In 1855, the family came to Port Deposit, where they remained about two years, and then went West, Emma having secured a good paying position on the Missouri Republican, for which she wrote her only continued story, "Not Wanted." For the last twenty years she has been a regular contributor to the New York Ledger.

In 1864, Emma came East and was married to Captain J. Lewis Beaver, of Carroll county, Maryland, whose acquaintance she made while he was a wounded invalid in the Naval School Hospital at Annapolis. After her marriage, she continued to write under her maiden name, and has always been known in the literary world as Emma Alice Browne, though all the rest of the family spell the name without the final vowel. Her marriage was not a fortunate one, and the writer in deference to the wishes of his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother's poetic talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some very creditable verses, which have been published.

Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for painting, which seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long been as a poetess. She resides in Danville, Illinois, and is about publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen.

The following selections have been made with the view of showing the versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author. Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more than thirty years ago.



EARLIER POEMS.



MY BROTHER.

Oh, brier rose clamber; And cover the chamber— The chamber, so dreary and lone— Where with meekly-closed lips, And eyes in eclipse, My brother lies under the stone.

Oh, violets, cover, The narrow roof over, Oh, cover the window and door! For never the lights, Through the long days and nights, Make shadows across the floor!

The lilies are blooming, The lilies are white, Where his play haunts used to be; And the sweet cherry blossoms Blow over the bosoms Of birds in the old roof tree.

When I hear on the hills The shout of the storm, In the valley the roar of the river; I shiver and shake, On the hearth stone warm, As I think of his cold "forever."

His white hands are folded, And never again, With the song of the robin or plover, When the Summer has come, With her bees and her grain, Will he play in the meadow clover.

Oh, dear little brother, My sweet little brother, In the palace above the sun, Oh, pray the good angels, The glorious evangels, To take me—when life is done.



MY FATHER.

IN MEMORIAM, 1857.

The late George D. Prentice in speaking of this poem used the following language: "To our minds there is nothing in all the In Memoriam of Tennyson more beautiful than the following holy tribute to a dead father from our young correspondent at Pleasant Grove." The poem was first published in the "Louisville Journal" of which Mr. Prentice was the editor.

[Transcriber's note: The original text referred to the "Louirville Journal" (clearly an erratum).]

My Father! Orphan lips unknown To love's sweet uses sob the word My father! dim with anguish, heard In Heaven between a storm of moan And the white calm that faith hath fixed For solace, far beyond the world, Where, all our starry dreams unfurled, We drink the wine of peace unmixed.

Mine! folded in the awful trust That draws the world's face down in awe, Holding her breath, as if she saw God's secret written in the dust— My father! oh, the dreary years The dreary winds have wailed across Since his path, from the hills of loss, Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres.

What time the Angel at our door Said soft, between our orphan-moan— Arise! oh, soul! the night is done And day hath bloomed forevermore! I locked my icy hand across My sobbing heart and sadly cried— I lose thee in the glorified— The world is darkened with my loss!

Oh, Angel! cried I—wrath complete! With awful brows and eyes intense! (For faith's white robe of reverence Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet) Oh, Angel, help me out of strife! I could have borne all mortal pain— I could have lived my life in vain— But this hath touched my inner life!

And eighteen hundred fifty-seven Hath filled a decade of slow years Since first my orphan cries and tears Broke wild across the walls of Heaven. This eve his grave is winter-white! And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills I hear across the Northern hills The solemn footsteps of the night!

Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high! Blow o'er the dismal space of woods— Blow down the roaring Northern floods And let the dreary day go by! Blow, wind, from out the shining West, And wrap the hazy world in glow— Blow wind and drift about my snow The summer of his endless rest!

For he has fallen fast asleep And cannot give me moan for moan— My heart is heavy as a stone And there is no one left to weep! My soul is heavy and doth lie Reaching up from my wretchedness— Reaching up blindly for redress The stern gray walls of entity!

Once in the golden spring-time hours, In the sweet garden of my youth, There fell a seed of bitter truth That sprang and shadowed all the flowers— Alone! The roses died apace And pale the mournful violet blew— Only the royal lily grew And glorified the lonesome place!

In me the growth of human ills Than human love had reached no higher, But Seraphim with lips of fire Have won me to the shining hills— I cannot hide my soul in art— I cannot mend my life's defect— This thunderous space of intellect God gave me for a peaceful heart!

Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still, The heavy night is coming on, But heavier lie the shadows drawn About his grave so low and chill— From out the awful sphere of God, Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low! My soul is weary and would go Where never foot of mortal trod!



AT THE NIGHTFALL.

I muse alone in the fading light, Where the mournful winds forever Sweep down from the dim old hills of night, Like the wail of a haunted river.

Alone! by the grave of a buried love, The ghostly mist is parted, Where the stars shine faint in the blue above, Like the smile of the broken-hearted.

The living turn from my fond embrace, As if no love were needed; The tears I wept on thy young dead face Were never more unheeded

Than my wild prayer for peace unwon— One pure affection only, One faithful heart to lean upon, When life is sad and lonely.

The low grassy roof, my glorious dead, Is bright with the buttercup's blossom, And the night-blooming roses burn dimly and red On the green sod that covers thy bosom.

Thy pale hands are folded, oh beautiful saint, Like lily-buds chilly and dew-wet, And the smile on thy lip is as solemn and faint As the beams of a norland sunset.

The angel that won thee a long time ago To the shore of the glorious immortals, In the sphere of the starland shall wed us, I know, When I pass through the beautiful portals.



THE MIDNIGHT CHIME.

Suggested by the tolling of the bell on the sash factory in Port Deposit on a stormy night in January, 1856.

The rain is the loudest and wildest Of rains that ever fell; And the winds like an army of chanters Through the desolate pine-woods swell, And hark! through the shout of the tempest, The sound of the midnight bell.

Now close on the storm it rises, Now sadly it sinks with a moan— Like a human heart in its anguish, Crushing a fruitless groan— Like a soul that goes wailing and pining, Thro' the motherless world, alone.

Is it hung in an ancient turret? Is it swung by a mortal hand? Is it chiming in woe or gladness, Its symphonies sweet and grand? Is it rung for a shadowy sorrow, In the shadowy phantom land?

Alas for the beautiful guesses That live in a poet's rhyme— 'Tis only the bell of the factory Tolling its woe sublime; And the wind is the ghostly ringer, Ringing the midnight chime.

Toll, mournful bell of the tempest, Through my dreams by sleep unblest; My bosom is throbbing as madly To surges of wild unrest— E'en as thy heart of iron Is beating thy brazen breast!



MAY-THALIA.

TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD.

Thy lay—a sweet sung bridal hymn, Wedding the Old year to the New, 'Mid starry buds, and silver dew, And brooks, and birds in woodlands dim—

That touched the hidden veins of thought With the electric force of strife, Thrilled the dumb marble of my life Unto a perfect beauty wrought.

And straight, unclasping from my brow The thorny crown of lost delight, The solemn grandeur of the night Flashed on me from old years, as now.

The budding of my days is past! And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast.

Ah me! but in the Poet's heart Some pools of troubled water lie! The hidden founts of agony, That keep the better springs apart.

What comfort is there in the Earth! What height, or depth, where we may hide Our life long anguish, and abide The ripening unto newer birth!

But Poet, in thy song is power To lift the flood gates of my woe, And bid its solemn surging flow Far from the triumph of this hour.

Yea, rising from life's evil things, My soul, long blinded from the light, Starlit across the purple night Sweeps the red lightning of her wings!

I will be free! there is a strength In the full blowing of our youth To climb the rosied hills of truth From the dry desert's burning length.

From far a voice shouts to my fate As shout the choiring Angels, when The fiery cross of suffering men Falls broken at the narrow gate!

Be brave! be noble, and sublime Thyself unto a higher aim— Keeping thy nature white of blame In all the dreary walks of time!

Oh musty creeds in mouldy books! Blind teachers of the blind are ye— A plainer wisdom talks with me In God's full psalmody of brooks.

The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course.

The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul, Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour.

Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips— God's all-sublime Apocalypse— His awful poem writ in stars!

Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light!

To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming.

And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay— Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers, Against the blushing face of May—

A passion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills!



MEMORIES.

While the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, And along the dreary moorlands, Shine the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart.

And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words. Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul.

Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest.

All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro.

Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave. Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears.

Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms— Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies— Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blushing And my heavy heart to woe.

Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith? Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path?

No reply!—the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding sorrow Still my aching bosom fills. Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night.

Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb. Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity— In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me!



THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

I remember the dear little cabin That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of sunshine That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow—smooth shorn,— How the dew-drops lay flashing and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn.

How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland, Like a red-cloud of sunset afar, And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond Like the pale silver rim of a star; How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus, With the birds that sang high in the trees; And how the bright shadows of sunset Trailed goldenly down on the breeze.

I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman's strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain.

For he dwelt in a lordly castle That towered half-way up the hill, And we in a poor little cabin In the shade of the weather-brown mill, Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer Came down with his knightly train, And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees That shadowed his golden grain.

Ah! wearily sighed our mother, When the mistletoe boughs lay shed; But never the curse of the orphan Was breathed on the rich man's head; And when again the gentle summer Had gladdened the earth once more, No branches of gnarled oaks olden Made shadows across the floor.



GURTHA.

The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss Among the dwarfish bushes, And with deep sighing sadly kiss The wild brook's border rushes; The woods are dark, save here and there The glow-worm shineth faintly, And o'er the hills one lonely star That trembles white and saintly.

Ah! well I know this mournful eve So like an evening olden; With many a goodly harvest sheaf The upland fields were golden; The lily moon in bridal white Leaned o'er the sea, her lover, And stars with beauty filled the Night— The wind sang in the clover.

The halls were bright with revelry, The beakers red with wassail; And music's grandest symphony Rung thro' the ancient castle; And she, the brightest of the throng, With wedding-veil and roses, Seemed like the beauty of a song Between the organ's pauses.

My memory paints her sweetly meek, With her long sunny tresses, And how the blushes on her cheek Kissed back their warm caresses; But like an angry cloud that cleaves Down thro' the mists of glory, I see the flowers a pale hand weaves Around a forehead gory.

The road was lone that lay between His, and her father's castle, And many a stirrup-cup, I ween, Quaffed he of generous wassail. My soul drank in a larger draught From the burning well of hate, The hand that sped the murderous shaft Was guided by my fate.

Red shadows lay upon the sward That night, instead of golden— And long the bride's maids wait the lord In the bridal-chamber olden; Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers That bound the milk-white forehead— The star has sunk, the red moon glowers Down slopes of blackness horrid.



IN MEMORIAM.

JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS.

He giveth His beloved sleep.

—Psalms 127:2

From heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise—

I see—with flashing sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand— The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp—the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly shining bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden ships away—

The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone— My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest;

While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave.

The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars—and deep and strong The river moans an undersong.

Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never! His lips have lost your song forever!

His lips, that done with pleadings vain— And human sighing, born of pain— Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain.

The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange— The tireless nations forward range—

Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth—being blest, With chill hands cross'd on silent breast.

Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint?

His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit!

'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day!

And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres

Height over height the heavens expand— I see him in God's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand;

O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned.

Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow— Found worthy unto death art thou!

And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine;

Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse!

For very truly hath been said— For the pale living—not the dead— Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed!



MISSIVE TO ——.

Purple shafts of sunset fire Glory-crown the passionate sea, Throbbing with a fierce desire For the blue immensity.

Floods of pale and scarlet flame Sweep the bases of the hills, With a blushing unto shame Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills.

Slowly to the gorgeous West Twilight paces from the East, Like a dark, unbidden guest Going to a marriage feast.

Dian—palaced in the blue— O'er the eve-star, newly born, Shakes a sweet baptismal dew From her pearly drinking-horn.

Not the Ocean's fiery soul Throbbing up thro' all his deeps— Not the sunset tides that roll Gloriously against the steeps

Of the hills, that to the stars Lift their regal wedded brows, Glittering, through the golden bars Clasping close their nuptial snows.

Not the palace lights of Hesper In the Queendom of the Moon, Win me from that lovely vesper— The last one of our last June.

Oh the golden-tressed minutes! Oh the silver-footed hours! Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets, In a woodland full of flowers!

When my wild heart beat so lightly It forgot its mortal shroud; And an Angel trembled brightly In the fold of every cloud.

Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife Hold the pitying light apart, And the golden waves of life Beat against a breaking heart.

Saddest fate that e'er has been Woven in the loom of years, Our sworn faith has come between, Heavy with the wine of tears.

Broken vow and slighted trust— Hope's white garments soiled and torn— Passion trampled in the dust By the iron heel of scorn.

Thou art dead, to me, as those Folded safe from mortal strife; Dead! as tho' the grave-mould froze The red rivers of thy life!

Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love! With my grief co-heir sublime! Storms and sorrows ever prove True inheritors of Time.

Hush! An Angel holds my heart From its breaking—tho' I stand, From the happy world apart, On a broad and barren sand.

I will love thee tho' I die! Love thee, with my ancient faith! For immortal voices cry: Love is mightier than Death!



CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! High up in the budding vine I've woven and hidden a dainty retreat For this little brown darling of mine! Along the garden borders, Out of the rich dark mold, The daffodils and jonquils Are pushing their heads of gold; And high in her bower-chamber The little brown mother sits, While to and fro, as the west winds blow, Her pretty shadow flits.

Weet, weet, weet! Safe in the branching vine, Pillowed on woven grasses sweet, Our pearly treasures shine; And all day long in the sunlight, By vernal breezes fanned, The daffodil and the jonquil Their jeweled discs expand; And two and fro, as the west winds blow, In the airy house a-swing, The feeble life in the pearly eggs She warms with brooding wing!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Under a flowery spray Downy heads and little pink feet Are cunningly tucked away! Along the shining furrows, The rows of sprouting corn Flash in the sun, and the orchards Are blushing red as morn; And the time o' the year for toil is here, And idle song and play With the jonquils, and the daffodils, Must wait for another May.



LATER POEMS.



TO MY SISTER.

M.A. KENNON.

"God's dear love is over all."

Dear, the random words you said Once, as we two walked apart, Still keep ringing in my head, Still keep singing in my heart: Like the lone pipe of a bird, Like a tuneful waterfall Far in desert places heard— "God's dear love is over all!"

Thro' the ceaseless toil and strife They have taught me to be strong! Fashioned all my narrow life To the measure of a song! They have kept me brave and true— Saved my feet from many a fall, Since, what ever fate may do, God's dear love is over all!

Lying in your chamber low, Neath the daisies and the dew, Can you hear me? Can you know All the good I owe to you? You, whose spirit dwells alway Free from earthly taint and thrall! You who taught me that sweet day God's dear love is over all!

From your holy, far off Heaven, When the beams of twilight wane, Thro' the jasper gates of even Breathe those trustful words again; They shall aid and cheer me still, What-so-ever fate befall, Since thro' every good and ill God's dear love is over all!



MEASURING THE BABY.

We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall: A lily grew at the threshold, And the boy was just so tall; A royal tiger lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dews to hold.

Without the blue birds whistled, High up in the old roof trees; And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow, That danced on the lattice sill!

His eyes were wide as blue-bells, His mouth like a flower unblown, Two little barefeet, like funny white mice, Peept out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture. That yet had a touch of pain— When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy again!

Ah me! In a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain We measured the Boy to-day! And the little bare feet, that were dimpled, And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow, White as the rising dawn, The fair little face lay smiling With the light of Heaven thereon! And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropt from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine, That crept to the shrouded sill!

We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rose-wood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We crept with a childless moan: To the height of the sinless Angels Our little one had grown!



THE LIGHT OF DREAMS.

Last night I walked in happy dreams, The paths I used to know; I heard a sound of running streams, And saw the violets blow; I breathed a scent of daffodils; And faint and far withdrawn, A light upon the distant hills, Like morning, led me on.

And childish hands clung fast to mine, And little pattering feet Trod with me thro' the still sunshine Of by-ways green and sweet; The flax-flower eyes of tender blue, The locks of palest gold, Were just the eyes and locks I knew And loved, and lost—of old!

By many a green familiar lane Our pathway seemed to run Between long fields of waving grain, And slopes of dew and sun; And still we seemed to breathe alway A scent of daffodils, And that soft light of breaking day Shone on the distant hills.

And out of slumber suddenly I seemed to wake, and know The little feet, that followed me, Were ashes long ago! And in a burst of rapturous tears I clung to her and said: "Dear Pitty-pat! The lonesome years They told me you were dead!

"O, when the mother drew, of old, About her loving knee The little heads of dusk and gold, I know that we were three! And then there was an empty chair— A stillness, strange and new: We could not find you anywhere— And we were only two!"

She pointed where serenely bright The hills yet glowed afar: "Sweet sister, yon ineffable light Is but the gates ajar! And evermore, by night and day, We children still are three, Tho' I have gone a little way To open the gates," said she.

Then all in colors faint and fine The morning round me shone, The little hands slipt out of mine, And I was left alone; But still I smelled the daffodils, I heard the running streams; And that far glory on the hills— Was it the light of dreams?



BEN HAFED'S MEED.

Ben Hafed, when the vernal rain Warmed the chill heart of earth again, Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground, Within the dank and narrow round That compassed his obscure domain; With earnest zeal, thro' heat and cold, He wrought and turned the sluggish mold, And all in furrows straight and fair He sowed the yellow seed with care, Trusting the harvest—as of old.

Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright, The long days melted into night, And beautiful, on either hand, Outspread the shining summer land, And all his neighbor's fields were white. Long drawn, beneath the genial skies, He saw deep-fruited vineyards rise; On every hill the bladed corn Flashed like the falchions of the morn Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes.

But in the garden, dull and bare, Where he had wrought with patient care, No cluster purpled on the vine, No blossom made the furrows shine With hints of harvest anywhere! Ben Hafed, scorning to complain, Bent to his thankless toil again: "I slight no task I find to do, Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few, Thou wilt not count my labor vain?"

His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands, Stood by and mocked his empty hands: "Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil The grim warfare that yields no spoil? Why spend thy zest on barren sands? The circling seasons come and go, And others garner as they sow; But year by year, in sun and rain, Thou till'st these fields with toil and pain, Where only tares and thistles grow!"

With quiet mien Ben Hafed heard, And answered not by sign or word, Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense Of loss made sweet thro' recompense, In God's good time, within him stirred. With no vain protest or lament, Low to the stubborn glebe he bent: "I till the fields Thou gavest me, And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee," He said—and plodded on, content.

And ever, with the golden seeds, He sowed an hundred gracious deeds— Some act of helpful charity, A saving word of cheer, may be, To some poor soul in bitter need! And life wore on from gold to gray; The world went by, another way: "Tho' long and wearisome my task, Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask, And Thou will grant me that, some day!"

One morn upon his humble bed, They found Ben Hafed lying dead, God's light upon his worn old face, And God's ineffable peace and grace Folding him round from feet to head. And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled The glebe but late so bare and cold, Between fair rows of tree and vine Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine, Shone all in glorious harvest gold!

And One whose face was strangely bright With loving ruth—whose garments white Were spotless as the lilies sweet That sprang beneath His shining feet— Moved slowly thro' those fields of light; "Blest be Ben Hafed's work—thrice blest!" He said, and gathered to His breast The harvest sown in toil and tears: "Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years, Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!"



WINTER BOUND.

If I could live to see beyond the night, The first spring morning break with fiery thrills, And tremble into rose and violet light Along the distant hills!

If I could hear the first wild note that swells The blue bird's silvery throat when spring is here, And all the sweet, wind ruffled lily bells Ring out the joyous matins of the year!

Only to smell the budding lilac blooms The balmy airs from sprouting brake and wold, Rich with the strange ineffable perfumes Of growing grass and newly furrowed mold!

If I could hear the rushing waters call In the wild exultation of release, Dear, I might turn my face unto the wall And fall asleep in peace!



MISLED.

Thro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom, With a glitter of gorses here and there, Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom, My love, I follow you everywhere! By faint sweet signs my soul divines, Dear heart, at dawning you came this way, By the jangled bells of the columbines, And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay.

By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn, Thro' shine and shade of dingle and glade, Fast and far as I hurry on My eager seeking you still evade. But, were you shod with the errant breeze, Spirit of shadow and fire and dew, O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas Still would I follow and find out you.

Like a dazzle of sparks from a glowing brand, 'Mid the tender green of the feathery fern And nodding sedge, by the light gale fanned, The Indian pinks in the sunlight burn; And the wide, cool cups of the corn flower brim With the sapphire's splendor of heaven's own blue, In sylvan hollows and dingles dim, Still sweet with a hint of the morn—and you!

For here is the print of your slender foot, And the rose that fell from your braided hair, In the lush deep moss at the bilberry's root— And the scent of lilacs is in the air! Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood? Do roses drop from the bilberry bough? Answer me, little Red Riding Hood! You are hiding there in the bracken, now!

Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle— I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue— Your yellow locks—ah, you know full well Your scarlet mantle has told on you; Come out this minute, you laughing minx! —By all the dryads of wood and wold! 'Tis only a cluster of Indian pinks And corn flowers, under the gorses' gold.



AT MILKING-TIME.

"Coe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown! Make haste; the milking-time is come! The bells are ringing in the town, Tho' all the green hillside is dumb, And Morn's white curtain, half withdrawn, Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn." Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail! See the vapors, white as curd, By the waking winds are stirred, And the east is brightening slow Tom is long a-field, I know!

"Coe, Bell! Come Bright! Miss Lilywhite, I see you hiding in the croft! By yon steep stair of ruddy light The sun is climbing fast aloft; What makes the stealthy, creeping chill That hangs about the morning still?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Some one saunters up the vale, Pauses at the brook awhile, Dawdles at the meadow stile— Well! if loitering be a crime, Some one takes his own sweet time!

"So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow, Keep your pink nose out of the pail! How dull the morning is—how low The churning vapors coil and trail! How dim the sky, and far away! What ails the sunshine and the day?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "But for that preposterous tale Nancy Mixer brought from town, 'Tom is courting Kitty Brown,' I'd not walked with Willie Snow, Just to tease my Tom, you know!

"So! stand still, my thistledown! Tom is coming thro' the gate, But his forehead wears a frown, And he never was so late! Till that vexing demon, Doubt, Angered us, and we fell out!" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Tom roosts on the topmost rail, Chewing straws, and looking grim When I choose to peep at him; Wonder if he's sulking still, All about my walk with Will?

"Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite, Hasten fieldward, every one; All the heavens are growing bright, And the milking time is done; I will speak to him, and see If his lordship answers me: 'Tom!' He tumbles off the rail, Stoops to lift the brimming pail; With a mutual pleading glance Lip meets lip—mayhap by chance— And—but need I whisper why?— Tom is happy—and so am I!"



THE SINGER'S SONG

O weary heart of mine, Keep still, and make no sign! The world hath learned a newer joy— A sweeter song than thine! Tho' all the brooks of June Should lilt and pipe in tune. The music by and by would cloy— The world forgets so soon!

So thou mayest put away Thy little broken lay; Perhaps some wistful, loving soul May take it up some day— Take up the broken thread, Dear heart, when thou art dead, And weave into diviner song The things thou wouldst have said!

Rest thou, and make no sign, The world, O, heart of mine, Is listening for the hand that smites A grander chord than thine! The loftier strains that teach Great truths beyond thy reach; Whose far faint echo they have heard In thy poor stammering speech.

Thy little broken bars, That wailing discord mars, To vast triumphal harmonies Shall swell beyond the stars. So rest thee, heart, and cease; Awhile, in glad release, Keep silence here, with God, amid The lilies of His peace.



AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING.

[Transcriber's note: The original text titled this poem here as "Aunt Patty's Thanksgiving" and in the table of contents as "Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving." This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.]

Now Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown; The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid, And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid! We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight The harvest was short, and the apple crop light; The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost, And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost; A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be— But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me!

But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best, And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest; I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine, Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine! He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word, But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain, And I knew he was fretting for Robert again! Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray; What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies! And in youth—why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad!

But the curse came upon him—the spell of unrest— Like a voice calling out of the infinite West— And Archibald Grace, he was going—and so We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go!

There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: Be spry as a cricket; he don't like to wait! Here's the firkin o' butter, as yellow as gold— And the eggs, in this basket—ten dozen all told. Tell father be sure and remember the tea— And the spice and the yard o' green gingham for me; And the sugar for baking:—and ask him to go To the office—there might be a letter, you know!

May Providence go with your father to town, And soften the heart o' this rich Captain Brown. He's the stranger that's buying the Sunnyside place, We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace, Along with the mortgage that's jest falling due, And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew; And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel. You raised her, I know; and it's hard she must go; But father will pay every dollar we owe; It's his way, to be honest and fair as the day; And he always was dreadfully set in his way.

I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; I guess he'd a stayed but for Archibald Grace. And helped with the chores and looked after the place; But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew, And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too; And so they must up and meander out West, And now they are murdered—or missing, at best— Surprised by that bloody, marauding "Red Wing," 'Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring.

No wonder, Cleora, I'm getting so gray! I grieve for my lost darling day after day; And, Cleo, my daughter, don't mind if it's true, But I reckon I've guessed about Archie and you! And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear, But there's still a bright edge to my cloud of despair, And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: "The boys are coming! The boys aren't dead!"

So to-morrow, for dear father's sake, we will try To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by; And tho' we mayn't see where Thanksgiving comes in, Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been. But it's nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane, And somebody's driving full tilt up the lane—

For the land's sake! Cleora, you're dropping that tray O' blue willow tea-cups! What startled you? Hey? You're white as a ghost—Why, here's father from town! And who are those men, daughter, helping him down? Run! open the door! There's a whirr in my head, And the tune's getting louder—"The boys aren't dead!" Cleora! That voice—it is Robert!—O, Lord! I have leaned on Thy promise, and trusted Thy word, And out of the midst of great darkness and night Thy mercy has led me again to the light!



IN HOC SIGNO VINCES!

(UNDER THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER.)

Beneath the solemn stars that light The dread infinitudes of night, Mid wintry solitudes that lie Where lonely Hecla's toweling pyre Reddens an awful space of sky With Thor's eternal altar fire! Worn with the fever of unrest, And spent with years of eager quest, Beneath the vaulted heaven they stood, Pale, haggard eyed, of garb uncouth, The seekers of the Hidden Good, The searchers for Eternal Truth!

From fiery Afric's burning sands, From Asia's hoary templed lands, From the pale borders of the North, From the far South—the fruitful West, O, long ago each journeyed forth, Led hither by one glorious quest! And each, with pilgrim staff and shoon, Bore on his scrip a mystic rune, Some maxim of his chosen creed, By which, with swerveless rule and line, He shaped his life in word and deed To ends heroic and divine!

Around their dreary winter world The great ice-kraken dimly curled The white seas of the frozen zone; And like a mighty lifted shield The hollow heavens forever shone On gleaming fiord and pathless field! Behind them, in the nether deep, The central fires, that never sleep, Grappled and rose, and fell again; And with colossal shock and throe The shuddering mountain rent in twain Her garments of perpetual snow!

Then Aba Seyd, grave-eyed and grand, Stood forth with lifted brow and hand; Kingly of height, of mien sublime, Like glorious Saul among his peers, With matchless wisdom for all time Gleaned from the treasure house of years; His locks rose like an eagle's crest, His gray beard stormed on cheek and breast, His silvery voice sonorous rang, As when, exulting in the fray, Where lances hissed and trumpets sang, He held the Bedouin hordes at bay.

"Lo! Here we part: henceforth alone We journey to the goal unknown; But whatsoever paths we find, The ties of fellowship shall bind Our constant souls; and soon or late— We laboring still in harmony— The grand results for which we wait Shall crown the mighty years to be! Now scoffed at, baffled, and beset, We grope in twilight darkness yet, We who would found the age of gold, Based on the universal good, And forge the links that yet shall hold The world in common Brotherhood!

"O, comrades of the Mystic Quest! Who seek the Highest and the Best! Where'er the goal for which we strive— Whate'er the knowledge we may win— This truth supreme shall live and thrive, 'Tis love that makes the whole world kin! The love sublime and purified, That puts all dross of self aside To live for others—to uphold Before our own a brother's cause: This is the master power shall mould The nobler customs, higher laws!

"Then shall all wars, all discords cease, And, rounded to perpetual peace, The bounteous years shall come and go Unvexed; and all humanity, Nursed to a loftier type, shall grow Like to that image undefiled, That fair reflex of Deity, Who, first, beneath the morning skies And glowing palms of paradise, A God-like man, awoke and smiled!" * * * * Like some weird strain of music, spent In one full chord, the sweet voice ceased; A faint white glow smote up the east, Like wings uplifting—and a cry Of winds went forth, as if the night Beneath the brightening firmament Had voiced, in hollow prophecy, The affirmation: "By and by!"



HOW KATIE SAVED THE TRAIN.

The floods were out. Far as the bound Of sight was one stupendous round Of flat and sluggish crawling water! As, from a slowly drowning rise, She looked abroad with startled eyes, The engineer's intrepid daughter. Far as her straining eyes could see, The seething, swoolen Tombigbee Outspread his turbulent yellow tide; His angry currents swirled and surged O'er leagues of fertile lands submerged, And ruined hamlets, far and wide.

Along a swell of higher ground, Still, like a gleaming serpent, wound The heavy graded iron trail; But, inch by inch, the overflow Dragged down the road bed, till the slow Back-water crept across the rail. And where the ghostly trestle spanned A stretch of marshy bottom-land, The stealthy under current gnawed At sunken pile, and massive pier, And the stout bridge hung airily where She sullen dyke lay deep and broad.

Above the hollow, droning sound Of waves that filled the watery round, She heard a distant shout and din— The levees of the upper land Had crumbled like a wall of sand, And the wild floods were pouring in! She saw the straining dyke give way— The quaking trestle reel and sway. Yet hold together, bravely, still! She saw the rushing waters drown The piers, while ever sucking down The undermined and treacherous "fill!"

Her strong heart hammered in her breast, As o'er a distant woody crest A dim gray plume of vapor trailed; And nearer, clearer, by and by, Like the faint echo of a cry, A warning whistle shrilled and wailed! Her frightened gelding reared and plunged, As the doomed trestle rocked and lunged— The keen lash scored his silken hide: "Come, Bayard! We must reach the bridge And cross to yonder higher ridge— For thrice an hundred lives we ride!"

She stooped and kissed his tawny mane, Sodden with flecks of froth and rain; Then put him at the surging flood! Girth deep the dauntless gelding sank, The tide hissed round his smoking flank, But straight for life or death she rode! The wide black heavens yawned again, Down came the torrent rushing rain— The icy river clutched her! Shrill in her ears the waters sang, Strange fires from the abysses sprang, The sharp sleet stung like whip and spur!

Her yellow hair, blown wild and wide, Streamed like a meteor o'er the tide; Her set white face yet whiter grew, As lashed by furious flood and rain, Still for the bridge, with might and main, Her gallant horse swam, straight and true! They gained the track, and slowly crept Timber by timber, torrents swept, Across the boiling hell of water— Till past the torn and shuddering bridge He bore her to the safer ridge, The engineer's intrepid daughter!

The night was falling wild and black, The waters blotted out the track; She gave her flying horse free rein, For full a dreadful mile away The lonely wayside station lay, And hoarse above his startled neigh She heard the thunder of the train! "What if they meet this side the goal?" She thought with sick and shuddering soul; For well she knew what doom awaited A fell mischance—a step belated— The grinding wheels, the yawning dyke— Sure death for her—for them—alike!

Like danger-lamps her blue eyes glowed, As thro' the whirling gloom she rode, Her laboring breath drawn sharply in; Pitted against yon rushing wheels Were tireless grit and trusty heels, And with God's favor they might win! And soon along the perilous line Flamed out the lurid warning sign, While round her staggering horse the crowd Surged with wild cheers and plaudits loud.— And this is how, thro' flood and rain, Brave Kate McCarthy saved the train!



OFF THE SKIDLOE.

With leagues of wasteful water ringed about, And wrapped in sheeted foam from base to peak, A sheer, stupendous monolith, wrought out By the slow, ceaseless labor of the deeps, In awful isolation, old as Time, The gray, forbidding Rock of Skidloe stands— Breasting the wild incursions of the North— The grim antagonist of a thousand waves!

Far to the leeward, faintly drawn against A dim perspective of perpetual storms, A frowning line of black basaltic cliffs Baffles the savage onset of the surf. But, rolled in cloud and foam, old Skidloe lifts His dark, defiant head forever mid The shock and thunder of contending tides, And fixed, immovable as fate, hurls back The rude, eternal protest of the sea!

Colossal waters coil about his feet, Deep rooted in the awful gulfs between The measureless walls of mountain chains submerged; An infinite hoarse murmur wells from all His dim mysterious crypts and corridors: The inarticulate mutterings that voice The ancient secret of the mighty main.

In all the troubled round of sea and air, No glimpse of brightness lends the vivid zest Of life and light to the harsh monotone Of gray tumultuous flood and spectral sky; Far off the black basaltic crags are heaved Against the desolate emptiness of space; But no sweet beam of sunset ever falls Athwart old Skidloe's cloudy crest—no soft And wistful glory of awakened dawn Lays on his haggard brows a touch of grace. Sometimes a lonely curlew skims across The seething torment of the dread abyss, And, shrieking, dips into the mist beyond; But, solitary and unchanged for aye, He towers amid the rude revolt of waves, His stony face seamed by a thousand years, And wrinkled with a million furrows, worn By the slow drip of briny tears, that creep Along his hollow cheek. His hidden hands Drag down the drowned and tossing wrecks that drive Before the fury of the Northern gales, And mute, inscrutable as destiny, He keeps his sombre secrets as of yore.

The slow years come and go; the seasons dawn And fade, and pass to swell the solemn ranks Of august ages in the march of Time. But changeless still, amid eternal change, Old Skidloe bears the furious brunt of all The warring elements that grapple mid The mighty insurrections of the sea! Gray desolation, ancient solitude, Brood o'er his wide, unrestful water world, While grim, unmoved, forbidding as of yore, He wraps his kingly altitudes about With the fierce blazon of the thunder cloud; And on his awful and uplifted brows The red phylactery of the lightning shines; And throned amid eternal wars, he dwells, His dread regality hedged round by all The weird magnificence of exultant storms!



LIFE'S CROSSES.

"O life! O, vailed destiny!" She cried—"within thy hidden hands What recompense is waiting me Beyond these naked wintry sands? For lo! The ancient legend saith: 'Take ye a rose at Christmas tide, And pin thereto your loving faith, And cast it to the waters wide; Whate'er the wished-for guerdon be, God's hand will guide it safe to thee!'

"I pace the river's icy brink, This dreary Christmas Eve," she said, "And watch the dying sunset sink From pallid gold to ashen red. My eyes are hot with weary tears, I heed not how the winds may blow, While thinking of the vanished years Beyond the stormy heave and throe Of yon far sea-line, dimly curled Around my lonely island-world.

"The winds make melancholy moan; I hear the river flowing by, As, heavy-hearted and alone, Beneath the wild December sky, I take the roses from my breast— White roses of the Holy Rood— And, filled with passionate unrest, I cast them to the darkening flood. O, roses, drifting out to sea, Bring my lost treasures back to me!

"Bring back the joyous hopes of youth! The faith that knew no flaw of doubt! The spotless innocence and truth That clothed my maiden soul about! Bring back the grace of girlhood gone, The rapturous zest of other days! The dew and freshness of the dawn, That lay on life's untrodden ways— The glory that will shine no more For me on earthly sea or shore!

"Call back the sweet home-joys of old That gladdened many a Christmas-tide— The faces hidden in the mould, The dear lost loves that changed or died! O, gentle spirits, gone before, Come, from the undiscovered lands, And bring the precious things of yore To aching heart and empty hands; Keep all the wealth of earth and sea, But give my lost ones back to me.

"Vain are my tears, my pleadings vain! O, roses, drifting with the tide, To me shall never come again The glory of the years that died! Thro' gloom and night, sweet flowers, drift on— Drift out upon the unknown sea; Into the holy Christmas dawn Bear this impassioned prayer for me: O, turn, dear Lord, my heart away From things that are but for a day; Teach me to trust thy loving will, And bear life's heavy crosses still."



NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS, A.M., LL.D.

The following sketch is principally from the Third Volume of Biographical Sketches of Eminent Americans.

"Nathan Covington Brooks, the youngest son of John and Mary Brooks, was born in West Nottingham, Cecil county, Maryland, on the 12th of August, 1809. His education was commenced at the West Nottingham Academy, then under the charge of Rev. James Magraw, D.D., and subsequently he graduated as Master of Arts, at St. John's College, Annapolis, Md. His thesis was a poem on the World's Changes. Diligent and persevering in his studies, his rapid progress and high attainments won the regard of his teachers, while his amiable manners endeared him to his classmates. While his principal delight was in the study of the Classics, he devoted much attention to mathematics and other studies. Like many other writers, some of his earliest efforts were in verse. Indeed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.'

Though we have no Shakespeares, or Miltons, or Byrons, there is no scarcity of literary amateurs who, in their hours of recreation and dalliance with letters, betake themselves to poetry as an amusement for their leisure hours or a solace amid the rude trials of life. High in the rank of these writers of occasional poetry stands Dr. Brooks. Nature, in all her forms, he has made the subject of close observation and profound reflection, and in looking at Nature, he has used his own eyes and not the spectacles of other writers. He has a keen relish for the beautiful, and a deep sympathy with the truthful and the good. His taste, formed on the finest models, has been ripened and chastened by a patient study of the great monuments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural development of his mind; and his words the unstudied expression of his thoughts. The music of his verse reminds us sometimes of the soft cadences of Hemans, and not unfrequently of the mournful harp of Byron."

In his eighteenth year he was a contributor of prose and poetry to the Minerva and Emerald, and Saturday Post, of Baltimore; subsequently contributed to The Wreath, Monument, Athenaeum, and Protestant, of the same city. In 1830 he edited The Amethyst, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to Atkinson's Casket, and The Lady's Book, of which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for Burton's Magazine, and Graham's, The New York Mirror, The Ladies' Companion, and the Home Journal; and the following annuals, The Gift, The Christian Keepsake, and The Religious Souvenir. He contributed also prose and poetry to The Southern Literary Messenger, The Southern Quarterly of New Orleans, The London Literary Gazette, and The London Court Journal.

In 1837 Marshall, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his religious poems, entitled "Scriptural Anthology." In 1840, Kay Brothers, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his prose and poetry, under the name of "The Literary Amaranth." Besides these Dr. Brooks has edited a series of Greek and Latin classics, has written four volumes on religious subjects, one on "Holy Week," just issued from the press, "The History of the Mexican War," which was translated into German, "Battles of the Revolution," etc.

In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherished as heirlooms in the family, a silver pitcher, for the best prose tale, entitled "The Power of Truth," and two silver goblets, one a prize for the poem entitled "The Fall of Superstition," the other a prize for a poem, "The South-sea Islander," for which fifteen of our leading poets were competitors.

Though in his leisure moments Dr. Brooks has achieved so much in literature, his profession has been that of an educator, in which he has had the mental training of males and females to the number of five or six thousand. In 1824, he was appointed to the village school in Charlestown, Cecil county, in 1826, established a private school in Baltimore city; in 1831 was elected principal of the Franklin Academy, Reistertown, and in 1834 principal of the Brookesville Academy, Montgomery county, both endowed by the State; in 1839, he was unanimously elected over forty-five applicants as principal of the Baltimore City High School which position he held for nine years, until asked by the Trustees of the Baltimore Female College, in 1848, to accept the organization of the institution. The College is chartered and endowed by the State of Maryland, has graduated over three hundred young ladies, and trained and sent forth two hundred teachers. Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, conferred the degree of LL.D., on Professor Brooks in 1859, and in 1863 his name was presented, with others, for the presidency of Girard College. Though Major Smith, a Philadelphian of an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other competitors. In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia. Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son. The following poems are selected as specimens of his style.



THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY.

The flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, And the passing wind, like a spirit, grieves In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves. The sun will kiss the dew from the rose, Its crimson petals again unclose, And the violet ope the soft blue ray Of its modest eye to the gaze of day; But when will the dews and shades that lie So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye, Be chased from the folded lids, my child, And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild?

The fawn, thy partner in sportive play, Has ceased his gambols at close of day, And his weary limbs are relaxed and free In gentle sleep by his favorite tree. He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn Will call him forth to the dewy lawn, And his sprightly gambols be seen again, Through the parted boughs and upon the plain; But oh! when will slumber cease to hold The limbs that lie so still and cold? When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet That bounded my glad embrace to meet?

The birds you tended have ceased to sing, And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing, And, nestled among the leaves of the trees, They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze. The morn will the chains of sleep unbind, And spread their plumes to the freshening wind; And music from many a warbler's mouth Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south; But when shall the lips, whose lightest word Was sweeter far than the warbling bird, Their rich wild strain of melody pour? They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more!

When heaven's great bell in a tone sublime Shall sound the knell of departed Time, And its echoes pierce with a voice profound Through the liquid sea and the solid ground, Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep, And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright In the glorious rays of Heaven's own light, The limbs, that an angel's semblance bore, Bloom 'neath living trees on the golden shore, And the voice that's hushed, God's praises hymn 'Mid the bands of the harping seraphim.



TO A DOVE.

MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH.

The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around. In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,— Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves.

But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed.

Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint? As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude. Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? That the tall and waving grass defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles? That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes?

Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard? That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more? Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age? For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom? For the light of youth quenched in the tomb? For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay? That pastor and people have passed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew?

Or dost thou mourn that the house of God Has ceased to be a divine abode? That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat? I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss—Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest.



FALL OF SUPERSTITION.

A PRIZE POEM.

The star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile. No more with harp and sistrum Music calls To wanton rites within Astarte's halls, The priests forget to mourn their Apis slain, And bear Osiris' ark with pompous train; Gone is Serapis, and Anubis fled, And Neitha's unraised vail shrouds Isis' prostrate head. Where Jove shook heaven when the red bolt was hurled, Neptune the sea—and Phoebus lit the world; Where fair-haired naiads held each silver flood, A fawn each field—a dryad every wood— The myriad gods have fled, and God alone Above their ruined fanes has reared his throne.[A] No more the augur stands in snowy shroud To watch each flitting wing and rolling cloud, Nor Superstition in dim twilight weaves Her wizard song among Dodona's leaves; Phoebus is dumb, and votaries crowd no more The Delphian mountain and the Delian shore, And lone and still the Lybian Ammon stands, His utterance stifled by the desert sands. No more in Cnydian bower, or Cyprian grove The golden censers flame with gifts to Love; The pale-eyed Vestal bends no more and prays Where the eternal fire sends up its blaze; Cybele hears no more the cymbal's sound, The Lares shiver the fireless hearthstone round; And shatter'd shrine and altar lie o'erthrown, Inscriptionless, save where Oblivion lone Has dimly traced his name upon the mouldering stone. Medina's sceptre is despoiled of might— Once stretched o'er realms that bowed in pale affright; The Moon that rose, as waved the scimetar Where sunk the Cross amid the storm of war, Now pale and dim, is hastening to its wane, The sword is broke that spread the Koran's reign, And soon will minaret and swelling dome Fall, like the fanes of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. On other lands has dawned immortal day, And Superstition's clouds have rolled away; O'er Gallia's mounts and on Iona's shore The Runic altars roll their smoke no more; Fled is the Druid from his ancient oak, His harp is mute—his magic circle broke; And Desolation mopes in Odin's cells Where spirit-voices called to join the feast of shells. O'er Indian plains and ocean-girdled isles With brow of beauty Truth serenely smiles; The nations bow, as light is shed abroad, And break their idols for the living God. Where purple streams from human victims run And votive flesh hangs quivering in the sun, Quenched are the pyres, as shines salvation's star— Grim Juggernaut is trembling on his car And cries less frequent come from Ganges' waves Where infant forms sink into watery graves. Where heathen prayers flamed by the cocoa tree They supplicate the Christians' Deity And chant in living aisles the vesper hymn Where giant god-trees rear their temples dim. Still speed thy truth!—still wave thy spirit sword, Till every land acknowledge Thee the Lord, And the broad banner of the Cross, unfurled In triumph, wave above a subject world. And here O God! where feuds thy church divide— The sectary's rancor, and the bigot's pride— Melt every heart, till all our breasts enshrine One faith, one hope, one love, one zeal divine, And, with one voice, adoring nations call Upon the Father and the God of all.

[Footnote A: The Pantheon that was built to all the gods was transformed into a Christian temple.]



THE INFANT ST. JOHN, THE BAPTIST.

O sweeter than the breath of southern wind With all its perfumes is the whisper'd prayer From infant lips, and gentler than the hind, The feet that bear The heaven-directed youth in wisdom's pathway fair.

And thou, the early consecrate, like flowers Didst shed thy incense breath to heaven abroad; And prayer and praise the measure of thy hours, The desert trod Companionless, alone, save of the mighty God.

As Phosphor leads the kindling glory on, And fades, lost in the day-god's bright excess, So didst thou in Redemption's coming dawn, Grow lustreless, The fading herald of the Sun of Righteousness.

But when the book of life shall be unsealed, And stars of glory round the throne divine In all their light and beauty be revealed, The brightest thine Of all the hosts of earth with heavenly light shall shine.



SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES.

Ibi tu calentem Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici.

—Horace.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, an eminent English poet, while sailing in the Mediterranean sea, in 1822, was drowned off the coast of Tuscany in a squall which wrecked the boat in which he had embarked. Two weeks afterwards his body was washed ashore. The Tuscan quarantine regulations at that time required that whatever came ashore from the sea should be burned. Shelley's body was accordingly placed on a pyre and reduced to ashes, in the presence of Lord Byron and Leigh Hunt, who are the "brother bards" referred to in the last stanza of the poem.

Beneath the axle of departing day The weary waters on the horizon's verge Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play, As bore the surge The poet's wasted form with slow and mournful dirge.

On Via Reggio's surf-beaten strand The late-relenting sea, with hollow moan Gave back the storm-tossed body to the land, As if in tone Of sorrow it bewailed the deed itself had done.

There laid upon his bed of shells—around The moon and stars their lonely vigils kept; While in their pall-like shades the mountains bound And night bewept The bard of nature as in death's cold arms he slept.

The tuneful morn arose with locks of light— The ear that drank her music's call was chill; The eye that shone was sealed in endless night, And cold and still The pulses stood that 'neath her gaze were wont to thrill.

With trees e'en like the sleeper's honors sered And prows of galleys, like his bosom riven, The melancholy pile of death was reared Aloft to heaven, And on its pillared height the corpse to torches given.

From his meridian throne the eye of day Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire, Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay Upon his pyre The poet of the broken heart and broken lyre.

On scented wings the sorrowing breezes came And fanned the blaze, until the smoke that rushed In dusky volumes upward, lit with flame All redly blushed Like Melancholy's sombre cheek by weeping flushed.

And brother bards upon that lonely shore Were standing by, and wept as brightly burned The pyre, till all the form they loved before, To ashes turned, With incense, wine, and tears was sprinkled and inurned.



THE FOUNTAIN REVISITED.

Let the classic pilgrim rove, By Egeria's fount to stand, Or sit in Vancluse's grot of love, Afar from his native land; Let him drink of the crystal tides Of the far-famed Hippocrene, Or list to the waves where Peneus glides His storied mounts between: But dearer than aught 'neath a foreign sky Is the fount of my native dell, It has fairer charms for my musing eye For my heart a deeper spell.

Dear fount! what memories rush Through the heart and wildered brain, As beneath the old beech I list to the gush Of thy sparkling waves again; For here in a fairy dream With friends, my childhood's hours Glided on like the flow of thy beautiful stream, And like it were wreathed with flowers: Here we saw on thy waves, from the shade, The dance of the sunbeams at noon; Or heard, half-afraid, the deep murmurings made In thy cavernous depths, 'neath the moon.

I have heard thy waves away From thy scenes, dear fount, apart; And have felt the play, in life's fevered day, Of thy waters through my heart; But oh! thou art not the same: Youth's friends are gone—I am lone— Thy beeches are carved with many a name Now graved on the funeral stone. As I stand and muse, my tears Are troubling the stream whose waves The lullaby sang to their infantile years, And now murmur around their graves.



DEATH OF SAMSON.

Within Philistia's princely hall Is held a glorious festival, And on the fluctuant ether floats The music of the timbrel's notes, While living waves of voices gush, Echoing among the distant hills, Like an impetuous torrent's rush When swollen by a thousand rills.

The stripling and the man of years, Warriors with twice ten thousand spears, Peasants and slaves and husbandmen,— The shepherd from his mountain glen, Vassal, and chief arrayed in gold And purple robes—Philistines all Are drawn together to behold Their mighty foeman held in thrall.

Loud pealed the accents of the horn Upon the air of the clear morn, And deafening rose the mingled shout, Cleaving the air from that wild rout, As, guarded by a cavalcade The illustrious prisoner appeared And, 'mid the grove the dense spears made, His forehead like a tall oak reared.

He stood with brawny shoulders bare, And tossed his nervous arms in air— Chains, leathern thongs, and brazen bands Parted like wool within his hands; And giant trunks of gnarled oak, Splintered and into ribbons rent, Or by his iron sinews broke, Increased the people's wonderment.

The amphitheatre, where stood Spell-bound the mighty multitude, Rested its long and gilded walls Upon two pillars' capitals: His brawny arms, with labor spent, He threw around the pillars there, And to the deep blue firmament Lifted his sightless orbs in prayer.

Anon the columns move—they shake, Totter, and vacillate, and shake, And wrenched by giant force, come down Like a disrupted mountain's crown, With cornice, frieze, and chapiter, Girder, and spangled dome, and wall, Ceiling of gold, and roof of fir, Crumbled in mighty ruin all.

Down came the structure—on the air Uprose in wildest shrieks despair, Rolling in echoes loud and long Ascending from the myriad throng: And Samson, with the heaps of dead Priest, vassal, chief, in ruin blent, Piled over his victorious head His sepulchre and monument.



AN INFANT'S PRAYER.

The day is spent, on the calm evening hours, Like whispered prayer, come nature's sounds abroad, And with bowed heads the pure and gentle flowers Shake from their censers perfume to their God; Thus would I bow the head and bend the knee, And pour my soul's pure incense, Lord, to Thee.

Creator of my body, I adore, Redeemer of my soul, I worship Thee, Preserver of my being, I implore Thy light and power to guide and shelter me; Be Thou my sun, as life's dark vale I tread, Be thou my shield to guard my infant head.

And when these eyes in dewy sleep shall close, Uplifted now in love to Thy great throne, In the defenceless hours of my repose, Father and God, oh! leave me not alone, But send thy angel minister's to keep With hovering wings their vigils while I sleep.



JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY.

John Marchborn Cooley, the eldest son of the late Corbin Cooley, was born at the Cooley homestead, on the Susquehanna river, in Cecil county, a short distance below the junction of that stream and the Octoraro creek, on the first of March, 1827; and died at Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, April 13th, 1878.

In childhood he showed a taste for learning, and in early youth was sent to West Nottingham Academy, where he received his education. While at the Academy he is said to have been always willing to write the compositions of his fellow students, and to help them with any literary work in which they were engaged.

Mr. Cooley studied law in the office of the late Col. John C. Groome, and was admitted to the Elkton bar on the 4th of April, 1850. He practiced his profession in Elkton for a short time, during a part of which he was counsel to the County 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.



A STORY WITH A MORAL.

One ev'ning, as some children play'd Beneath an oak tree's summer shade, A stranger, travel-stained and gray, Beside them halted on his way. As if a spell, upon them thrown, Had changed their agile limbs to stone, Each in the spot where it first view'd Th' approaching wand'rer mutely stood. Ere silence had oppressive grown The old man's voice thus found a tone; "I too was once as blithe and gay— My days as lightly flew away As if I counted all their hours Upon a dial-plate of flowers; And gentle slumber oft renew'd The joyance of my waking mood, As if my soul in slumber caught The radiance of expiring thought; As if perception's farewell beam Could tinge my bosom with a dream— That twilight of the mind which throws Such mystic splendor o'er repose. Contrasted with a youth so bright My manhood seems one dreary night, A chilling, cheerless night, like those Which over Arctic regions close. I married one, to my fond eyes An angel draped in human guise. Alas! she had one failing; No secret could she keep In spite of all my railing, And curses loud and deep. No matter what the danger Of gossiping might be, She'd gossip with a stranger As quickly as with me. One can't be always serious, And talking just for show, For that is deleterious To fellowship, and so I oft with her would chatter, Just as I felt inclined, Of any little matter I chanced to call to mind. Alas! on one ill-fated day, I heard an angry neighbor say, 'Don't tell John Jones of your affairs, Don't tell him for your life, Without you wish the world to know, For he will tell his wife.' 'For he will tell his wife' did ring All day through heart and brain; In sleep a nightmare stole his voice, And shouted it again. I spent whole days in meditating How I should break the spell, Which made my wife keep prating Of things she shouldn't tell. Some awful crime I'll improvise, Which I'll to her confide, Upon the instant home I rushed, My hands in blood were dyed. 'Now, Catharine, by your love for me, My secret closely hide.' Her quiet tongue, for full three days, The secret kept so well, I almost grew to hope that she This secret wouldn't tell. Alas! upon the following day She had revealed it, for I found Some surly men with warrants arm'd Were slyly lurking round. They took me to the county jail My tristful Kate pursuing, And all the way she sobb'd and cried 'Oh! what have I been doing?' Before the judge I was arraigned, Who sternly frowning gazed on me, And by his clerk straightway inquired, What was the felon's plea. May't please your honor, I exclaim'd This case you may dismiss— Now hearken all assembled here, My whole defence is this: I killed a dog—a thievish wretch— His body may be found, Beneath an apple tree of mine, A few feet under ground, This simple plot I laid in hope To cure my tattling wife; I find, alas! that she must talk, Though talking risk my life. So from her presence then I fled, In spite of all the tears she shed, And since, a wand'ring life I've led, And told the tale where'er I sped."



FORTY YEARS AFTER.

For twenty guests the feast is laid With luscious wines and viands rare, And perfumes such as might persuade The very gods to revel there.

A youthful company gathered here, Just two score years ago to-day, Agreed to meet once ev'ry year Until the last one passed away.

And when the group might fewer grow The vacant chairs should still be placed Around the board whereon should glow The glories of the earliest feast.

One guest was there, with sunken eye And mem'ry busy with the past— Could he have chosen the time to die, Some earlier feast had been his last.

"But thrice we met" the old man said, But thrice in youthful joy and pride, When all for whom this board was spread Were seated gaily at my side.

Then first we placed an empty chair And ev'ry breast was filled with gloom, For he we knew, who should be there, That hour was absent in the tomb.

The jest and song were check'd awhile, But quickly we forgot the dead, And o'er each face th' arrested smile In all its former freedom spread.

For still our circle seem'd intact. The lofty chorus rose as well As when our numbers had not lack'd That voice the more in mirth to swell.

But we parted with a sadder mien And hands were clasped more kindly then, For each one knew where death had been We might expect him o'er again.

Ah! wondrous soon our feast before A lessening group was yearly spread, And all our joys were ruffled o'er With somber mem'ries of the dead.

The song and jest less rude became, Our voices low and looks more kind, Each toast recall'd some cherish'd name Or brought a buried friend to mind.

At length, alas! we were but two With features shrivel'd, shrunk, and changed, Whose faded eyes could scarcely view The vacant seats around us ranged.

But fancy, as we passed the bowl, Fill'd ev'ry empty chair again. Inform'd the silent air with soul And shaped the shadowy void to men.

The breezy air around us stirr'd With snatches of familiar song, Nor cared we then how fancy err'd Since her delusion made us strong.

But now, I am the only guest, The grave—the grave now covers all Who joined me at the annual feast We kept in this deserted hall.

He paused and then his goblet fill'd, But never touch'd his lips the brim, His arm was stay'd, his pulses still'd, And ah! his glazing eyes grew dim.

The farther objects in the room Have vanish'd from his failing sight; One broad horizon spreads in gloom Around a lessening disc of light.

And then he seem'd like one who kept A vigil with suspended breath— So kindly to his breast had crept Some gentlest messenger of death.



THE PAST.

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 adorn With all the charms of Earth's initial morn, And duplicates at eve the splendors yet That fixed the glance, that first beheld him set.



LOVED AND LOST.

Love cannot call her back again, But oh! it may presume With ceaseless accents to complain, All wildly near her tomb.

A madd'ning mirage of the mind Still bids her image rise, That form my heart can never find Yet haunts my wearied eyes.

Since Earth received its earliest dead, Man's sorrow has been vain; Though useless were the tears they shed, Still I will weep again.

The breast, that may its pangs conceal, Is not from torture freed, For still the wound, that will not heal, Alas! must inly bleed.

Vain Sophist! ask no reason why The love that cannot save, Will hover with despairing cry Around the dear ones grave.

Mine is not frenzy's sudden gust, The passion of an hour, Which sprinkles o'er beloved dust Its brief though burning shower.

Then bid not me my tears to check, The effort would but fail, The face, I hid at custom's beck, Would weep behind its veil.

The tree its blighted trunk will rear, With sap and verdure gone, And hearts may break, yet many a year All brokenly live on.

Earth has no terror like the tomb Which hides my darling's head, Yet seeking her amid its gloom, I grope among the dead.

And oh! could love restore that form To its recovered grace, How soon would it again grow warm Within my wild embrace.



DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR.

KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR.

Fierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed So proudly that terrific blade. The feeble bosom scarce can give A throb to show he yet doth live, And in his eye the light which glows, Is but the stare, that death bestows. The filmy veins that circling thread The cooling balls are turning red; And every pang that racks him now, Starts the cold sweat up to his brow, But yet his smile not even death Could from his boyish face unwreath, Or in convulsive writhing show The pangs, that wring the brain below.

To the far fight he seeks to gaze, Where battling arms yet madly blaze, And with a gush of manly pride, Weeps as his banner is descried Above the piling smoke-clouds borne, Like the first dubious streaks of morn That o'er the mountains misty height Will kindle in a lovely sight.

"A foreign soil my blood doth stain, And the few drops that yet remain Add but still longer to my pain. Land of my birth! thy hills no more May these fast glazing eyes explore, Yet oh! may not my body rest Beneath that sod my heart loves best? My father—home! Joys most adored Dwell in that simple English word— Go, comrades! Till your field is won Forget me—father, I die thy son."

Hark the wild cry rolls on his ear! The foe approach who hovered near; Rings the harsh clang of bick'ring steel In blows his arm no more may deal.

"Beside me now no longer be, Ye need not seek to die with me; Go, friends"—his manly bosom swell'd With life the stiff'ning wounds withheld; And struggling to his knees, he shook The sword his hand had not forsook, But to his arm it was denied To slay the foe his heart defied. The faintly wielded steel was left In the slight wound it barely cleft. Borne to the earth by the same thrust, That smote his en'my to the dust, His breast receiv'd their cowardly blows— The fluttering eye-lids slowly close, Then parting, show the eye beneath White with the searching touch of Death. The last thick drops congeal around The jagged edge of many a wound; See breaking through the marble skin The clammy dews that lurk within, The lip still quivers, but no breath Seeks the unmoving heart beneath.

Thou gallant Clay—thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; For in the brightness of such blaze Even Alexander fame decays, Yes—yes, Columbia's noble son Died! Monarchs could no more have done.



A VALENTINE.

Oh! for a brief poetic mood In which to write a merry line— A line, which might, could, would or should Do duty as a Valentine. Then to the woods the birds repair In pairs, prepared to woo A mate whose breast shall fondly share This world's huge load of ceaseless care Which grows so light when borne by two. But ah! such language will not suit, I'd better far have still been mute. My mate is dead or else she's flown And I am left to brood alone, To think of joys of vanish'd years And banish thus some present tears; But then our life is but a dream And things are not what they seem.



LINES

SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND.

Like him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish'd most— So, dearest, do I mourn for thee.

For oh! the future is as dark As is the ocean's barren plain, Whose restless waters wear no mark To guide his eyes, who seeks in vain.

True, reckless Fancy dares invade The realm of time's uncounted hours, As fondly gay, as if she stray'd In safety through a land of flowers.

And still doth hope shine bright and warm— But oh! the light with which it cheers, My darling one, but glows to form A rainbow o'er a vale of tears.



GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK.

George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 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 in The Cecil Democrat, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill.

In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the Baltimore Day, which he edited while that journal existed.

Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank. They are the parents of five children—three of whom survive.

Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant 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.



STONEWALL JACKSON.

[1863.]

AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH.

Bury the mighty dead— Long, long to live in story! Bury the mighty dead In his own shroud of glory.

Question not his purpose; Sully not his name, Nor think that adventitious aid Can build or blight his fame, Nor hope, by obloquizing what He strove for, glory's laws Can be gainsaid, or he defiled Who'd honor any cause.

Question not his motives, Ye who have felt his might! Who doubts, that ever saw him strike, He aimed to strike for right? His was no base ambition;— No angry thirst for blood. Naught could avail to lift his arm, But love of common good. Yet, when he deigned to raise it, Who could resist its power? Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe, E'er to forget that hour?

His life he held as nothing. His country claimed his all. Ah! what shall dry that country's tears Fast falling o'er his fall? His life he held as nothing, As through the flame he trod; To duty gave he all of earth And all beyond to God. The justness of his effort He never lent to doubt. His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd To put the foe to rout. Mistrusting earth's tribunals, Scorning the tyrant's rod, He chose the fittest Arbiter, 'Twixt foe and sword, his God. And doubted not, a moment, That, when the fight was won, Who rules the fate of nations Would bid His own:—Well done! And doubted not, a moment, As fiercest flashed the fire, The bullet's fatal blast would call:— Glad summons!—Come up higher!

And who would hence recall thee?— Thy work so nobly done! Enough for mortal brow to wear The crown thy prowess won:— Grim warrior, grand in battle! Rapt christian, meek in prayer!— Vain age! that fain would reproduce A character as rare!

The world has owned its heroes;— Its martyrs, great and good, Who rode the storm of power, Or swam the sea of blood:— Napoleons, Caesars, Cromwells, Melancthons, Luthers brave! But, who than Jackson ever yet Has filled a prouder grave?

The cause for which he struggled, May fall before the foe: Stout hearts, devoted to their trust, All moulder, cold and low. The land may prove a charnel-house For millions of the slain, And blood and carnage mark the track Where madmen march amain,— Fanatic heels may scourge it, Black demons blight the sod; And hell's foul desolation Mock Liberty's fair God.— The future leave no record, Of mighty struggle there, Save hollowness, and helplessness, And bitter, bald despair.— Proud cities lose their names e'en; Tall towers fall to earth.— Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland Forget illustrious birth;— And yet, upon tradition, Will float the name of him Whose virtues time may tarnish not, Eternity not dim. Whose life on earth was only, So grand, so free, so pure, For brighter realms and sunnier skies, A preparation sure. And whose sweet faith, so child-like, Nor blast, nor surge nor rod, One moment could avert from The bosom of his God.

Bury the mighty dead! Long, long to live in story! Bury the hero dead In his own shroud of glory!



IN MEMORIAM.

FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862.

Frank is dead! The mournful message Comes gushing from the ocean's roar. Frank is dead! His mortal passage Has ended on the heavenly shore. In earthly agony he died To join his Saviour crucified.

Frank is dead! Time's bitter trials Drove him a wanderer from home, To meet life's lot, share its denials, Or gain a rest where cares ne'er come. His frail form sinking, his grand spirit Careered to realms the blest inherit.

Frank is dead! In life's young morning, When heavenly promise lit his day, His smitten spirit, 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 bliss In realms that sunder wide from this.

Frank is dead! Yes, dead to sorrow, Dead to sadness, dead to pain. Dead! Dead to all save the tomorrow Whose light eternally shall reign. He's dead to young ambition's vow And the big thought that stamped his brow.

Frank is dead! Dead to the labors He'd staked his life to triumph in:— To win his friends, his dying neighbors, And fellows all from death and sin. With steady faith he toiled to fit Christ's armor on and honor it.

Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasure Has closed his bright career too soon To realize how rich a treasure The ranks had entered ere high noon. 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 brow Or flashing eye; but in the portals Above, by faith I see him now With gladden'd step and fluttering heart, Marching to share the better part.

Frank is dead!! No, never, never! Not dead but only gone before. Back,—back! Thou tear-drop, rising ever; Nor Heaven's fiat now deplore. Wail not the sorrows earth can lend To banish spirits that ascend.

And fare thee well, my noble brother! 'Tis hard to think that thou art not; To realize that never other Footstep like thine shall share my cot, And think of all thy heart endured, By sore besetments often tried. But,—Heaven be thanked,—all now is cured And thou, fair boy, art glorified.



NEW-YEAR ODE.

[1863.]

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 throne Descends to such as thou.

* * * * *

Dame nature's travail bore thee; Her pangs a world upheaved. A world now bending o'er thee Awaits those pangs relieved. A world is waiting for thee: And shall it be deceived?

Ah no! Such pangs were never To mother giv'n in vain. Rise, new-born! Rise and sever Tyranny's clanking chain. Rise, Virtue! Rise forever! The New-Year comes amain! O! Give him welcome ever! Can bleeding hearts refrain?

* * * * *

All hail! Oh beautiful New-Year! Full, full of promise fraught with cheer. Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Hail! Great deliverer from wrath, Brave pioneer upon the path That leads to better fate! Joy be to thee thy natal day, As dawns Aurora's earliest ray, While youth is fresh and faith is clear And hope is bright with coming cheer! Thou promisest eventful life As, giant-like, thou leap'st to earth, Robed in full majesty at birth; With power to do and will to dare And arm to shield from threat'ning care, And eye to ken the dead past's strife.

Thy young life's hand knows yet no stain Of blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain. But, know, Oh Friend! thou'rt ushered in To feel the jar and note the din Of war-blast's rude alarms. Thy elder brother, gone before, Has left upon this nether shore A burden for thine arms.

'Tis thine to choose the part thou'lt take, Oh giant mighty! Thine to make An early choice; lose not an hour. 'Tis crime to waste prodigious power. Great, vast, appalling, is the task By fate assigned to thee. No mask Of indecision now is given. The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. The hour is dark:—the danger nigh. The ravens caw: the eagles cry. The breakers dash—the chasm yawns: The skies are lurid:—chaos dawns. Thunder with thunder-peal is riven As if to shake earth's 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 call To thee address'd. We stand or fall As thou decree'st. Frown, and we perish. Smile, we rise To joys that savor of the skies. Bid lethargy depart thy brow And strike for right and truth. Young, thou; but hast no youth. No hours are thine for sportive mirth. Minerva-like, mature from birth, Great deeds and valiant thine must be, In wisdom guided, fair and free.— Deeds that no year hath known before; Fraught not with strife;—drenched not in gore. Free from old taint of fell disease And ancient forms of party strife. Rich in the gentler modes of life With sweeter manners, purer laws, Forerunner of those years of ease That token a sublimer cause!

What say'st thou? Giant, young and strong, What impulse heaves thy throbbing breast? Shall warrior plumes bedeck thy crest? Wilt whisper peace? Or shout for war? Wilt plead for right, or bleed for wrong? Wilt peal the bugle-blast afar And urge the cannon's madd'ning roar? Or wing the note through vale and glen:— Hail! Peace on earth! Good-will to men! Reason return:—let strife be o'er?

Thou speak'st not, giant, but I feel Hope's roseate flush upon my brow. Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. New aims thy glory will reveal. Thou heed'st the anguished bosom's smart, And thou wilt choose the better part. Thou'lt live on hist'ry's brightest page A monarch mighty, gentle sage: Great, great for what thou wilt have done And blest in all the course thou'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 weave An amaranthyne wreath of love, Its blessed motto ... trust—believe. And thou wilt share the realm above, Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet, Around one common mercy-seat.

All hail, then, beautiful New-Year! Hero of promise, fraught with cheer! Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Thy stainless youth supports our faith That thou wilt break the bonds of death And snap the web of hate.

* * * * *

And thou farewell, grim tyrant old! Who, who would call thee back! Thou cam'st with bloody footstep, bold; Thou leav'st a blood-stained track.

Go! Find a grave in the billowy surge That ne'er can wash thee clean; The wail of millions be thy dirge— Thy judge—the Great Unseen!

And when the resurrection morn Shall seek thy name to blot, Ho! Heed the voice that asks in scorn,— Thou liv'dst and reign'dst for what?

Passion unbridled, stubborn pride, Avengers, thine to rue, Of outraged virtue, truth defied, Shall 'balm in blood thy due, Lost eighteen sixty-two.



MY BIRTHDAY.

TO S—— 1864.

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 infuse A 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 wrought Its 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 on In timid thought of thee.

Years six and twenty have been mine To journey on alone: Shall I as many more repine, Before I am undone? Or shall the journey henceforth take A brighter phaze for me? Shall I next six-and-twenty make My 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 sea To whose last spar love still must cling, And sigh:—Alas!—for thee.



MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON.

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 to The Cecil Democrat, under the nom de plume of "Gertrude St. Orme."