* * * * * *
The conflict ended! but the bowWhich twanged across the plain.Dealt its proud owner death’s cold blow,And laid him with the slain.But to a better, happier home,Have gone the Indian braves;Where cruel white men cannot come,To call their brothers—slaves.
Then let it stand, that aged oak,Among its kindred trees;Tho’ now, no more the wigwam smokeWill curl upon the breeze.’Tis left alone—the last sad thingThat marks a nation vast,Then spare it, that its boughs may singA requiem to the Past.
Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers,Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold,Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers,And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold.
Soft are thy rivulets, gentle thy water-falls,Rippling so merrily toward the broad sea;Fringed with bright daisies, which bloom on thy borders,E’en Nature herself pays a tribute to thee.
Sweeter and lovelier than all thy fair sisters,Thy gentleness surely hath fame for thee won,While thy star, not forgotten, shines forth in a gloryThat crowns the best flag that waves under the sun.
Thy name brings a scent of the dogwood and myrtle,The jessamine, too, comes in for a share,With great yellow petals so heavy with perfume,That can with the tube-rose’s only compare.
Tho’ large be the family, there’s room for the fairest;No house is too small for a family with love:So Florida, thou who art brightest and dearest,The “Pet of the Household” forever shall prove.
Thy rivers are broad and thy lakes fringed with grasses,The glint of the waves of the bright Santa Fe,With her edging of cypress and long-floating mosses,Forever are murmuring a sonnet to thee.
While high on a hill sits the Queen of the Villas,Sweet Melrose! whose name is the least of her charms,Waves a welcome to all, to come over the billowsAnd find a safe home ’neath her sheltering arms.
And so they are coming, the weak and the weary,From near and from far, the strong and the brave,All ready to drink of the life giving breezes,The only Elixir that truly can save.
’Tis Evening! soul enchanting hour,And queenly silence reigns supreme;A shade is cast o’er lake and bower,All nature sinks beneath the powerOf sweet oblivion’s dream.
The Sun—the hero-god of day,Has from this happier half of earth,Passed on with sweet life-giving ray,To smile on millions glad and gay,In sorrow or in mirth.
While in his stead, the Heavens aboveAre shaded with a silver light,So soft, so pure—that angels rove,To guard from evil those who loveThe God, who made all bright.
Then soon that planetary seaIs studded o’er with diadems,Shining alike on land and sea.High, high above the loftiest tree;Proud Nature’s priceless gems.
Who would not leave the crowded room,The grand, but cold musician’s art;To wander ’neath the calm still moon.When nature speaks ’mid wild perfume,So sweetly to the heart.
Who would not shun proud Fashion’s hall,Escape her cold and torturings ways,To calmly rest where dew-drops fall;Perfumes that mind and soul enthrall,Beneath fair Luna’s rays.
Who would exchange a home of flowers,Down in a pure and modest dell,For palaces ’mid art-reared bowers,Washed o’er by artificial showers,Where naught but sorrows dwell.
Blest hour of thought! to thy pure sceneA mild and soothing charm is given,When hearts to hearts in love convene,And roses deck the silvered greenOf mingled Earth and Heaven.
The truth—that plainly proves a God,Not chance, performed the better partWhich teaches us His Heavenly Word:Breathes magic for the singing bird,And links us heart to heart.
TheRev. William Dukewas born in the southern part of what is now Harford county, but was at the time of his birth included in Baltimore county, on the 15th of September, 1757, and died in Elkton on the 31st of May, 1840. He became enamoured of the doctrines of Methodism in early youth, and allied himself with that denomination before its separation from the Protestant Episcopal Church, and was licensed to preach by Rev. Francis Asbury when he was only seventeen years old. Mr. Duke’s name appears upon the minutes of the first Conference, held in Philadelphia in 1774, as one of the seven ministers who were that year taken on trial. The next year he was admitted to full membership, and remained in connection with the Conference as a traveling preacher until 1779, when he ceased to travel, and subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church; being impelled to do so by his opposition to the erection of the Methodist Society into an independent Church.
Mr. Duke became Rector of North Elk Parish in 1793, but resigned the charge three years later, and removed to Anne Arundel county, but returned to Elkton about a year afterwards; soon after he removed to Kent county, where he taught a parochial school for a short time, but returned to Elkton again in 1799 and opened a school, and preached during the three following years at North East, Elkton, and at the Episcopal Church near New London, Pa.
In 1803 he was appointed Professor of Languages in St. John’s College, Annapolis, and had charge of St. Ann’s Church, in that city, until 1806, when he returned to Elkton, and the next year took charge of the Elkton Academy.
Mr. Duke remained in Cecil county until 1812, when he took charge of Charlotte Hall, in St. Mary’s county, and continued in charge of the school at that place until 1814, when he returned to Elkton, where he officiated as aforetime until the Spring of 1818, when he was appointed Principal of the Academy. He continued to reside in Elkton until the time of his death.
In 1793 Mr. Duke married Hetty Coudon, the daughter of the Rev. Joseph Coudon, a former Rector of North Elk Parish, and the ancestor of the Coudon family of this county. Mr. and Mrs. Duke were the parents of Miss Hetty Duke, who was their only child, and who died in Elkton, February 19th, 1875.
Mr. Duke was a very learned man, and is said by the Rev. Ethan Allan, the Historian of “The Old Parishes of Maryland,” to have been more of the student than the preacher. He was the author of a pamphlet published in Elkton in 1795, entitled “Observations on the Present State of Religion in Maryland,” which is now of great rarity and value. He also published a small volume entitled “Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions,” which was printed by Samuel and John Adams, of Baltimore, in 1790; and several other poems of considerable length, the most popular of which was entitled “A View of the Woods,” which was descriptive of the adventures and experience of Western emigrants in the latter part of the last century.
The following selections have been made from “Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions.”
And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned; but now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly.—Hebrews 11:15,16.
And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned; but now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly.
—Hebrews 11:15,16.
Abr’am, the father of the Jews,The servant, and the friend of God,When call’d from heaven, did not refuseTo leave his Syrian abode.
His father’s house and kindred dearPlead, and dissuaded him in vain;Neither could earthly hope nor fearThe noble enterprise restrain.
Nor he alone; a host of saintsRenounced the world, and nobly choseThat heavenly inheritanceWhich neither death nor sorrow knows.
No intervening dangers checkTheir ardent progress to the skies,Well may they venture, who expectAn heavenly and immortal prize.
When faith to their delighted viewTheir future blissful portion brings,They, firm and cheerful, bid adieuTo sin, and self, and earthly things.
Happy to leave the world behind,Their conduct speaks a noble aim;They seek a city, and shall findThe promised new Jerusalem.
Nor yet does impotence or fearTheir sense of earthly bliss restrain,Did they not heaven to earth prefer,They soon might wed the world again.
In heaven their treasure is laid upBeyond the reach of accident,There shall their lively glorious hopeReceive its full accomplishment.
But yield yourselves unto God as those that are alive from the dead; and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God.—Romans 6:13.
But yield yourselves unto God as those that are alive from the dead; and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God.
—Romans 6:13.
My heart, the world forsake,And every earthly toy;The Lord of all thy portion make,And in Him all enjoy.
May sensible delight,Corrected and refined,A thirst of nobler joys excite,And urge the lingering mind.
Should ardent love impelAnd actuate my soul,Still may celestial fires prevail,And every thought control.
Should glory stimulate,And daring deeds propose,That only fame I’d emulate,To triumph in the cross.
Or should my yielding powersAcknowledge pleasure’s sway,I’d think of sacred streams and bowers,And sweets that ne’er decay.
Should soaring science meHer votary avow,My only excellence should beChrist crucified to know.
Should wealth my mind impress,With the desire of more,In Christ the fullness I possess,Of Heaven’s exhaustless store.
With all that nature craves,Fully from thence supplied,No aching want my bosom heavesNo wish unsatisfied.
Tost on the troubled sea of life,On every side assailed,Involved in passion’s stormy strife,In irksome suff’rance held.
The faithful word of promise cheersAnd bears my spirits up,Dispels my dark desponding fearsAnd stablishes my hope.
Hope that shall every toil survive,That smoothes the rugged path,That mitigates the ills of life,And soothes the hour of death.
And when the storms of life are o’er,And all our conflicts cease,When landed on the heavenly shoreTo enjoy eternal peace.
Hope at the last, her charge resigned,Securely we dismiss,And an abundant entrance find,To the abodes of bliss.
Till then our progress she attendsTo solace and relieve:And waits till every conflict endsTo take her final leave.
Possessed of all we hoped below,Our utmost wish attained,Our happiness complete, we knowOur full perfection gained.
Thus may I cheerfully endure,Till thus my warfare past;—Suffice for me the promise sure,I shall be crowned at last.
There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God.—Hebrews 4:9.
There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God.
—Hebrews 4:9.
Oh how I languish to possess,A safe and permanent abode!To rest in unmolested peace,And cast my care on thee, my God.
In thee I joy, in thee I rest,Though all inferior comforts fail;No hopeless anguish heaves my breast,And no tormenting fears assail.
To thee with confidence I look,And calmly wait thy promised aid;I rest securely on that Rock,On which Almighty help is laid.
Oh may I on His firmness stand,The ground of my immortal hope;Or nobly rise, at his command,To Pisgah’s heaven-aspiring top.
That I may with ecstatic view,My future heritage descry,Where pleasures spring forever new,And perfect love shall never die.
What racking fear, what painful griefEnsue a pleasant sin!In vain the world proffers reliefFor maladies within.Its blandishments and smooth deceitNo real succor bring;Its remedies but irritateAnd pleasure leaves a sting.Confusion, shame, and slavish fearO’erwhelm a guilty mind;A burden more than I can bear,My sins upon me bind.Oh had I weighed the matter wellEre my consent was given!Avoided then the gates of hellAnd urged my way to heaven!Lord, give me strength now to resumeMy former confidence;Remove my terrors, bid me comeWith hopeful penitence.In mercy hear my humble cry,Redeem my soul from sin,My guilty conscience pacifyAnd speak the peace serene.
But now the dawn of day appears,And now the dappled East declaresAmbrosial morn again arrived,And nature’s slumbering powers revived,And while they into action springThe infant breeze with odorous wing,Perfumes of sweetest scent exhales,And the enlivened sense regales,With sweets exempt from all alloyWhich neither irritate nor cloy.Nor less the calmly gladdened sightEnjoys the milder forms of light,Reflected soft in twinkling beams,From numberless translucent gems.But now Aurora dries her tears,And with a gayer mien appears,With cheerful aspect smiles serene,And ushers in the splendid sceneOf golden day: while feeble nightPrecipitates his dreary flightDispelled by the all cheering swayOf the resplendent God of day,Who, mounted in his royal car,And all arrayed in golden glareWith arduous career drives onAscending his meridian throne:From thence a Sovereign of the day,His full-grown glories to display.
Edwin Evans Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing and brother of William Pinkney Ewing, was born on his father’s farm on the Octoraro creek, not far from Rowlandville, in this county, on the 9th of January, 1824. His family is of Scotch-Irish extraction, and settled on the Octoraro more than a century ago. The family has long been distinguished for the intellectuality and literary ability of its members, among whom were the Rev. John Ewing, one of the most eminent scientists and Presbyterian divines of his time, and his daughter Sarah, who became the wife of John Hall, and whose biography is published in this volume.
The subject of this sketch spent his youth and early manhood, on his father’s farm. Recently when asked for a sketch of his life Mr. Ewing replied: “I didn’t have any life. I just growed like Topsy. I didn’t have any educating. I just picked it up; and as for poetry, I never wrote any, only rhyme.” Notwithstanding this assertion, Mr. Ewing being unable to resist the prompting of the “divinity which stirred within him,” when quite young, began to write poetry. There seems to be a subtle influence pervading the romantic Octoraro hills, which if not the direct cause of poetic inspiration seems to encourage its growth, Mr. Ewing being one of five poets who claim that region as their birthplace, or who have profited by a residence therein.
When quite young Mr. Ewing wrote poetry which was published in the local journals of Cecil and Lancaster counties, and subsequently contributed poetry to the PhiladelphiaDollar Newspaper, being a contemporary contributor to that journal with his brother, William P. Ewing, and the late David Scott (of James.)
In 1856 Mr. Ewing made a trip to the Southwest, traveling extensively on horseback in Texas. He gave an account of his travels and a description of the country through which he passed in a series of letters published in theCecil Whig, which were much admired.
In 1861, Mr. Ewing became the proprietor and editor of theCecil Whig, which was the Union organ of the county. Being a man of decided convictions, and unflinching courage, he never lost an opportunity to advocate the cause of the Union, to which he adhered with great devotion, through evil and through good report.
In 1876 he disposed of theWhigand the next year bought an interest in theKansas Farmerand theJuvenile Magazine, published in Topeka, Kansas. He subsequently became connected with theDaily Capital, and eventually became sole proprietor of theKansas Farmer. The climate of Kansas not agreeing with him, he removed to Highlands, Macon county, N.C., where in 1882 he established theBlue Ridge Enterprisewhich he soon afterwards disposed of, and in 1885 became the proprietor of theMidland Journal, published in the village of Rising Sun, in this county.
Mr. Ewing is a brilliant and forcible writer. Like many others Mr. Ewing kept none of his poems except one which is too lengthy to be given a place in this volume. In consequence of this the compiler has only been able to obtain the following specimens of his poetry after great labor and trouble.
’Twas at that season, when the gloomOf cheerless Winter’s pass’d away,And flowers spring up, with sweet perfume,To scent the breeze and cheer our way,Where’er we saunter—o’er the hill,Or through the valley—warm and still,Or broken only by the soundOf tinkling rills, which softly flow,And busy bees, that hum aroundThe flowers which on their borders grow,That I, from life’s turmoil had strayedTo spend an hour in solitude;And where a sparkling fountain played,I laid me down, in pensive mood,To ponder o’er the fleeting dayOf youth, that hies so fast awayIn golden dreams which quickly fly,Like tints that deck a Summer sky.
Soon Fancy, on her airy wing,Was sporting mid Elysian bowers,Where flowers of sweetest odor spring,And birds of golden plumage sing,And wanton thro’ the sylvan bowers.There lakelets sparkled in the glow,Wreathed round with flowers of many a hue,And golden pebbles shone belowThe wave that bore the swan of snow,Reflecting, in its mirror true,The flowers which o’er its surface grew,The tints of earth—the hues of sky—That in its limpid bosom lie.And groups of happy children playedAround the verge of each cascade;Or gambol’d o’er the flowery leaIn wanton mirth and joyous glee;Pursuing, o’er the sparkling lawn,The insect in its airy flight,Which still eludes, but tempting onFrom flower to flower, with plumage bright,The hand that woos to stay its flight—Till soaring high, on pinions wildIt leaves the charm’d and tearful child.
One maid there was, divinely fair,Whose cheeks, beneath her peerless eyes,Bloomed like the roses, rich and rare,That yield perfume to summer skies;Her shining locks of silky hairHung round her neck like grapes of gold,And o’er her snowy bosom roll’d,Hiding the blush that mantled there.
The brightest of the fairy throng,She led the dancing group alongThrough tangled brakes and fretted bowers,Where grew the richest, rarest flowers,That wooed the bee to banquet there,Or yielded sweets to Summer air.But she who moved with elfin pace,And taught the infant throng to play,Raised to heaven her cherub face,While that bright celestial ray,Which halos the throne of glory round,Illumed her azure, orient eye,That seemed to penetrate the sky.Bending her gaze upon the ground,Her gentle bosom heaved a sigh,And anxious faces press around,While pearls of pity dim each eye,As tho’ they’d weep again to restThe troubled spirit of that breast.
“Weep not for me!” the cherub said,While o’er her seraph beauty playedA smile like evening’s parting beam,That sparkles o’er the glassy stream,Or lingers on a lucid lake—Whose dimpling wave the zephyrs break.“Far thro’ yon skies, where orient dayIs shedding his last lingering ray,Bright angels beckon me away;—I go—I go—a last farewell!”And as she spoke around her fell,From heaven, a bright celestial ray,Whose lustre dimm’d the light of day;And ’mid that heavenly blaze unfoldHer glittering pinions tipp’d with gold.While strains of sweet unearthly soundAwoke their dulcet chime around,She soared away on wings of light,Like sparkling meteor of the night;Still lessening, as she further drewAmid the ether of heavenly blue,Till lost within a blazing starThat above the horizon shown—As if from Paradise a car’Twere sent to bear the cherub home.
No more that happy throng is rending,With gladsome shouts the summer air,Nor songs of love to heaven ascending,From hearts that know no guile nor care;But on each peerless infant browThe gloom of care is settling now;While passion madly fires each eye,And swells each bosom beating high;And tongues that lisped an infant name,Now speak in haughty tones of Fame!While some, in senatorial pride,With scorn their fellow-man deride;And others, more sanguinary still,From words of ire appeal to brands,Nor scruple a brother’s blood to spill—Cain-like!—with ensanguined handsPolluting the flowers which smile—in vainWooing the heart to love again.
Long o’er this painful scene I sighed,Where licentious passion, unrestrained,Was left to riot in her pride—Spreading destruction where’er she reigned.“And was this bright—this fair domain—With all its beauty, formed in vain?Where Nature, a paradise to grace,Hath loved her every charm to trace,That man, enamored of distressShould mar it into wilderness?”I raised my arm while thus I spoke,And o’er Beauty’s broken bowers sighed;But with the effort I awoke,And found myself by Hela’s side.
On a lone sequestered mead,Where silver-streamlets flow,I saw a rose and lily twine,And in love and beauty grow;Again to that lone, peaceful spot,From worldly cares I hied—But the flowers that lately bloom’d so fair,Had wither’d, drooped, and died!
Like love’s young dream, they passed away,With all their vernal bloom,And they, who lately shone so fair,Now moulder in the tomb!But ere the minstrels left the bowers,And to summer climes had fled,They sang the dirge o’er fading flowers,That by their stems lay dead.
Slumbering on its mother’s breastA beauteous infant lay,The blush upon its dimpled cheek,Was like a rose in May:But the glow that tinged that cheek so fair,Was but the transient bloom,That brightens with the flitting breath—A flow’ret of the tomb.
The infant oped its azure eyes,And sweetly smiling, said,“Mamma,” its gentle spirit ebbing,Was numbered with the dead;It laid its throbbing temples onThe mother’s heaving breast,And its gentle spirit pass’d to Heaven,With angels bright to rest!
Lovely as the morning flowers,That bloom so fresh and gay,I saw a beauteous fair one deckedIn the bridal’s bright array;But she, who had, at morning rise,Exulted in her bloom,Was doom’d ere evening’s sun had set,To grace the silent tomb.
Alas! that things so beautiful,So soon must pass away,And all of earth that’s loveliestMust moulder in the clay;But well we know those charms so bright,Which Heaven hath form’d in love,Tho’ ravaged by death’s icy hand,Shall bloom again above!
’Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the “loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures,” the beauty and grandeur of the place.
’Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the “loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures,” the beauty and grandeur of the place.
Take the harp, nor longer leave itSighing on the willow tree;Pass thy gentle fingers o’er it,And awake its melody;The streams tho’ icy chains may bind them,Still will murmur back thy trill,And the roses wild, though blasted,On thy cheeks are blooming still.
Then touch the harp, till its wild numbersThe lone groves and valleys fill;And tho’ winter’s frosts have sear’d them,Thou canst dream they’re beauteous still—Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure,And wild flowers above them rise;What tho’ chilly blasts have strewn them,Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs!
Take the harp, nor on it dirgesLonger let Eolus play;Touch it, and those notes of sadnessChange to joyous rhapsody!And tho’ the grape, the gift of Autumn,Has been prest to crown the bowl—Still in thy tresses shine its clusters,While down thy snowy neck they roll.
Take the harp, and wake its numbersTo thy sister planet’s praise,As up the eastern sky she blazes,Followed by the morning rays;Queen of starry heaven beaming,From her azure realm afar;So thou dost shine midst beauty’s daughters,Love’s bright and glorious morning star.
The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing.
The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing.
I saw thy form in youthful prime,Nor thought that pale DecayWould steal before the steps of Time,And waste its bloom away.—Moore.
I saw thy form in youthful prime,Nor thought that pale DecayWould steal before the steps of Time,And waste its bloom away.
—Moore.
And thou art dead,The gifted, the beautiful,Thy spirit’s fled!Thou, the fairest ’mong ten thousand, art no more!Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb—He hath touched thee—thou hast left us in thy bloom!How oft amid the virgin throng,I’ve seen thee, fairest, dance along;And thine eyes, so brightly dark,Gleaming like the diamond’s spark;But now how dimThose orbs are left—By Death bereftOf their brightness,And that neck of its whiteness,Where once the curling tress descended,Where once the rose and lily blended,As the warm blush came and flew;Now o’er all hath Death extendedHis pallid hue—Sallow and blue;And sunken ’neath the purple lid,Those eyes are hid,Once so bright;And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white,All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds!In its snowy folds—Then fare thee well, sweet one,Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run,And with the flowers thou art sleeping,And o’er thy grave the friends are weepingOf thine early day.Thou wert lovely—aye, as Spring,When birds and blossoms bloom and sing,The happy, happy hours welcomingOf gentle May.In the past I see thee shining,Like the star of tender morning,A day of love and peace divining,And the sky of Hope adorning.Smiles—that dimpled mouth are wreathing;Music—those rosy lips are breathing,Like morn glancing through the sky,Like the zephyr’s softest sigh.Ah, then, who’d dream that aught so fair,Was fleeting as the Summer air?Yet in that hourDisease, so deceitful, stole upon thee,As blight upon a flower;And thou art dead!And thy spirit’s past away.Like a dew-drop from the spray,Like a sunbeam from the mountain,Like a bubble from the fountain;And thou art now at rest,In thy damp, narrow cell,With the clod heap’d o’er thy breast;Fare thee well!
I’ll think of thee, I’ll think of thee,When raging tempests wildly blow,Mid storm and darkness—wond’rous powers!Heaping the stainless, virgin snowAbove thy fragile form, that bowedBeneath the blighting frost that fell,Scattering o’er earth those gorgeous hues,Thy grace and pride, sweet Asphodel.
I’ll think of thee, I’ll think of thee,When dreary winter leaves the plain,And smiling spring leads forth in state,With vestal pride, her flow’ry train,And vernal songs of love and hope,In one harmonious concert swell—Amid the floral throng I’ll turnTo thee, alone, sweet Asphodel.
I’ll think of thee, I’ll think of thee,When morning dawns upon the world,And through the golden gates of Heaven,Like fiery cars his beams are hurled,Driving the shades of somber night,Back to their caverned haunts to dwell—Thou’lt come to me with charms renewed,My peerless flower, sweet Asphodel.
William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father’s farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing’s early life was spent on his father’s farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the PhiladelphiaDollar Newspaper. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to theLadies’ Garland, theCecil WhigandCecil Democrat. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of theDaily Atlasof that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until theAtlaswas merged into theGazette. He then accepted a position on theSouthern Lady’s Book, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New YorkTribune, New YorkEvening PostandChicago Tribune.
In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865.
In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa.
Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author.
“Oh mother, dear mother,As calmly last nightI lay on my palletAn angel in whiteHover’d o’er me, and softlySaid—‘come, brother, come,Away from this world,To a heavenly home!’”
“Then let me die, mother—Tho’ sweet birds are singing,And flowers in brightnessAnd beauty are springingOn hillside and mountain,O’er meadow and lea,They no longer possessAny sweetness for me.”
“For that angelic voice,Ringing still in my ear,Has attuned my heartTo a holier sphere;And like a caged eagle,My soul pines to staySo long from its home—Its redeemer away.”
O, pale grew that mother,And heavy her heart,For she knew her dear boyFrom her sight must depart,And be laid, cold and stiff,In the earth’s humid breast,Where the wicked cease troubling,The weary have rest;
But she smoothed down his pillow,And murmured a prayer,For the Giver of merciesHer loved one to spare;But ere she had finishedHer pious request,His spirit had flownTo the realms of the blest!
I love thee, Maude, as I ne’er loved before,And as I feel I cannot love again;And though that love has cost me much of pain,Of agony intense, I would live o’erMost willingly, each bitter hour I’ve knownSince first we met, to claim thee as my own.But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heartOn one by thee deemed worthier is set,And I must bear the keen and deathless smart,Of passion unrequited, or forgetThat which is of my very life a part.To cherish it may lead to madness, yetI will brood over it: for oh,The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe.
“I love thee, Maude, as I ne’er loved before,And as I feel I cannot love again;”Thus wrote I many moons ago, and moreDevotedly I love thee now, than whenThose lines were written. But avails it aught?Have I return? Hold I the slightest partWithin the boundless realm of thy confiding heart?Or dost thou ever give to me one thought?I dare believe so:—nor will soon resignThe dream I’ve cherished long, that some day thou’lt be mine.
I touch not that harp,Let it slumber alone;For its notes but awakenSad memories of oneWhose hand often sweptThe soft wires along,And aroused them to music,To love, and to song.
But Death, the destroyer,Ere grief threw a rayO’er her flowery path,Snatched her rudely away;And the harp that resounded,With loveliest tone,To her delicate touch,Has since slumbered alone.
Then awake not a strain—Let it still repose there,And be breathed on aloneBy the sweet summer air;For its numbers though lively,Though joyous and light,But cast o’er my spiritsA wildering blight.
Never, no nevermore,Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine,Or on my breast thy weary head recline,As oft of yore.
And though thou wert to meLife’s only charm, I yet can bearA little while, since thou art free from care,Alone to be.
For to my heart is given,The cheering hope, that soon, where painAnd partings are unknown, we’ll meet again—In yonder heaven.
Leila, thou art resting well,In thy lonely, narrow cell—Dark and lonely, narrow cell,—And I would with thee had died,And was sleeping by thy side,—In the graveyard by thy side,—She who gave thee being, sheWho made life a joy to me,—A blessing and a joy to me.
Were she with thee, I could bearAll life’s agony and care,—Bitter agony and care,—But alas, she went astrayFrom the straight and narrow way,—Virtue’s straight and narrow way—And, O misery, becameTo her sex a thing of shame,—A thing of infamy and shame.
Now, of her and thee bereft,Naught have I to live for left,—Naught on earth to live for left;—And with bleeding heart I roam,From a desecrated home,—A broken, desecrated home,—Looking, longing for the dayWhen my life shall ebb away,—To its giver, ebb away.
For I feel, a God of love,In the better land above,—Brighter, better land above,—To these yearning arms again,With a soul all free from stain,—Free from every earthly stain,—Will the wanderer restore,To be tempted nevermore—Passion-tempted nevermore.
They are gone—They are gone,From their green mountain homes,Where the antelope sports,And the buffalo roams;For the pale faces came,With insidious art,And the red men were forcedFrom their homes to depart!
In the land ManitouBestowed on their sires,Oh! never againRound their bright council-fires,Will they gather, to talkOf the feats they have done,Or, to boast of the scalpsBy their prowess they’ve won.
For they’ve gone—they have passed,Like the dew from the spray,And their name to remembranceGrows fainter each day;But for this were they forcedFrom their ancestors’ graves;They dared to be freemen,They scorned to be slaves.