William James Joneswas born in Elkton, August 25, 1829, and received his education at the common school and Academy in that town. His youth and early manhood was spent in mechanical pursuits and in the improvement of his mind by a desultory course of reading, and in perfecting himself in the knowledge of the Latin language.
In 1852, Mr. Jones purchased a half interest in theCecil Whigand became the editor of that journal for a short time, and until its founder P.C. Ricketts, who was then editing theDaily News, of Baltimore, returned from that city and resumed the duties of editor of theWhig.
In 1853, Mr. Jones commenced the study of the law in the office of John C. Groome, Esq., in Elkton and was admitted to the Bar, September 21, 1855.
In politics Mr. Jones was a Whig, but allied himself with the American party when it was in course of formation and continued to be an active member as long as the party lasted. In 1857 he was appointed State’s Attorney for Cecil county, to fill a vacancy, and in 1859 was elected to the same office for the term of four years. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion Mr. Jones allied himself with the Union cause and was elected to the House of Delegates by the Union party in 1863, and was appointed two years afterwards, United States’ District Attorney for the district of Maryland, and held the office for about a year, and until he was removed by President Andrew Johnson for opposing his policy of reconstruction. In 1858 he married Miss Mary Jane Smith, of Connecticut. They are the parents of one son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is the wife of Rev. Walter E. Avery, of the Wilmington Conference.
Mr. Jones is one of the most earnest and successful members of the Elkton Bar, and though not a voluminous writer, in early life contributed poetry to the columns of theCecil Whig, of which the following poems are specimens.
The autumn winds are moaning roundAnd through the branches sighing,And autumn leaves upon the groundAll seared and dead are lying.
The summer flowers have ceased to bloomFor autumn frosts have blighted,And laid them in a cheerless tombBy summer sun unlighted.
Thus all our “fondest hopes decay”Beneath the chill of sorrow,The joys that brightest seem to-dayAre withered by the morrow.
But there are flowers that bloom enshrin’dIn hearts by love united,Unscathed by the autumn wind,By autumn frost unblighted.
And there are hearts that ever thrillWith friendship warm and glowing,And joys unseared by sorrow’s chillWith hallowed truth o’erflowing.
In a quiet country churchyardFrom the city far away,Where no marble stands in mockeryAbove the mould’ring clay;Where rears no sculptured monument—There grass and flowers wave’Round a spot where mem’ry lingers—My once-loved Mary’s grave.
They laid her down to slumberIn this lonely quiet spot,They raised no stone above her,No epitaph they wrote;They pressed the fresh mould o’er herAs earth to earth they gave—Their hearts with anguish bursting,They turned from Mary’s grave.
She knew not much of grief or careEre yet by Death’s cold hand,Her soul was snatched from earth awayTo join the spirit band:Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam,No more her sufferings craveThe hand of pity, but the tearFalls oft o’er Mary’s grave.
I too would pay my tribute there,I who have loved her well.And drop one silent, sorrowing tearThis storm of grief to quell;’Tis all the hope I dare indulge,’Tis all the boon I crave,To pay the tribute of a tear,Loved Mary, o’er thy grave.
Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James.
Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James.
I know thee not, and yet I fainWould call thee brother, friend;I know that friendship, virtue, truth,All in thy nature blend.
I know by thee the formal bow,The half deceitful smileAre valued not; they ill becomeThe man that’s free from guile.
I know thee not, and yet my breastThrills ever at thy song,And bleeds to know, that thou hast feltThe weight of “woe and wrong.”
’Tis said the soul with care opprestGrows patient ’neath the weight,And after years can bear it wellE’en though the load be great.
And, that the heart oft stung by griefIs senseless to the pain,And bleeding bares it to the barb,To bid it strike again.
I care not if the heart has borneAll that the world can give,Of “disappointment, hate and scorn;”In hope ’twill ever live,
And feel the barb’d and poison’d stingsOf anguish, grief and care,As keenly as in years gone by,When first they entered there.
The weary soul by care opprestMay utter no complaints,But loaths the weight it cannot bearAnd weakens till it faints.
Bring flowers for the youthful throng,Of variegated glow,And twine of them a gaudy wreathAround each childish brow.
Bring flowers for the maiden gay,Bring flowers rich and rare,And weave the buds of brightest hueAmong her waving hair.
Bring flowers to the man of grief—They hold the syren art,To charm the care-look from his brow,The sorrow from his heart.
Bring flowers for the sick girl’s couch;’Twill cheer her languid eyeTo know the flowers have bloomed again,And see them ere she die.
Bring flowers when her soul has fled,And place them on her breast,Tho’ ere their blooming freshness fadeWe lay her down to rest.
Life at best is but a dream,We’re launched upon a rapid stream,Gushing from some unknown source,Rushing swiftly on its course,Save when amid some painful scene,And then it flows calm and serene,That we may gaze in mute despairOn every hated object there.
Fortune our bark and hope our chart,With childish glee on our voy’ge we start,The boat glides merrily o’er the wave.But ah! there’s many a storm to brave,And many a dang’rous reef to clear,And rushing rapid o’er which to steer.
Anon the stream grows wide and deep,While here and there wild breakers leap,O’er rocks half hidden by the flood,Where for ages they have stood,Upon whose bleak and rugged crest,Many a proud form sank to rest,And many a heart untouched by careLaid its unstained offering there.
Ah! they have met a happier lot,Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgotThe pleasing scenes of childhood’s years,’Mid that tempestuous vale of tearsWhich farther on begirts the stream,Where phantom hopes like lightning gleamThrough the murky air, and flit aroundThe brain with hellish shrieking soundConjuring up each mad’ning thought,With black despair or malice fraught.
Swiftly, on in our course we goTo where sweetest flow’rs are hanging lowWe stretch our hand their stems to claspBut ah! they’re crush’d within our grasp,While forward th’ rushing stream flows fastAnd soon the beauteous scene is past.
At last we view another sight,The shore with drifted snow is white,The stream grows dark and soon we feelAn icy coldness o’er us steal,We cast our eyes ahead and seeThe ocean of Eternity.
When once amid its peaceful wavesNo holier joy the bosom craves—Ten thousand stars are shining brightYet one reflects a purer light—No sooner does its glowing blazeAttract the spirit’s wand’ring gaze,Than all is turned to joy we see—That star is Immortality.
John Henry Kimblewas born in Buckingham township, Bucks county, Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H. Kimble, and is descended on his father’s side from English stock, being a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother’s side, his grandfather, Seruch Titus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name indicates, was of Italian descent.
Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has won local distinction as a debater.
In 1870 his first verses were published in theMorris Scholastica newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for theCecil Whig. In 1875 he wrote “The Patrons of Husbandry,” a serial poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with illustrations. It was pronounced by competent critics to be one of the “best and most natural descriptions of farm life ever written.” It attracted wide attention and received favorable comment from the N.Y.Worldand other leading papers. He wrote another serial in 1876, entitled “Two Granges.”
Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of 1872, ’73 and ’74 he taught in the public schools of this county with satisfaction to his patrons.
In December, 1873, he was married to Miss Sarah Teresa Gallagher, daughter of John E. Gallagher, of the Fourth district. They have five children, three daughters and two sons. In 1880, Mr. Kimble moved from the farm near Fair Hill, where he had spent twenty-five years, to Appleton, where he still resides. He is now a frequent and popular contributor to theCecil Democrat.
The shade of death had haunted himThrough many a weary day;With dread disease his youthful frameWas wasting slow away.He took his violin and sighed,—“I am too weak to play.”
But, rising in his cushioned chair,He grasps, with trembling hand,The neck and bow, and tunes the stringsAnd thinks of concerts grand;And hears the crowd applauding loudAs when he led the band.
Inspired with supernatural powerHe plays a melody,Forgetting all the terrors ofHis mortal malady;And, as of yore, his soul once moreIs with the gay and free.
Something responsive in the soulWakes with melodious soundA lively melody that makesThe languid pulse rebound,While recollection takes the mindThrough many a happy round.
Now fast, now slow, he draws the bowTo suit his changing will;A march, a waltz, a polka, andAn intricate quadrille,Each in its turn is rendered withAn artist’s ready skill.
With failing strength he strikes at lengthHis favorite—“Home, Sweet Home;”His dreamy spirit ceases withThe pleasing past to roam,And, through the future, seems to riseUp, up to Heaven’s high dome.
And mingling with his violinHe hears the joyful strainsThat vibrate o’er angelic hosts,Where song supernal reigns!Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting himAbove all mortal pains.
The last sweet note of that sweet tuneWithin the room has died—And now he’s playing on the harpUpon the other sideOf death’s dark river, safe and free,Among the glorified.
You look with joy to-day along life’s vista clear,And great will be your deeds through many a happy year,And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaimA hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame.
Your life will be above the common herd, I trow,You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now:Success attend your steps; a word I would not sayTo chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way.
Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight,The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great,You feel so strong; and wish life’s battle would begin,You’ll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win.
But may be you will fail, ’tis ten to one you will,And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill,Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do;But many little things will prove if you are true.
To carry brick and stone for someone else’s wall,To do the hardest part and get no praise at all,To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance,And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance;
Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see,How many men will scoff at your adversity,And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear,But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear.
No darling mother then can sympathize with you,—No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through;Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame,May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame.
But you need not be lost, all people are not bad,The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had;They’ll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand,And point the road that leads up to the “Better Land.”
Remember this, my child, wherever you may go,That God rules over all, though it may not seem so;And what you sow, you’ll reap, with joy or misery,If not in time, O, surely in eternity.
A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear,I have not seen his face for many a weary year.Ah, many toilsome days we’ve spent with little train,And he was poor and weak, but never would complain.
I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears.We shared each other’s joys and wept each other’s tears!He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed;But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed.
And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled;So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled.But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last,Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past.
I’ve written him, and he has answered prompt and true;But we have never met as we had promised to.For he was busy there and I was busy here,And so our lots were cast apart from year to year.
But when a mutual friend told me this afternoonThat he was very sick and wished to see me soon,I left my home at once and on the earliest trainI’m speeding to his home across the distant plain.
He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait,O, for the lightning’s speed! that I may not be late.The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past,The engine thunders on, the station’s reached at last.
And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore,Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door.A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed,Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me—just dead!
I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears,And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years.“He asked for you,” they said, but could no longer wait;Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late.
After the shower the fields are green,The winds are hushed, the air is cool,The merry children now are seenBarefoot wading the wayside pool,Loitering on their way to school,After the morning shower.
After the shower the farmers walkAround their homes with thanks sincere.The shower is foremost in their talk,See! how it makes their crops appear,The finest seen for many a year.Thanks for the gentle shower.
Westward the dark clouds roll awayTo vanish in the ether blue,Eastward the curtains light and gayExclude the glorious sun from viewTill, as they shift, he flashes throughAnd lights the charming scene.
Against the melting clouds, beholdThe lofty arch, the beauteous bow,The sacred sign to saints of old,As bright as when first seen below,How fair the matchless colors glowAfter the cooling shower.
Washed by the countless, crystal drops,Awhile from swarming insects free,The cattle clip the clover topsForth wandering o’er the fertile lea,The birds sing with unusual gleeAfter the drenching shower.
Over the hills and valleys greenWild flowers are blooming fresh and fair,In cottage lawns and yards are seenThe good results of woman’s care,Tulips and pinks and lillies rareFresh from the timely shower.
I weep for the loss of a leader in thought,Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught,Have bless’d and encouraged the humble and poor,Who always were welcomed with joy at his door.
How happy the hours when we gathered around,To hear his solutions of problems profound;And bright through my mem’ry what pleasure returnsWhen I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns.
The “Saturday Night,” and “To Mary in Heaven,”With true Scottish accent were touchingly given,And reckless “Don Juan’s” most comical plight,—And pathos of “Harold” he gave with delight.
The pages of Hebraic sages divine,Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine;His choice conversation with children and men,Was often enriched with a song from his pen.
In public debate, whosoever arose,His well-grounded argument firm to oppose,Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare,That he was an honorable champion there.
And, those he offended, as everyone must,Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just,With kindness he reasoned all errors to show,And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe.
He owned like a hero the penalty dread—“By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread,”And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows,Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose.
The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared,On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared;And few things delighted him more than to send,A rare little treat to an invalid friend.
He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride,The follies of fashion he loved to deride;But acknowledged true merit wherever ’twas shown,By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne.
His faults be forgotten, we’ve all gone astray,Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way,Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest,With angels of light, in the home of the blest.
Rosy morn is brightly breaking,Cheerful birds melodious sing,Earth with thankful songs awakingHails with joy the merry Spring,Silver clouds in sunlight glowingSlowly float the azure dome,Tender flowers are sweetly blowingRound each cozy cottage home.
Dreary winter’s icy fingersHave released the bending tree,Genial life reviving, lingersO’er the cold and sterile lea.From the rocky, snow-clad mountains,Where the breath of sunny SpringHas unfettered muffled fountains,Hear the songs of gladness ring.
In the morn of playful childhood,With dear friends ’mid sylvan bowers,O’er the fields and through the wildwood,Culling all the choicest flow’rs;Twining wreaths, each other crowning,Dew-drops bright for royal gems,Ne’er a thought of worldly frowningOn the precious diadems.
Marched we on with true devotion,While the scenes of after years,Stirr’d the spirits deep emotion,With alternate hopes and fears.While before us lay life’s prizes,Dazzling in the sunlight gleam,—How we gazed with sad surprises,When they vanished like a dream.
Many happy hearts grew weary,Rosy cheeks grew pale and white,Pleasant paths grew dark and dreary,Swept by storms of withering blight;How the changing years have fleeted,Strewing wrecks on either side,Cherished schemes have been defeated,And the cares of age abide.
But when cheery Spring advances,Crowned with gems of beauty rare,Pleasure like a fairy, dancesO’er the landscape everywhere,And the tide of life flows higher,Gloom’s dark curtains are withdrawn,And again youth’s hidden fire,Thrills me as in life’s fresh dawn.
James McCauleywas born August 23, 1809, near Mechanics Valley, in Cecil county, and received his education in the log schoolhouse in that neighborhood known as Maffit’s schoolhouse. He learned the trade of a cooper with his father John McCauley. After coming of age he taught school for a few years, and then commenced making threshing machines and horse powers, doing the wood and iron work himself. In 1836 he removed to New Leeds, where he has since resided.
In 1841, Mr. McCauley was appointed County Surveyor by Governor Pratt, and served in that capacity for several years and has ever since practiced land surveying with much success in all parts of Cecil county. In 1857 he was elected Register of Wills and served until the Fall of 1863. In 1864 he was elected a delegate to the General Assembly of the State, and served in the session of 1865, and the special session of 1866. Mr. McCauley has always been deeply interested in the cause of education and was chairman of the committee on that subject in the House of Delegates. While in the Legislature he was instrumental in securing the passage of the law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors in Cecil county on election day.
In the early part of 1868 Mr. McCauley was appointed School Commissioner, and soon afterwards Chief Judge of the Orphan’s Court, to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the late Levi H. Evans, which he did with so much acceptability that he has since been elected for four terms of four years each.
In 1834, Mr. McCauley married Sarah, the youngest daughter of Hugh Beard, a well-known surveyor of this county. His first wife died in 1846, leaving five children. In 1849 he married Millicent, daughter of Jacob Price, of Sassafras Neck.
Mr. McCauley commenced to write poetry when a young man and has contributed poetry, but much more prose, to the newspapers of this county during the last half century.
He needs no monument, no marble pile,’Tis vain thus to commemorate a nameThat must endure in noble grandeur whileHis country lives,—the temple of his fame.
As early youth in brightness vies,With advent of the day,When Sol first opes his golden eyes,And chases night away.
So may the virtuous man compare,In his declining day,With setting sun, in ev’ning fair,Passing from earth away.
And though his face no more we see,He still reflects his light,And shines with glorious majesty,In other realms more bright.
And still his light doth ne’er decline,But gath’ring up fresh store,Through ages yet to come, shall shine,And shine, forever more.
Enraptured thoughts intuitive,Make haste to greet thy page.Melodious with sweet accord,And classic too with age.
And ever may the sacred nine,Lead thee to their embrace,Inspire thy song with themes divine,Choice gems select from nature’s mine,Enriched with matchless grace.
Be thine a life of social joy,Removed from care and pain,On earth thy early years employ,With prospect of that gainNo mortal here can realize,Eternal bliss beyond the skies.
Youth’s the time; Youth’s the season!Learn and labor while you may,Hear the voice of age and reason,—Work to-day.
Labor hard in morning’s prime,Hasten on without delay,Make the most of early time—Work to-day.
Up betimes, nor let the sunFind you sleeping or at play,Sleep enough when life is done—Work to-day.
Cull the sweets from ev’ry flower,Seize the moments while you may,Nor idly pass one sunny hour—Work to-day.
Dear sister, has thy little son,Been snatched from thy embrace,Thy fav’rite child, thy darling one,Has left a vacant place.
His father oft with little JohnBeguil’d the hours away,To watch his little fav’rite son,Enjoy his childish play;
For there was laughter in his eye,And health was on his cheek,I fancy that he’s standing by,And almost hear him speak.
The patt’ring of his little feet,In fancy’s ear is heard,The music of his voice as sweet,As singing of a bird.
The objects that we fondly prize,How soon they pass away,And we are left to realize,The emblems of decay.
Dear sister, be resigned then,Nor let your faith grow dim,He cannot come to you again,But you can go to him.
Awake and sing, for early SpringComes forth with beauty gay,With joy elate, both small and greatNow bless the happy day.
Through all the earth comes beauty forth,So sweet, so fresh and fair,And ev’ry sound that echoes round,Comes with a gladsome air.
While from the hill the little rill,Comes trickling down so clear,Its bubbling voice made me rejoice,In many an early year.
Along the mead where’er we tread,Will little flow’rets spring,And through the air in colors rare,Waves many a tiny wing.
Back to their home, the songsters come,And gaily, blithely sing,The sun looks gay, I love the day,The sweet and early spring.
When storms arise, and tumults jar,And wreck this mortal form,There is a bright, a lovely star,That shines above the storm.
’Tis hope that buoys our spirits up,Along the chequer’d way,And when we drain the bitter cupIt points a brighter day.
Though all the ills of life stand by,It proffers still to save;And when the shades of death are nigh,It looks beyond the grave.
How sad the breath of autumn sighs,With mourning and decay;The woods are clothed in varying dyes,Of funeral array.
Where beauty bloomed of late around,On mountain top and vale,Now wither’d foliage strews the ground,And tells a piteous tale.
And summer birds are on the wing,Bound for a warmer sky,They greeted us in early spring—They bid us now good bye.
So pass away our early years,Youth sinks into decay,And age, like autumn soon appears,And quick we pass away.
Mrs. Ida McCormickwas born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county. She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of theCecil Whig.
On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling.
I’m roaming to-day in a far-away landWhere the roses and violets grow,Where white waves break on a silvery strand,And are lost on the cliffs below.High up in a palace of sparkling goldWhere voices are hushed and still,Where lips are silent and hearts are cold,And the days are rich with a glory untold,And no one disputes my will.
The walls are rich with an amber light,And waters in fountains fall,There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright,And servants within my call;There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet,With tender, plaintive chords,Like the patter of tiny innocent feet,Or the voices of joy when loved ones meetAnd their hearts speak out, their words.
All day from my turret I watch the sailsThat fleck the sweep of the tide,—Whose passengers all are joyous and hale,As into the harbor they ride.They enter my golden castle gate,—They roam thro’ my stately halls,—They rest in chambers furnished in state,Then close by my glory-throne they wait,Until I shall answer their call.
There are faces bright with a merry lightAnd the music of long ago;And others dark as Lethe’s nightAnd as cold as the winter’s snow.Hands that meet mine in a trusty claspWith blushes that come and go,Strangers to pain in this world so vast,With its pleasure now and sorrow at last,In the land we do not know.
They are bound for this strangely mystical landSo shadowy, lone and so dim,And my castle’s a port on the ocean strand,Where they wait for the ferryman grim,To row them away from the silvery beachBeyond the foam of the tide,Where a palace looms far away from their reach,Whose gates are closed with a clang to eachWho have chosen the pathway wide.
They tell me I’m treading with careless feetThis thorny, deceitful path,When the Master cometh my face to greetHe will open his vials of wrath.But I turn again to the world so real,And my “Fancy Land” grows dim,Time’s hand has taught me not to feelThe wounds which sympathy cannot heal,And I anchor my faith in Him.
Beneath the bright sun’s dazzling ray,She watched his vessel sail awayTo distant, far-famed lands.Her heart was gone,—upon her handSparkled a diamond fair and grand,Telling in silent jubilee“His love is all the world to me.”
Time goes by wings,—the years flew on,The days had come,—the summers gone,And still no loved one cameTo feed the burning passion flameStill glowing in her heart.They told her “in another landHe captive held a heart and handAnd graced Dame Fashion’s mart.”
She listened to love’s second taleThat came with Autumn’s misty gale,And hid her heart within the foldOf satins rare, and lustrous gold,Sadness so deep, must live untoldShut in her marble palace high,Reared almost up to touch the sky.
Haughty and cold her heart had grown,For wealth and glory she lived alone,Yet as oft she watched an out bound shipIts prow in foamy waters dip,The day came back when lip to lipHer heart met his in a sad farewell.Murmuring this sad and low refrain,As cold and chill as winter rain—“He’s falser than human tongue can tell.”
* * * * * *
September’s sun with yellow heat,Fell burning where the waves had beatWith restless motion, against the shore,And music like unto that of yore,When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw,Moving and nearing the pleasant landQuietly, swiftly, as by a law.Screening her brown eyes with her hand,She saw it strike the pebbled sand,And heard a glad shout cleave the air,And saw a noble, manly form,With locks of silvered raven hair,And a heart with love and passion warm.
She held her breath in silent dread,The crimson from her soft cheek fled,Low at her feet he knelt;—“No welcome for the leal and true?Speak, darling, speak! it is my due,Back through the years I’ve come to youFaithful as when I went!”
“No answer still? my love, oh, whyNo answer to my pleading cry?”Thou’rt dead! Why have I lived for this?To gain a life of shipwrecked bliss?To distant lands to roam and thenDead lips to welcome me again?
* * * * * *
A funeral train,—all mourners great,Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state,The form they love more fair in deathThan when ’twas warmed by living breath,A haughty man with silvered hair,Among the strangers gathered there;—A rose dropped by an unknown handWith perfume from a foreign land,Upon the casket lid,—A ship at anchor in the bay,That in the evening bore awayA form that landed yesterday.
“The old, old fashion,—Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!”—Dickens.
“The old, old fashion,—Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!”
—Dickens.
Despite all human passion,And all that we can do,—There is an old, old fashionThat comes to me and you.It has come to me so oftenThat I know its meaning well,Nothing its pain can softenNothing its power can quell.
When the battle-field was silent,Gone to their final rest,Dead in their last encampmentLay the ones I loved the best.And then, when my heart was lightest,It came with a snake-like tread,And darkened the day that was brightest,Then left me with my dead.
It came in the wild March weatherWith bluster of storm and sleet,And stilled in our home foreverThe patter of boyish feet.And then,—God pity my treason,When life again had smiled,It came in the holiday seasonAnd took from me my child.
“Give thanks for the old, old fashion,”No, that can never be.Where is the Divine compassionThat God has shown to me?Fling wide each shining portal,—Let me—a sinner through,—Thank God for the immortalIs all that I can do.
No prayer of love or passionCan give my dead to me,But I bless the old, old fashion,Of immortality.
A rose tree grew by the garden wall,And its highest blossom was just as tallAs my baby’s curly head;A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,—But sweeter from head to dimpled toes,Was the baby I fondly led.
Now summer is over and winter gone,And the winds of March are whistling onWhere the rose its petals shed;No trace of rose perfumed and rare,No baby face as seraph fair,My baby sweet is dead.
The summer sun will shine again,And ’neath the pattering, warm June rain,Again the rose will bloom,And so beyond these lowering skiesMy baby dear, with smiling eyes,Shall peer through earthly gloom,
And guide me with her angel handThrough Heaven’s gates,—and with me standAway from worldly woes,—Where Heaven’s flowers, divinely sweet,Soften the path for weary feetWith perfume of the rose.