be,In wisdom guided, fair and free.—Deeds that no year hath known before;Fraught not with strife;—drenched not in gore.Free from old taint of fell diseaseAnd ancient forms of party strife.Rich in the gentler modes of lifeWith sweeter manners, purer laws,Forerunner of those years of easeThat 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 afarAnd 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 feelHope’s roseate flush upon my brow.Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow.New aims thy glory will reveal.Thou heed’st the anguished bosom’s smart,And thou wilt choose the better part.Thou’lt live on hist’ry’s brightest pageA monarch mighty, gentle sage:Great, great for what thou wilt have doneAnd blest in all the course thou’lt run:—Thy crown not carved in brass or wood,To crumble or decay;But be in endless day,Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good.And truth and peace will round thee weaveAn 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 returnOf glowing fires that erst did burnOn hearths long desolate!Thy stainless youth supports our faithThat thou wilt break the bonds of deathAnd 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 surgeThat ne’er can wash thee clean;The wail of millions be thy dirge—Thy judge—the Great Unseen!
And when the resurrection mornShall seek thy name to blot,Ho! Heed the voice that asks in scorn,—Thou liv’dst and reign’dst for what?
Passion unbridled, stubborn pride,Avengers, thine to rue,Of outraged virtue, truth defied,Shall ’balm in blood thy due,Lost eighteen sixty-two.
The night is strangely, wildly dark;The thunders fiercely roll,And lightnings flash their angry spark;But thou absorb’st my soul.I have no care for storm-king’s cloud,How black soe’er it be;—No truant thought for earth’s dark shroud:I’m thinking, love, of thee.
To-night the God of battles views,With deprecating eye,A scene where demons wild infuseA thirst for victory.’Tis His, not mine to guide the storm;’Tis His to calm the sea:My spirit hovers ’round thy form.I’m thinking, love, of thee.
Time’s cycle once again has wroughtIts round:—I’m twenty six.Another mile-stone’s gained—sad thought—Toward deep, silent Styx.I count no laurels I have won;Years bring no joy to me,While yet alone I wander onIn timid thought of thee.
Years six and twenty have been mineTo journey on alone:Shall I as many more repine,Before I am undone?Or shall the journey henceforth takeA brighter phaze for me?Shall I next six-and-twenty makeMy journey, love, with thee?
If so, good-bye grim doubt and fear:Adieu to arid sand.All Hail! Oh prospect bright and clear!All Hail, oasis grand!Hand joined in hand, heart linked with heart,Come joy, come hope, come glee!United, ne’er on earth to part,I’ll always think of thee.
If not, Good-bye! The spirit breaks;The fountain soon must dry.If not, good God! The temple shakes;It totters! What am I?A wreck of hope!—An aimless thing!A helmless ship at seaTo whose last spar love still must cling,And sigh:—Alas!—for thee.
Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends’ Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor toThe Cecil Democrat, under thenom de plumeof “Gertrude St. Orme.”
I know a happy little boy,They call him Charlie Gray,Whose face is bright, because you know,He’s six years old to-day.
I scarce can think six years have passedSince Charlie really came,I well remember long ago,We never heard his name.
But here he is, almost a man,With knickerbockers on,And baby dresses packed away,You’ll find them, every one.
And every year as time rolls on,And Charlie’s birthdays come,The world goes out to celebrateWith banner, fife, and drum.
At sunrise on those happy daysThe cannon’s deaf’ning roar,Reminded us that Charlie GrayWas two, or three, or four.
But now those landmarks all are passed,He’s getting fast away,The boy’s a man, no baby now,He’s six years old to-day.
Just think of it, ye many friendsWho wish him worlds of joy,That Charlie Gray is six to-day,A patriotic boy.
And if he sometimes noisy grows,What matter, if he’s right?Give me the boys that make a noiseAnd play with all their might.
I know ’tis whispered far and near,That Charlie loves his way,But I can tell of grown up men,Who do the same to-day.
Who never yield or quit the field,Can you blame Charlie then?For most small boys will imitateWhat’s seen in grown up men.
And now good friends, I give you leaveTo find him if you can,Another boy, more glad with joy,Than this brave little man.
Heigh ho! I still am in a maze,To think he’s six to-day,Some other time I’ll tell you more,If—Charlie says I may.
Falling, falling—gently falling,Pattering on the window pane,Like a weird spirit callingCome the heavy drops of rain.
Sweeping by the crazy casement,Where the creeping ivy clings,Sounds the wind in gustful musingsLoudly speaking bitter things.
Hush! the tones are sinking lower,Sweetest strains of music roll;Like Aeolian harps in Heaven,Pouring incense o’er the soul.
But ’tis gone! a wilder wailingFills the air where music reigned,Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon,Drowning all those sweeter strains.
And the tall pines shake and quiverAs the monarch rideth by;Onward where the troubled riverDashes spray-drops towards the sky.
But he pauses not to listen,Onward with demoniac will;Till Aeolian harps in HeavenSoftly whisper, “Peace, be still.”
Woodman, spare that tree!Touch not a single bough:In youth it sheltered me,And I’d protect it now.—George P. Morris.
Woodman, spare that tree!Touch not a single bough:In youth it sheltered me,And I’d protect it now.
—George P. Morris.
’Tis living yet! Time has not daredTo mark it, as his own,Nor claimed one bough, but kindly sparedThis giant, firm and lone.It stands, as stood in years gone by,The chieftain in its shade,And breathed the warning, ere the cryOf war went through the glade.
The Council tires then brightly burnedBeneath its spreading bough,But oh, alas! the scene has turned,Where burn those fires now?The old oak stands where it did then,The same fresh violets bloom,But far down in the narrow glen,They deck the Indian’s tomb.
Life then seemed bright and free from care;When this old tree was youngThe Indian maiden twined her hair,And to her chieftain sungA song, low, gentle, and sincere,In pathos rich and rare;The warrior-lover brushed a tear,For thought was busy there.
Yes, busy was the fertile brain,That bid him onward flee,The Indian moon was on the waneAnd drooped the hawthorne tree.The light canoe of rounded barkScarce dared to skim the flood,For they had come with meaning darkTo ravage lake and wood.