A BIRTHDAY GREETING

TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW.

[JULY 4TH, 1886.]

I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He's six years old to-day.

I scarce can think six years have passed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name.

But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You'll find them, every one.

And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie's birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum.

At sunrise on those happy days The cannon's deaf'ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four.

But now those landmarks all are passed, He's getting fast away, The boy's a man, no baby now, He's six years old to-day.

Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy.

And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he's right? Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might.

I know 'tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day.

Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then? For most small boys will imitate What's seen in grown up men.

And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man.

Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he's six to-day, Some other time I'll tell you more, If—Charlie says I may.



MURMURINGS.

Falling, falling—gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain.

Sweeping by the crazy casement, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things.

Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o'er the soul.

But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains.

And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky.

But he pauses not to listen, Onward with demoniac will; Till Aeolian harps in Heaven Softly whisper, "Peace, be still."



THE OLD OAK TREE.

Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough: In youth it sheltered me, And I'd protect it now.

—George P. Morris.

'Tis living yet! Time has not dared To mark it, as his own, Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared This giant, firm and lone. It stands, as stood in years gone by, The chieftain in its shade, And breathed the warning, ere the cry Of war went through the glade.

The Council tires then brightly burned Beneath its spreading bough, But oh, alas! the scene has turned, Where burn those fires now? The old oak stands where it did then, The same fresh violets bloom, But far down in the narrow glen, They deck the Indian's tomb.

Life then seemed bright and free from care; When this old tree was young The Indian maiden twined her hair, And to her chieftain sung A song, low, gentle, and sincere, In pathos rich and rare; The warrior-lover brushed a tear, For thought was busy there.

Yes, busy was the fertile brain, That bid him onward flee, The Indian moon was on the wane And drooped the hawthorne tree. The light canoe of rounded bark Scarce dared to skim the flood, For they had come with meaning dark To ravage lake and wood.

* * * * *

The conflict ended! but the bow Which twanged across the plain. Dealt its proud owner death's cold blow, And laid him with the slain. But to a better, happier home, Have gone the Indian braves; Where cruel white men cannot come, To call their brothers—slaves.

Then let it stand, that aged oak, Among its kindred trees; Tho' now, no more the wigwam smoke Will curl upon the breeze. 'Tis left alone—the last sad thing That marks a nation vast, Then spare it, that its boughs may sing A requiem to the Past.



SWEET FLORIDA.

Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers, Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold, Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers, And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold.

Soft are thy rivulets, gentle thy water-falls, Rippling so merrily toward the broad sea; Fringed with bright daisies, which bloom on thy borders, E'en Nature herself pays a tribute to thee.

Sweeter and lovelier than all thy fair sisters, Thy gentleness surely hath fame for thee won, While thy star, not forgotten, shines forth in a glory That crowns the best flag that waves under the sun.

Thy name brings a scent of the dogwood and myrtle, The jessamine, too, comes in for a share, With great yellow petals so heavy with perfume, That can with the tube-rose's only compare.

Tho' large be the family, there's room for the fairest; No house is too small for a family with love: So Florida, thou who art brightest and dearest, The "Pet of the Household" forever shall prove.

Thy rivers are broad and thy lakes fringed with grasses, The glint of the waves of the bright Santa Fe, With her edging of cypress and long-floating mosses, Forever are murmuring a sonnet to thee.

While high on a hill sits the Queen of the Villas, Sweet Melrose! whose name is the least of her charms, Waves a welcome to all, to come over the billows And find a safe home 'neath her sheltering arms.

And so they are coming, the weak and the weary, From near and from far, the strong and the brave, All ready to drink of the life giving breezes, The only Elixir that truly can save.



EVENING.

'Tis Evening! soul enchanting hour, And queenly silence reigns supreme; A shade is cast o'er lake and bower, All nature sinks beneath the power Of sweet oblivion's dream.

The Sun—the hero-god of day, Has from this happier half of earth, Passed on with sweet life-giving ray, To smile on millions glad and gay, In sorrow or in mirth.

While in his stead, the Heavens above Are shaded with a silver light, So soft, so pure—that angels rove, To guard from evil those who love The God, who made all bright.

Then soon that planetary sea Is studded o'er with diadems, Shining alike on land and sea. High, high above the loftiest tree; Proud Nature's priceless gems.

Who would not leave the crowded room, The grand, but cold musician's art; To wander 'neath the calm still moon. When nature speaks 'mid wild perfume, So sweetly to the heart.

Who would not shun proud Fashion's hall, Escape her cold and torturings ways, To calmly rest where dew-drops fall; Perfumes that mind and soul enthrall, Beneath fair Luna's rays.

Who would exchange a home of flowers, Down in a pure and modest dell, For palaces 'mid art-reared bowers, Washed o'er by artificial showers, Where naught but sorrows dwell.

Blest hour of thought! to thy pure scene A mild and soothing charm is given, When hearts to hearts in love convene, And roses deck the silvered green Of mingled Earth and Heaven.

The truth—that plainly proves a God, Not chance, performed the better part Which teaches us His Heavenly Word: Breathes magic for the singing bird, And links us heart to heart.



REV. WILLIAM DUKE.

The Rev. William Duke was born in the southern part of what is now Harford county, but was at the time of his birth included in Baltimore county, on the 15th of September, 1757, and died in Elkton on the 31st of May, 1840. He became enamoured of the doctrines of Methodism in early youth, and allied himself with that denomination before its separation from the Protestant Episcopal Church, and was licensed to preach by Rev. Francis Asbury when he was only seventeen years old. Mr. Duke's name appears upon the minutes of the first Conference, held in Philadelphia in 1774, as one of the seven ministers who were that year taken on trial. The next year he was admitted to full membership, and remained in connection with the Conference as a traveling preacher until 1779, when he ceased to travel, and subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church; being impelled to do so by his opposition to the erection of the Methodist Society into an independent Church.

Mr. Duke became Rector of North Elk Parish in 1793, but resigned the charge three years later, and removed to Anne Arundel county, but returned to Elkton about a year afterwards; soon after he removed to Kent county, where he taught a parochial school for a short time, but returned to Elkton again in 1799 and opened a school, and preached during the three following years at North East, Elkton, and at the Episcopal Church near New London, Pa.

In 1803 he was appointed Professor of Languages in St. John's College, Annapolis, and had charge of St. Ann's Church, in that city, until 1806, when he returned to Elkton, and the next year took charge of the Elkton Academy.

Mr. Duke remained in Cecil county until 1812, when he took charge of Charlotte Hall, in St. Mary's county, and continued in charge of the school at that place until 1814, when he returned to Elkton, where he officiated as aforetime until the Spring of 1818, when he was appointed Principal of the Academy. He continued to reside in Elkton until the time of his death.

In 1793 Mr. Duke married Hetty Coudon, the daughter of the Rev. Joseph Coudon, a former Rector of North Elk Parish, and the ancestor of the Coudon family of this county. Mr. and Mrs. Duke were the parents of Miss Hetty Duke, who was their only child, and who died in Elkton, February 19th, 1875.

Mr. Duke was a very learned man, and is said by the Rev. Ethan Allan, the Historian of "The Old Parishes of Maryland," to have been more of the student than the preacher. He was the author of a pamphlet published in Elkton in 1795, entitled "Observations on the Present State of Religion in Maryland," which is now of great rarity and value. He also published a small volume entitled "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions," which was printed by Samuel and John Adams, of Baltimore, in 1790; and several other poems of considerable length, the most popular of which was entitled "A View of the Woods," which was descriptive of the adventures and experience of Western emigrants in the latter part of the last century.

The following selections have been made from "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions."



HYMN.

And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned; but now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly.

—Hebrews 11:15,16.

Abr'am, the father of the Jews, The servant, and the friend of God, When call'd from heaven, did not refuse To leave his Syrian abode.

His father's house and kindred dear Plead, and dissuaded him in vain; Neither could earthly hope nor fear The noble enterprise restrain.

Nor he alone; a host of saints Renounced the world, and nobly chose That heavenly inheritance Which neither death nor sorrow knows.

No intervening dangers check Their ardent progress to the skies, Well may they venture, who expect An heavenly and immortal prize.

When faith to their delighted view Their future blissful portion brings, They, firm and cheerful, bid adieu To sin, and self, and earthly things.

Happy to leave the world behind, Their conduct speaks a noble aim; They seek a city, and shall find The promised new Jerusalem.

Nor yet does impotence or fear Their sense of earthly bliss restrain, Did they not heaven to earth prefer, They soon might wed the world again.

In heaven their treasure is laid up Beyond the reach of accident, There shall their lively glorious hope Receive its full accomplishment.



HYMN.

But yield yourselves unto God as those that are alive from the dead; and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God.

—Romans 6:13.

My heart, the world forsake, And every earthly toy; The Lord of all thy portion make, And in Him all enjoy.

May sensible delight, Corrected and refined, A thirst of nobler joys excite, And urge the lingering mind.

Should ardent love impel And actuate my soul, Still may celestial fires prevail, And every thought control.

Should glory stimulate, And daring deeds propose, That only fame I'd emulate, To triumph in the cross.

Or should my yielding powers Acknowledge pleasure's sway, I'd think of sacred streams and bowers, And sweets that ne'er decay.

Should soaring science me Her votary avow, My only excellence should be Christ crucified to know.

Should wealth my mind impress, With the desire of more, In Christ the fullness I possess, Of Heaven's exhaustless store.

With all that nature craves, Fully from thence supplied, No aching want my bosom heaves No wish unsatisfied.



REJOICING IN HOPE.

Tost on the troubled sea of life, On every side assailed, Involved in passion's stormy strife, In irksome suff'rance held.

The faithful word of promise cheers And bears my spirits up, Dispels my dark desponding fears And stablishes my hope.

Hope that shall every toil survive, That smoothes the rugged path, That mitigates the ills of life, And soothes the hour of death.

And when the storms of life are o'er, And all our conflicts cease, When landed on the heavenly shore To enjoy eternal peace.

Hope at the last, her charge resigned, Securely we dismiss, And an abundant entrance find, To the abodes of bliss.

Till then our progress she attends To solace and relieve: And waits till every conflict ends To take her final leave.

Possessed of all we hoped below, Our utmost wish attained, Our happiness complete, we know Our full perfection gained.

Thus may I cheerfully endure, Till thus my warfare past;— Suffice for me the promise sure, I shall be crowned at last.



HYMN.

There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God.

—Hebrews 4:9.

Oh how I languish to possess, A safe and permanent abode! To rest in unmolested peace, And cast my care on thee, my God.

In thee I joy, in thee I rest, Though all inferior comforts fail; No hopeless anguish heaves my breast, And no tormenting fears assail.

To thee with confidence I look, And calmly wait thy promised aid; I rest securely on that Rock, On which Almighty help is laid.

Oh may I on His firmness stand, The ground of my immortal hope; Or nobly rise, at his command, To Pisgah's heaven-aspiring top.

That I may with ecstatic view, My future heritage descry, Where pleasures spring forever new, And perfect love shall never die.



REMORSE.

What racking fear, what painful grief Ensue a pleasant sin! In vain the world proffers relief For maladies within. Its blandishments and smooth deceit No real succor bring; Its remedies but irritate And pleasure leaves a sting. Confusion, shame, and slavish fear O'erwhelm a guilty mind; A burden more than I can bear, My sins upon me bind. Oh had I weighed the matter well Ere my consent was given! Avoided then the gates of hell And urged my way to heaven! Lord, give me strength now to resume My former confidence; Remove my terrors, bid me come With hopeful penitence. In mercy hear my humble cry, Redeem my soul from sin, My guilty conscience pacify And speak the peace serene.



MORNING.

But now the dawn of day appears, And now the dappled East declares Ambrosial morn again arrived, And nature's slumbering powers revived, And while they into action spring The infant breeze with odorous wing, Perfumes of sweetest scent exhales, And the enlivened sense regales, With sweets exempt from all alloy Which neither irritate nor cloy. Nor less the calmly gladdened sight Enjoys the milder forms of light, Reflected soft in twinkling beams, From numberless translucent gems. But now Aurora dries her tears, And with a gayer mien appears, With cheerful aspect smiles serene, And ushers in the splendid scene Of golden day: while feeble night Precipitates his dreary flight Dispelled by the all cheering sway Of the resplendent God of day, Who, mounted in his royal car, And all arrayed in golden glare With arduous career drives on Ascending his meridian throne: From thence a Sovereign of the day, His full-grown glories to display.



EDWIN EVANS EWING.

Edwin Evans Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing and brother of William Pinkney Ewing, was born on his father's farm on the Octoraro creek, not far from Rowlandville, in this county, on the 9th of January, 1824. His family is of Scotch-Irish extraction, and settled on the Octoraro more than a century ago. The family has long been distinguished for the intellectuality and literary ability of its members, among whom were the Rev. John Ewing, one of the most eminent scientists and Presbyterian divines of his time, and his daughter Sarah, who became the wife of John Hall, and whose biography is published in this volume.

The subject of this sketch spent his youth and early manhood, on his father's farm. Recently when asked for a sketch of his life Mr. Ewing replied: "I didn't have any life. I just growed like Topsy. I didn't have any educating. I just picked it up; and as for poetry, I never wrote any, only rhyme." Notwithstanding this assertion, Mr. Ewing being unable to resist the prompting of the "divinity which stirred within him," when quite young, began to write poetry. There seems to be a subtle influence pervading the romantic Octoraro hills, which if not the direct cause of poetic inspiration seems to encourage its growth, Mr. Ewing being one of five poets who claim that region as their birthplace, or who have profited by a residence therein.

When quite young Mr. Ewing wrote poetry which was published in the local journals of Cecil and Lancaster counties, and subsequently contributed poetry to the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper, being a contemporary contributor to that journal with his brother, William P. Ewing, and the late David Scott (of James.)

In 1856 Mr. Ewing made a trip to the Southwest, traveling extensively on horseback in Texas. He gave an account of his travels and a description of the country through which he passed in a series of letters published in the Cecil Whig, which were much admired.

In 1861, Mr. Ewing became the proprietor and editor of the Cecil Whig, which was the Union organ of the county. Being a man of decided convictions, and unflinching courage, he never lost an opportunity to advocate the cause of the Union, to which he adhered with great devotion, through evil and through good report.

In 1876 he disposed of the Whig and the next year bought an interest in the Kansas Farmer and the Juvenile Magazine, published in Topeka, Kansas. He subsequently became connected with the Daily Capital, and eventually became sole proprietor of the Kansas Farmer. The climate of Kansas not agreeing with him, he removed to Highlands, Macon county, N.C., where in 1882 he established the Blue Ridge Enterprise which he soon afterwards disposed of, and in 1885 became the proprietor of the Midland Journal, published in the village of Rising Sun, in this county.

Mr. Ewing is a brilliant and forcible writer. Like many others Mr. Ewing kept none of his poems except one which is too lengthy to be given a place in this volume. In consequence of this the compiler has only been able to obtain the following specimens of his poetry after great labor and trouble.



THE CHERUBIM—A VISION.

'Twas at that season, when the gloom Of cheerless Winter's pass'd away, And flowers spring up, with sweet perfume, To scent the breeze and cheer our way, Where'er we saunter—o'er the hill, Or through the valley—warm and still, Or broken only by the sound Of tinkling rills, which softly flow, And busy bees, that hum around The flowers which on their borders grow, That I, from life's turmoil had strayed To spend an hour in solitude; And where a sparkling fountain played, I laid me down, in pensive mood, To ponder o'er the fleeting day Of youth, that hies so fast away In golden dreams which quickly fly, Like tints that deck a Summer sky.

Soon Fancy, on her airy wing, Was sporting mid Elysian bowers, Where flowers of sweetest odor spring, And birds of golden plumage sing, And wanton thro' the sylvan bowers. There lakelets sparkled in the glow, Wreathed round with flowers of many a hue, And golden pebbles shone below The wave that bore the swan of snow, Reflecting, in its mirror true, The flowers which o'er its surface grew, The tints of earth—the hues of sky— That in its limpid bosom lie. And groups of happy children played Around the verge of each cascade; Or gambol'd o'er the flowery lea In wanton mirth and joyous glee; Pursuing, o'er the sparkling lawn, The insect in its airy flight, Which still eludes, but tempting on From flower to flower, with plumage bright, The hand that woos to stay its flight— Till soaring high, on pinions wild It leaves the charm'd and tearful child.

One maid there was, divinely fair, Whose cheeks, beneath her peerless eyes, Bloomed like the roses, rich and rare, That yield perfume to summer skies; Her shining locks of silky hair Hung round her neck like grapes of gold, And o'er her snowy bosom roll'd, Hiding the blush that mantled there.

The brightest of the fairy throng, She led the dancing group along Through tangled brakes and fretted bowers, Where grew the richest, rarest flowers, That wooed the bee to banquet there, Or yielded sweets to Summer air. But she who moved with elfin pace, And taught the infant throng to play, Raised to heaven her cherub face, While that bright celestial ray, Which halos the throne of glory round, Illumed her azure, orient eye, That seemed to penetrate the sky. Bending her gaze upon the ground, Her gentle bosom heaved a sigh, And anxious faces press around, While pearls of pity dim each eye, As tho' they'd weep again to rest The troubled spirit of that breast.

"Weep not for me!" the cherub said, While o'er her seraph beauty played A smile like evening's parting beam, That sparkles o'er the glassy stream, Or lingers on a lucid lake— Whose dimpling wave the zephyrs break. "Far thro' yon skies, where orient day Is shedding his last lingering ray, Bright angels beckon me away;— I go—I go—a last farewell!" And as she spoke around her fell, From heaven, a bright celestial ray, Whose lustre dimm'd the light of day; And 'mid that heavenly blaze unfold Her glittering pinions tipp'd with gold. While strains of sweet unearthly sound Awoke their dulcet chime around, She soared away on wings of light, Like sparkling meteor of the night; Still lessening, as she further drew Amid the ether of heavenly blue, Till lost within a blazing star That above the horizon shown— As if from Paradise a car 'Twere sent to bear the cherub home.

No more that happy throng is rending, With gladsome shouts the summer air, Nor songs of love to heaven ascending, From hearts that know no guile nor care; But on each peerless infant brow The gloom of care is settling now; While passion madly fires each eye, And swells each bosom beating high; And tongues that lisped an infant name, Now speak in haughty tones of Fame! While some, in senatorial pride, With scorn their fellow-man deride; And others, more sanguinary still, From words of ire appeal to brands, Nor scruple a brother's blood to spill— Cain-like!—with ensanguined hands Polluting the flowers which smile—in vain Wooing the heart to love again.

Long o'er this painful scene I sighed, Where licentious passion, unrestrained, Was left to riot in her pride— Spreading destruction where'er she reigned. "And was this bright—this fair domain— With all its beauty, formed in vain? Where Nature, a paradise to grace, Hath loved her every charm to trace, That man, enamored of distress Should mar it into wilderness?" I raised my arm while thus I spoke, And o'er Beauty's broken bowers sighed; But with the effort I awoke, And found myself by Hela's side.



DEATH AND BEAUTY.

On a lone sequestered mead, Where silver-streamlets flow, I saw a rose and lily twine, And in love and beauty grow; Again to that lone, peaceful spot, From worldly cares I hied— But the flowers that lately bloom'd so fair, Had wither'd, drooped, and died!

Like love's young dream, they passed away, With all their vernal bloom, And they, who lately shone so fair, Now moulder in the tomb! But ere the minstrels left the bowers, And to summer climes had fled, They sang the dirge o'er fading flowers, That by their stems lay dead.

Slumbering on its mother's breast A beauteous infant lay, The blush upon its dimpled cheek, Was like a rose in May: But the glow that tinged that cheek so fair, Was but the transient bloom, That brightens with the flitting breath— A flow'ret of the tomb.

The infant oped its azure eyes, And sweetly smiling, said, "Mamma," its gentle spirit ebbing, Was numbered with the dead; It laid its throbbing temples on The mother's heaving breast, And its gentle spirit pass'd to Heaven, With angels bright to rest!

Lovely as the morning flowers, That bloom so fresh and gay, I saw a beauteous fair one decked In the bridal's bright array; But she, who had, at morning rise, Exulted in her bloom, Was doom'd ere evening's sun had set, To grace the silent tomb.

Alas! that things so beautiful, So soon must pass away, And all of earth that's loveliest Must moulder in the clay; But well we know those charms so bright, Which Heaven hath form'd in love, Tho' ravaged by death's icy hand, Shall bloom again above!



TAKE THE HARP.

TO KATE.

'Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the "loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures," the beauty and grandeur of the place.

Take the harp, nor longer leave it Sighing on the willow tree; Pass thy gentle fingers o'er it, And awake its melody; The streams tho' icy chains may bind them, Still will murmur back thy trill, And the roses wild, though blasted, On thy cheeks are blooming still.

Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers The lone groves and valleys fill; And tho' winter's frosts have sear'd them, Thou canst dream they're beauteous still— Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure, And wild flowers above them rise; What tho' chilly blasts have strewn them, Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs!

Take the harp, nor on it dirges Longer let Eolus play; Touch it, and those notes of sadness Change to joyous rhapsody! And tho' the grape, the gift of Autumn, Has been prest to crown the bowl— Still in thy tresses shine its clusters, While down thy snowy neck they roll.

Take the harp, and wake its numbers To thy sister planet's praise, As up the eastern sky she blazes, Followed by the morning rays; Queen of starry heaven beaming, From her azure realm afar; So thou dost shine midst beauty's daughters, Love's bright and glorious morning star.



DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing.

I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale Decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away.

—Moore.

And thou art dead, The gifted, the beautiful, Thy spirit's fled! Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more! Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb— He hath touched thee—thou hast left us in thy bloom! How oft amid the virgin throng, I've seen thee, fairest, dance along; And thine eyes, so brightly dark, Gleaming like the diamond's spark; But now how dim Those orbs are left— By Death bereft Of their brightness, And that neck of its whiteness, Where once the curling tress descended, Where once the rose and lily blended, As the warm blush came and flew; Now o'er all hath Death extended His pallid hue— Sallow and blue; And sunken 'neath the purple lid, Those eyes are hid, Once so bright; And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white, All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds! In its snowy folds— Then fare thee well, sweet one, Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run, And with the flowers thou art sleeping, And o'er thy grave the friends are weeping Of thine early day. Thou wert lovely—aye, as Spring, When birds and blossoms bloom and sing, The happy, happy hours welcoming Of gentle May. In the past I see thee shining, Like the star of tender morning, A day of love and peace divining, And the sky of Hope adorning. Smiles—that dimpled mouth are wreathing; Music—those rosy lips are breathing, Like morn glancing through the sky, Like the zephyr's softest sigh. Ah, then, who'd dream that aught so fair, Was fleeting as the Summer air? Yet in that hour Disease, so deceitful, stole upon thee, As blight upon a flower; And thou art dead! And thy spirit's past away. Like a dew-drop from the spray, Like a sunbeam from the mountain, Like a bubble from the fountain; And thou art now at rest, In thy damp, narrow cell, With the clod heap'd o'er thy breast; Fare thee well!



ASPHODEL.

I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When raging tempests wildly blow, Mid storm and darkness—wond'rous powers! Heaping the stainless, virgin snow Above thy fragile form, that bowed Beneath the blighting frost that fell, Scattering o'er earth those gorgeous hues, Thy grace and pride, sweet Asphodel.

I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When dreary winter leaves the plain, And smiling spring leads forth in state, With vestal pride, her flow'ry train, And vernal songs of love and hope, In one harmonious concert swell— Amid the floral throng I'll turn To thee, alone, sweet Asphodel.

I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When morning dawns upon the world, And through the golden gates of Heaven, Like fiery cars his beams are hurled, Driving the shades of somber night, Back to their caverned haunts to dwell— Thou'lt come to me with charms renewed, My peerless flower, sweet Asphodel.



WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING.

William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father's farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing's early life was spent on his father's farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to the Ladies' Garland, the Cecil Whig and Cecil Democrat. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of the Daily Atlas of that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until the Atlas was merged into the Gazette. He then accepted a position on the Southern Lady's Book, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New York Tribune, New York Evening Post and Chicago Tribune.

In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865.

In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa.

Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author.



THE ANGEL VOICE.

"Oh mother, dear mother, As calmly last night I lay on my pallet An angel in white Hover'd o'er me, and softly Said—'come, brother, come, Away from this world, To a heavenly home!'"

"Then let me die, mother— Tho' sweet birds are singing, And flowers in brightness And beauty are springing On hillside and mountain, O'er meadow and lea, They no longer possess Any sweetness for me."

"For that angelic voice, Ringing still in my ear, Has attuned my heart To a holier sphere; And like a caged eagle, My soul pines to stay So long from its home— Its redeemer away."

O, pale grew that mother, And heavy her heart, For she knew her dear boy From her sight must depart, And be laid, cold and stiff, In the earth's humid breast, Where the wicked cease troubling, The weary have rest;

But she smoothed down his pillow, And murmured a prayer, For the Giver of mercies Her loved one to spare; But ere she had finished Her pious request, His spirit had flown To the realms of the blest!



THEN AND NOW.

[MIDNIGHT.]

I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again; And though that love has cost me much of pain, Of agony intense, I would live o'er Most willingly, each bitter hour I've known Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heart On one by thee deemed worthier is set, And I must bear the keen and deathless smart, Of passion unrequited, or forget That which is of my very life a part. To cherish it may lead to madness, yet I will brood over it: for oh, The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe.

[DAYDAWN.]

"I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again;" Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more Devotedly I love thee now, than when Those lines were written. But avails it aught? Have I return? Hold I the slightest part Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? I dare believe so:—nor will soon resign The dream I've cherished long, that some day thou'lt be mine.



THE NEGLECTED HARP.

I touch not that harp, Let it slumber alone; For its notes but awaken Sad memories of one Whose hand often swept The soft wires along, And aroused them to music, To love, and to song.

But Death, the destroyer, Ere grief threw a ray O'er her flowery path, Snatched her rudely away; And the harp that resounded, With loveliest tone, To her delicate touch, Has since slumbered alone.

Then awake not a strain— Let it still repose there, And be breathed on alone By the sweet summer air; For its numbers though lively, Though joyous and light, But cast o'er my spirits A wildering blight.



ALONE.

Never, no nevermore, Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine, Or on my breast thy weary head recline, As oft of yore.

And though thou wert to me Life's only charm, I yet can bear A little while, since thou art free from care, Alone to be.

For to my heart is given, The cheering hope, that soon, where pain And partings are unknown, we'll meet again— In yonder heaven.



GONE ASTRAY.

Leila, thou art resting well, In thy lonely, narrow cell— Dark and lonely, narrow cell,— And I would with thee had died, And was sleeping by thy side,— In the graveyard by thy side,— She who gave thee being, she Who made life a joy to me,— A blessing and a joy to me.

Were she with thee, I could bear All life's agony and care,— Bitter agony and care,— But alas, she went astray From the straight and narrow way,— Virtue's straight and narrow way— And, O misery, became To her sex a thing of shame,— A thing of infamy and shame.

Now, of her and thee bereft, Naught have I to live for left,— Naught on earth to live for left;— And with bleeding heart I roam, From a desecrated home,— A broken, desecrated home,— Looking, longing for the day When my life shall ebb away,— To its giver, ebb away.

For I feel, a God of love, In the better land above,— Brighter, better land above,— To these yearning arms again, With a soul all free from stain,— Free from every earthly stain,— Will the wanderer restore, To be tempted nevermore— Passion-tempted nevermore.



LAY OF THE LAST INDIAN.

They are gone—They are gone, From their green mountain homes, Where the antelope sports, And the buffalo roams; For the pale faces came, With insidious art, And the red men were forced From their homes to depart!

In the land Manitou Bestowed on their sires, Oh! never again Round their bright council-fires, Will they gather, to talk Of the feats they have done, Or, to boast of the scalps By their prowess they've won.

For they've gone—they have passed, Like the dew from the spray, And their name to remembrance Grows fainter each day; But for this were they forced From their ancestors' graves; They dared to be freemen, They scorned to be slaves.



CHARLES H. EVANS.

Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him.

Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature of Agricola. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware.

For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses.



INFLUENCES.

Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever.

Flake follows flake, like sprites, Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realms of mind forever.

Beam follows beam, to cheer The cloud a bolt would shiver; Dream follows dream, and fear Gives way to joy forever.

The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream, Impress the heart forever.



MUSINGS.

Few the joys—oh! few and scattered— That from fleeting life we borrow; And we're paying, ever paying, With an usury of sorrow!

If a bright emotion, passing, Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces, Plodding Time—the envious plowman— Soon a shadowy furrow traces!

If a hope—ambition-nurtured— Gilds our future, ere we've won it, Vaunting Time—the hoary jailor— Shuts his somber gates upon it!

If a heart our bosom seeking, With a fond affection woos it, Heartless Time—remorseless reaper— Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!

Things of earth, all, all, are shadows! And while we in vain pursue them, Time unclasps his withered fingers— And our wasted life slips through them.



LINES.

WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE.

Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high, With light-house mingling with the summer sky, How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood, Braving alike the wild winds and the flood? What howling gales have swept those shores along, What tempests dire have piped their dismal song. And lightnings glared those towering trees among?

And oft, as now, the summer sun has shed His golden glories round thy mountain head, And tarried there with late and lingering hues, While all below was steeped in twilight dews, And night's proud queen, in ages past, as now, Hung her pale crescent o'er thy beetling brow. Soft lamp—that lights the happy to their rest, But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast, And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glide In lonely sadness up the mountain side; And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past, Some far off knowledge o'er my senses cast, Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale, And of past ages tell mysterious tale— Speak of those ages of primeval worth, And all the hidden wonders of thy birth— Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast, And raised the stately masses of thy crest?

Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side, Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride, And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil, To alien shrines upon his native soil. It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the story That stained the wreath of many a hero's glory; But Nature's mysteries must ever rest Within the gloomy confines of thy breast, Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed, Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed.



MRS. SARAH HALL.

Mrs. Sarah Hall was born in Philadelphia October 30th, 1761, and died in that city April 8th, 1830. She was the daughter of the Rev. John Ewing, D.D., a member of the Ewing family of the Eighth district of this county, and one of the most distinguished scholars and divines of his time, and who was for many years Provost of the University of Pennsylvania and pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia.

Miss Ewing's early education was confined to learning to read and write, and in acquiring a thorough knowledge of housewifery. In 1782 she married John Hall, a member of the Hall family of the Eighth district, and the newly wedded pair came to reside in the house near Rowlandville, formerly owned by the late Commodore Conner, and now occupied by his son P.S.P. Conner.

It was while residing in this old mansion, surrounded by the picturesque scenery of the Octoraro hills, that she wrote the poem entitled "Sketch of a Landscape," which no doubt was inspired by the beauty of the surrounding scenery and the fine view of the "Modest Octoraro," which may be had from the porch of the old historic mansion in which she resided.

After a residence of about eight years in Cecil county the family removed to Philadelphia, where Mr. Hall successively filled the offices of Secretary of the Land Office, and United States Marshal for the District of Pennsylvania. The family returned to Maryland in 1805, and resided on Mr. Hall's paternal estate for about six years.

Mrs. Hall's literary career commenced with the publication of her writings in the Port Folio, a literary magazine published in Philadelphia about the beginning of this century, and of which her son, John E. Hall, subsequently became the editor. She soon attained high rank as a magazine writer, and, until the time of her death, occupied a position second to none of the female writers of this country.

Mrs. Hall is best known in the literary world by her book entitled "Conversations on the Bible." It was written after she was fifty years of age and the mother of eleven children, and was so popular as to astonish its author by the rapidity of its sale.



SKETCH OF A LANDSCAPE

In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806.

What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet, That unexpected, strike my charmed ear! They are the Robin's song! This genial morn Deceives the feathered tribe: for yet the sun In Pisces holds his course; nor yet has Spring Advanc'd one legal claim; but though oblique So mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays, Impris'ning winter seems subdued. No dread Of change retards their wing; but off they soar Triumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring. Advent'rous birds, and rash! ye little think, Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst. How soon the blasts of March—the snowy sleets, May turn your hasty flight, to seek again Your wonted warm abodes. Thus prone is youth, Thus easily allured, to put his trust In fair appearance; and with hope elate, And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth, To earn experience in the storms of life! But why thus chide—why not with gratitude Receive and cherish ev'ry gleam of joy? For many an hour can witness, that not oft, My solitude is cheered by feelings such, So blithe—so pleasurable as thy song Sweet Robin, gives. Yet on thy graceful banks, Majestic Susquehanna—joy might dwell! For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores, Or niggard Winter bind them—still the forms Most grand, most elegant, that Nature wears Beneath Columbia's skies, are here combin'd. The wide extended landscape glows with more Than common beauty. Hills rise on hills— An amphitheater, whose lofty top, The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns— Whose ever-varying sides present such scenes Smooth or precipitous—harmonious still— Mild or sublime,—as wake the poet's lay; Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense; The gifts of Ceres, or Diana's shades. The eye enraptur'd roves o'er woods and dells, Or dwells complacent on the numerous signs Of cultivated life. The laborer's decent cot, Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill. The lowlier hut hard by the river's edge, The boat, the seine suspended, tell the place Where in his season hardy fishers toil. More elevated on the grassy slope, The farmer's mansion rises mid his trees; Thence, o'er his fields the master's watchful eye Surveys the whole. He sees his flocks, his herds Excluded from the grain-built cone; all else, While rigid winter reigns, their free domain! Range through the pastures, crop the tender root, Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out, The welcome herb,—now prematurely sprung Through half-thawed earth. Beside him spreading elms, His friendly barrier from th' invading north, Contrast their shields defensive with the willow Whose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn. Before him lie his vegetable stores, His garden, orchards, meadows—all his hopes— Now bound in icy chains: but ripening suns Shall bring their treasures to his plenteous board. Soon too, the hum of busy man shall wake Th' adjacent shores. The baited hook, the net, Drawn skilful round the wat'ry cove, shall bring Their prize delicious to the rural feast. Here blooms the laurel on the rugged breaks, Umbrageous, verdant, through the circling year His bushy mantle scorning winds or snows— While there—two ample streams confluent grace— Complete the picture—animate the whole! Broad o'er the plain the Susquehanna rolls, His rapid waves far sounding as he comes. Through many a distant clime and verdant vale, A thousand springy caverns yield their rills, Augmenting still his force. The torrent grows, Spreads deep and wide, till braving all restraint Ev'n mountain ridges feel the imperious press; Forced from their ancient rock-bound base—they leave Their monumental sides, erect, to guard The pass—and tell to future days, and years, The wond'rous tale! Meanwhile, The conqueror flood holds on his course, Resistless ever—sinuous, or direct. Unconscious tribes beneath his surface play, Nor heed the laden barques, his surface bear; Now gliding swiftly by the threat'ning rocks, Now swimming smoothly to the distant bay. To meet and bring his liberal tribute too, The modest Octoraro winds his way— Not ostentatious like a boasting world Their little charities proclaiming loud— But silent through the glade retir'd and wild, Between the shaded banks on either hand, Till circling yonder meed—he yields his name. Nor proudly, Susquehanna! boast thy gain, For thence, not far, thou too, like him shall give Thy congregated waters, title—all, To swell the nobler name of Chesapeake! And is not such a scene as this the spell, That lulls the restless passions into peace? Yes. Cold must be the sordid heart, unmov'd By Nature's bounties: but they cannot fill, That ardent craving in the mind of man, For social intercourse,—the healthful play— The moral gem—the light of intellect— Communion sweet with those we love!



WITH A ROSE IN JANUARY.

Will you accept this bud my dear, Fit emblem of the coming year: The bud expands, the flower blooms, And gives awhile its rich perfumes: Its strength decays, its leaf descends, Its sweets are gone—its beauty ends, Such is the year.—The morning brings The bud of pleasure in its wings: Hope, health, and fortune, smile their day, And charm each threat'ning cloud away: But gathering ills increase their force, And though concealed—make sure their course. They come—they press—they stand confest, And disappointment tells the rest.



LIFE.

SUGGESTED BY A SUMMER EVENING.

'Tis early eve—the sun's last trembling glance, Still hovers o'er and gilds the western wild, And slowly leaves the haunts of solitude. Venus, bright mistress of the musing hour, Above the horizon lifts her beck'ning torch; Stars, in their order, follow one by one The graceful movement of their brilliant queen, Obedient to the hand that fix'd them all, And said to each—Be this thy place. Refreshing airs revive man's sinking strength, And hallowed thoughts come rushing to the heart! Now from her eastern clime the golden Moon, Set in a frame of azure, lifts her shield, And all creation wakes to life renewed! Not long she holds supreme her joyous course; Her foes in sullen vapors fitful rise, And envious, hovering over her splendid path, Now thin—now dense, impede her kindly ray. In hasty, partial gleams, of light and shade, She holds her purposed way.—Now darker clouds Collect, combine, advance—she falls—'twould seem To rise no more—sudden they break—they pass, Once more she shines—bright sovereign of the skies! Thus 'tis with life—it is not dubious hope In early youth—'tis joy—joy unalloy'd; Joy blooms within, all objects take the tint, And glowing colors paint the vista's length. Not long, life dances on the plastic scene, Care's haggard form invades each flow'ry path; Disease, with pallid hue, leads on her train, And Sorrow sheds her tears in wasting showers! But Pain and Grief pass on, and harrowing Care Awhile put on some pleasing, treacherous shape; Then hope revives, health blooms! love smiles— And wealth and honors crown the distant day. How long? Envenom'd ills collect all 'round, And while short-sighted man his fragile schemes Pursues—not grasps—blow after blow fall swift, Fall reckless—and he sinks beneath their weight! To rise no more? Like yon triumphant Moon, That "walks in brightness" now, beyond the clouds, Through patient suffering, man shall surely rise To dwell above that orb, in light ineffable, Where pain—where sin—where sorrows, never come!



MRS. SALLIE WILLIAMS HARDCASTLE.

Mrs. Hardcastle's maiden name was Sallie Williams Minter. She was born in Bedford county, Virginia, June 19, 1841.

Reared in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, whose lofty summits tower in magnificent grandeur far above the wooded heights and billowy green hills of the surrounding country, it is little wonder that the subject of this sketch should have been early imbued with the spirit of poesy, and led to the cultivation of tastes and the selection of themes which the grand and picturesque in nature are apt to suggest. But in addition to these favorable surroundings, a literary and thoughtful turn of mind was inherited from her father and grandfather—the latter having been eminent in his day as the author of a religious work, replete with keen arguments and logical conclusions.

The former also was a writer of ability, and having a thorough knowledge of the politics of his State, frequently discussed them in the local journals with a ready and trenchant pen.

Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own age, were published in the Virginia Sentinel. She was an occasional contributor to the Literacy Companion, Magnolia Weekly, and other Southern periodicals.

Mrs. Hardcastle was married in 1863 to Dr. Jerome H. Hardcastle, then a surgeon in the hospital at Liberty, Va. After the war they came to Maryland, and subsequently, in 1876, to Cecilton, in this county, where they have since resided. They are the parents of five daughters and one son.

Like many other persons, Mrs. Hardcastle neglected to carefully preserve her poetical writings. And was so unfortunate as to lose most of the few in her possession at the time of the evacuation of Richmond, in consequence of which the following poems are all it has been practicable to obtain, which is a matter of regret, inasmuch as they are by no means the best of her writings.



ON RECEIPT OF A BOUQUET.

I thank thee, my friend, for thy delicate gift, These fair and beautiful flowers, They come to me now, like a boon from above, To gladden my pensive hours.

All the brilliant bloom, of the summer days, These lovely flowers restore; And my childhood's home, with its fields and flowers, Comes back to me once more.

How fragile and fair!—some pale, some blushing, All breathing rarest perfume— But brighter and fairer they seem, my friend, Because from thee they come.

I know that this beauty is frail and brief— That their fragrance and bloom must depart, But like the mem'ry of thee, these flowers will live Forever enshrined in my heart.



OCTOBER.

Oh, days of the lovely October, How dear thou art to me; Words are weak, when my soul would speak, In language taught by thee.

Not alone do thy glorious sunsets, Nor thy trees of a thousand dyes, But all touch my heart with thy sweet spell, Oh, earth, and air, and skies.

In the gardens that shone with beauty, The flowers have faded, I know, And here, by my favorite pathway, The roses no longer may blow.

But the leaves are burning with splendor, And I'll weave them in garlands bright, As I did in the sweet days of childhood, When my heart was aglow with delight.

I've ruby and sapphire, blended with gold, And here's an emerald green, A parting gift, for my coronet, From summer's dying queen.

Oh, loveliest month of the year, Too soon will thy glories depart, But not the sweet faith thou'st wakened, Within this worshiping heart.

For though, like all beauty of earth, Thou'rt trammeled by earthly decay, Yet my soul is lifted by thine, To glories that fade not away.



OLD LETTERS.

TO MRS. ANNIE P——.

"Burn my old letters"—ah! for you These words are easy to say, For you, who know not the light they brought To many a darksome day.

And, then, old letters to me are links To those days forever gone; For we cling to the past as age would cling To youth, in its rosy dawn.

But the wintry air is chill without, And the fire is faint and low, So I'll gather them up—the page of to-day With the date of long ago.

Gather them up and cast them in Like trash, to the greedy flame; And I marvel not that the world hath said, "Friendship is only a name!"

For the human heart's a changeful thing, And sometime we would borrow The light, that other days have given, To cheer us on the morrow.

And so, as I sit in the merry light Of the blaze that upward flashes, I think, like these, our dearest hopes May come to dust and ashes.



JUNE ROSES.

What marvelous new-born glory Is flushing the garden and lawn! Hath the queen of all blossoming beauty Come forth with the early dawn?

Like the first faint flush of morn, To the watchers, aweary with night,— Like treasures long hidden away, Ye burst on my joyous sight.

Not e'en the "first rose of Summer," Could yesterday be seen— Only a tint like the sea-shell, Deep in a prison of green.

Did the lover-like kiss of the south wind, While wand'ring o'er forest and lake, Bid thee start in thy slumbering beauty, And crimson with blushes awake?

'Tis long since the fragrant lilac Flourished and drooped at thy side, While many a frail young flow'ret since Hath quietly blossomed and died.

And for days the pale, proud lily In regal beauty hath shown, Catching the sun's warm glances Ere the young roses had blown.

But perfumed breezes are whispering: "To-day the roses have come," And the cottage will rival the palace, Decked in thy radiant bloom.



MUSIC.

The spirit is often enraptured With sweet tokens of love divine, But seldom in language so plain As spoken through music, to mine.

Then my soul flings wide her portals, And visions of Paradise throng, While I bow, in silent devotion, To the Author of genius and song.

The pleasures of earth are but few, And scarce for our sorrows repay, But we catch, in sweet moments like this, A glimpse of the perfect day.

When I reach the Celestial City And gaze from her golden tower, Methinks my freed spirit would turn Far back, to this rapturous hour.

And as angels are harping their songs— Sweet songs of a heavenly birth— I'll listen to hear the same touch That played us this prelude on earth.



LINES

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

We loved thee—yes, we loved thee, But the angels loved thee too; And so thou now art sleeping 'Neath the sky so bright and blue.

Sleeping now thy last long slumber, In the low and quiet tomb, Where life's ills can ne'er disturb thee— Where sorrow ne'er can come.

What tho' our hearts are bleeding, And our lonely spirits mourn, That thou with Spring's sweet flow'rets Wilt never more return,

We would not call thee back, dear friend, To life's dull path again; Where thorns amid the flowers, Would often give thee pain;

But sweetly rest thee, dear one, In thy long and dreamless sleep, Nor heed the sighs above thee, And the blinding tears we weep.



MRS. MARY ELIZA IRELAND.

Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland, the daughter of Joseph Haines and Harriet (Kirk) Haines, was born in the village of Brick Meeting House, now called Calvert, January 9, 1834. In early life she married John M. Ireland, son of Colonel Joseph Ireland, of Kent county, Md. They are the parents of three children, one of whom died in infancy. They now reside in Baltimore, where Mr. Ireland holds the position of United States storekeeper in the Internal Revenue Department.

Until the past few years Mrs. Ireland has always lived in the old homestead where she was born and married, and from whence her parents were removed by death.

Her first literary effort was a short story written when quite a young girl, entitled "Ellen Linwood," and published in the Cecil Whig, then edited by the late Palmer C. Ricketts, under the nom de plume of "Marie Norman." For several years after the publication of "Ellen Linwood" Mrs. Ireland occasionally contributed to the Cecil Whig and Oxford Press.

Some years ago she wrote a story for Arthur's Magazine, and being in Philadelphia soon after it was written, she took it to the publishing house, and there met for the first time T.S. Arthur, whom she had known from childhood through his books. He received her kindly, promised to read her story, and to let her know his decision the next day. That decision was, that though entertaining and well written, it was scarcely suited to his magazine. He suggested another periodical where it would likely meet with favor. He also asked for another story, and presented her with a set of the magazines that she might see the style of writing that he desired.

Her next story for Arthur's was a success, and from that time until his death he remained the candid critic of all she sent him for publication, as well as of some stories published elsewhere, and the kind literary adviser and friend. She retained her first story (which he had declined) for three years, made some changes in it, and he accepted and published it.

Since then she has been an acceptable contributor to Cottage Hearth, Household, and other domestic magazines, besides the Literary World, Ladies' Cabinet, Woman's Journal, and several church papers; and has written two prize stories, which took first prizes.

In 1882 her short stories were collected and connected into a continued story, which was accepted and published by J.B. Lippincott & Co., under the title of "Timothy; His Neighbors and His Friends."

Many letters of appreciation from distant parts of the Union testified to the merit of the book, and she was encouraged to accede to the request of the Presbyterian Observer Company of Baltimore to write a serial for their paper. It was entitled "Ivandale," and was warmly commended by judges of literary work.

Wishing to read German literature in the original, she undertook the study of German, and as she had no time which she was willing to devote to regular lessons, she obtained a German pronouncing reader, and without instruction from any one she succeeded in learning to read and translate, pronouncing correctly enough to be understood by any German. This knowledge of the language has been a well-spring of pleasure to her, and well repays her for the few moments' attention she daily bestowed upon it. She has translated several books, two of which were published as serials in the Oxford Press, and the Lutheran Board of Publication have published one of her translations, entitled "Betty's Decision." Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our language and periodicals through the medium of her pen.

Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home.

Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose.



AT THE PARTY.

I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair; She picked it to pieces while standing there.

I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes; She turned them upon me in cold surprise.

Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love; My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.

I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown; She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown.

I asked her to dance in most penitent tone; On the arm of a rival she left me alone.

This gave me a hint; I veered from my track, And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back.

I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh, And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh.

It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life! This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.



MOTHER AND SON.

Postman, good postman, halt I pray, And leave a letter for me to-day; If it's only a line from over the sea To say that my Sandy remembers me.

I have waited and hoped by day and by night; I'll watch—if spared—till my locks grow white; Have prayed—yet repent that my faith waxed dim, When passing, you left no message from him.

My proud arms cradled his infant head, My prayers arose by his boyhood's bed; To better our fortunes, he traversed the main; God guard him, and bring him to me again.

The postman has passed midst the beating rain, And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain; This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.

But hark! there's a step! my heart be still! A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill; Did the postman return? my letter forget? Oh 'tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet!



THE MISSIONARY'S STORY.

Hard were her hands, and brown; Coarsest of stuff her gown: Sod hut her home. Pale was her care-worn face, Beauty and youth and grace Long since have flown.

Stern was her lot in life; She was a drunkard's wife; And forests drear Shut not temptation out; Strong drink was sold and bought; Poor pioneer!

Slave he to demon rum; Houses and lands all gone; Want came by stealth. Yet her scant fare she shared With me, who worse have fared In homes of wealth.

Stranger was I to her Save as Christ's messenger; And for His sake She, all her little store Wishing it were but more,— Bade me to take.

Oh like the widow's mite, Given for love of right, May it be blest. When her last hour has come, May angels bear her home, Ever to rest.



TRANSITION.

She is lying in state, this fair June day, While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips; Her heart thrills not at the lark's clear lay, Though a smile illumines her pallid lips.

What glorified form did the Angel of Death Assume to her view, that it left the bright trace Of a jubilant welcome, whose icy breath Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face?

Did angels with snow-white wings come down And hover about her dying bed? Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crown To place on their sainted comrade's head?

Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green, Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom? Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume?

Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air? Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance And joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there?

Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears For all were now calmed on her dear Saviour's breast? On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest?

All this we may humbly and truly believe, For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give The comforting promise, which all may receive: "He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live."



DOROTHY MOORE.

A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown; He lived in a mansion just out of the town, A mansion spacious and grand; He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome, Had money invested abroad and at home, And thousands of acres of land.

A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray; And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will play When she sets about trying to plan, She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold, And always left Archibald out of her fold, The harmless, and weak-minded man.

So, while Valentine reigned like a king on his throne, Poor Archibald ne'er had a home of his own, Yet never was known to complain; Year in and year out, he wandered around, In mansion and farmhouse a welcome he found As long as he chose to remain.

The lilacs and snowballs which guarded the door Of the ivy-decked cottage of good Parson Moore, Were waking from out their long sleep; For the last month of winter was hastening by, The last hours of Valentine's day had drawn nigh, When Archibald's travel-worn feet

Were heard on the door-step; he entered and smiled, Then sat down and slept like a play-weary child, Woke, and told them how long he would stay; Then slumbered again, while sweet Dorothy Moore, The motherless daughter, who loved all God's poor, Made him welcome around the tea-tray.

And archly she said as she gave him his tea, "Where's the valentine Archy, you promised to me? All maidens expect one to-day;" Then forgot it; nor noticed when supper was done, And her father had gone to his study alone, That Archie had stolen away.

But, drawing the curtains on darkness and night! She sat down to spin by the cheery fire-light, While before it, so cozy and warm, Slept the kitten,—a snowy white ball of content— And her wheel, with its humming activity, lent To the hour, a picturesque charm.

No scene more enchanting could artist dream know, Than this peaceful, calm spot, in the ruby-red glow Of the pine knots aflame on the hearth; But Dorothy thought, "Were he but there with me And loved me as I love, a desert would be The happiest place upon earth."

"Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;" she sighed, "He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride, But his love will some great lady crown; Since all is so hopeless, dear Father above Oh help me to cast out my unreturned love! And forget the proud Valentine Brown."

In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown, The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down, Luxurious home of repose;— Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed; He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest, For his love he should never disclose.

He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fair Had graciously smiled on the great millionaire. Yet his heart had turned coldly away; "From her childhood, I've loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore," Just then the latch clicked—through the half opened door Crept humbly, poor Archibald Gray.

"I want you!" he whispered; "I promised her, come!" And Valentine followed, till reaching the home Where Dorothy spun by the hearth; And when he had entered with Archibald Gray And courteously waited, commands to obey, Knew no lovelier picture on earth.

But the tact which had piloted Valentine there Deserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair, Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said: "Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray? You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay, And in less than an hour you had fled."

The memory of Archibald took up the clew Thus kindly supplied, and eager he grew; "Yes, yes; Archie promised he would; I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown," (Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down), "He's so good to poor Archie, so good!"

The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubt How this intricate problem would ever turn out, And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,— Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best; And for Dorothy—flushing like clouds in the west And fearing he thought it designed.

He looked at the maiden—modest and sweet; At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheek And sighed for his youth which had fled; "She never could love me, good Archibald Gray, Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way, Just look at my frost-covered head."

"Please tell him, good Archie," said Dorothy fair, "That I love nothing better than silvery hair When it crowns one so noble and true; His heart all men say is exalted and grand, He is known for his good deeds all over the land, Loved by every one, equalled by few."

"That heart, my good Archie, I lay at her feet To spurn or to thrill with an ecstasy sweet;" (And he reverently took her white hand,) "That hand is his, Archie, and so is my heart To have and to keep until death do us part To meet in the Heavenly land."

Good friends new and old, should you journey that way And should anything happen, to cause a delay, And you call upon Valentine Brown: In the coziest nook, you'll see Archibald Gray, Awaiting with patience the dallying day, Till the sickle of Time mows him down.

And Fortune still favors her Valentine dear, She winters and summers there year after year; To thank her he never forgets; With his rosy-cheeked children and beautiful wife The heart of his heart, and the life of his life, The sun of his peace never sets.



HOMEWARD BOUND.

We grow in grace if day by day We keep in mind to watch and pray, Thus walking in the Heavenward way.

But, drifting from the guiding hand Of Him who rules the sea and land, We wreck ourselves on barren strand,

In name of Him who for us died, We cry for help, when deeply tried, Receive it, whatso'er betide.

Of good we sow some scattered seed, We help to shield the bruised reed, Supply to want, the urgent need.

Then once more hope to reach the goal, For faith with works will save a soul, Though hostile billows round it roll.

Thus tempest-tost, we struggle on; Now sad, now cheered, till life is gone, And trust to hear the bless'd, well done!



GEORGE JOHNSTON.

[The editor is indebted to his friend, George A. Blake, Esq., of the Elkton Bar, for the following sketch of his life.]

George Johnston, the editor and compiler of this book, was born in Philadelphia, May 15, 1829, the place of his birth being on Penn street, one door south of the southeast corner of Penn and Lombard streets. He is the oldest son of Isaac Johnston, and was named for his grandfather, George Johnston, the youngest son of Isaac Johnson, who lived on his farm, one mile west of the east end of Mason and Dixon's line, as early as 1755. There is reason to believe that the earliest member of the family who lived in that neighborhood was Samuel Johnston, who resided there as early as 1708.

Mr. Johnston's mother, Susan Curry, was a cousin of his father, she being the daughter of Ann Spear, the grandmother of Emma Alice Browne, a sketch of whose life appears in this Volume.

When about two years of age, the subject of this sketch was placed in charge of his paternal grandmother and his uncle, George Johnston, who resided on the homestead, in Cecil county. Here he was carefully nurtured and trained, and here were planted the seeds which have since sprung up and brought forth fruit in his intellectual and moral life. The family being Presbyterian in training, and of the type from which sprang those who in earlier years drafted the Mecklenberg Declaration, the lad was early imbued with those religious principles which ever serve as the true basis of mental growth and moral purpose.

The educational advantages of a half century ago were not such as are enjoyed by the youth of to-day; but such as the neighborhood provided and his uncle's means afforded, were placed at the disposal of the boy, who soon manifested an aptitude to learn. When but five years of age he was sent to what was then called a "Subscription School," kept in the neighborhood. This he attended during the next seven years, and in the Winter time until the year 1849, when he took charge as teacher of a school, in the Center School House, situated near Fair Hill, in Cecil county.

In the Spring of 1847 Mr. Johnston spent three months in Chesapeake City (in this county) as an apprentice to the carpenter business. He completed his trade in the neighborhood in which he had been raised, and from the year 1851 to 1864 spent his time about equally in teaching school and working at his trade.

When the war of the rebellion broke out in 1861, Mr. Johnston, without hesitation, took the side of the Union, and was, during all those dark days, an ardent supporter of the Government, the intensity of his convictions being no doubt increased by the result of his observations during a business trip to Texas and through the South in the Winter of eighteen hundred and sixty and sixty-one.

In the Constitutional Convention of this State in 1864 he served with ability as committee clerk, having accepted the position at the solicitation of the late David Scott (of John), who was a member of that body. While acting as committee clerk, Mr. Johnston had the honor of engrossing that section of the Constitution which abolished slavery in the State of Maryland. Many years afterwards he presented the pen used on that occasion to Frederick Douglass, then United States Marshal of the District of Columbia.

Mr. Johnston's health, which had always been precarious, became so bad in 1875 that he was obliged to abandon his trade and turn his attention to another occupation. Accordingly, two years later he became connected with The Cecil Whig, and for about three years had charge of its local columns. While associated with that journal, his attention was attracted to the mine of wealth offered to the investigator by the early history of Cecil county. Prompted by a love of historical investigation, he was led to make researches into this mine—a task hitherto largely unattempted or ineffectually prosecuted. The results of these studies enriched the columns of The Cecil Whig during a period of three years, and attracted wide attention. In 1881 he published the "History of Cecil County, Md., and the Early Settlements Around the Head of the Chesapeake Bay and on the Delaware River, with Sketches of Some of the Old Families of Cecil County." This work, which embodied the results of the author's investigations during a period of some years, is one of rare value. To those who have given but little thought to the subject, it is ever a matter of surprise to learn how closely the history of Cecil and the surrounding counties is interwoven with that of our common country, and how valuable as data of the past are the materials which invited the lover of truth to their discovery. One can scarcely estimate the laborious research involved in the task of gathering the component parts of a history which stretched over a period of nearly two hundred and seventy-five years. Old volumes, musty records, masses of court documents, correspondence (official and otherwise), previous historical attempts, personal knowledge, tradition and personal interviews, were all laid under contribution by the author, and served as sources of his authority. These he has woven together with such judgment in selection, skill in arrangement and force of style and diction, that just as "Gray's Elegy" alone has placed him in the front rank of poets, so this one work has given the author a high and permanent place among the historians of our country. The work attempted is so well done, and withal so accurate and reliable as one of reference and authority, that in recognition of its merits Mr. Johnston has been elected a member of the Historical Societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin.

On January 1, 1883, he became local editor of The Cecil Democrat, and was in such capacity connected with that newspaper for three years and a half.

Early in life Mr. Johnston was a pupil of David Scott (of James), who then taught a school in the Fourth district of Cecil county, and whose sister, Miss Hannah F. Scott, he subsequently married. The scholar being advanced in studies beyond the other pupils of the school, naturally a close intimacy was formed between him and his teacher. This afterwards deepened into a friendship which continued without interruption until Mr. Scott's death, and was the means of creating in Mr. Johnston an ardent love of poetry. Since 1851 he has written a number of poems, some of which have appeared in print. These have been so well received by the public that the author, in deference to the wishes of some of his friends, has ventured to include the following rhymes in this work:



HERE AND HEREAFTER.

Sad echoes of unequal strife, Go sighing through the aftermath, That skirts the dark uncertain path, That leads me to the close of life;— And years ago dark shadows fell Athwart the amber sky of youth, Blighting the bloom of hope and truth, That erst had blossom'd all too well.

The world's great heart beats wild and high, With wealth of bliss and love untold— While I with unblanch'd eye behold Its fading phantoms wane and die. Without a sigh I mark their flight; A stranger to the world unknown, Amid its mazes all alone, I wander in Egyptian night.

I worship not at its cold shrine, Nor fear the terror of its frown, It cannot chain my spirit down, The soaring of my soul confine. For ah! we parted at the tomb, Where buried hopes of youthful years, Embalm'd in sorrow's bitter tears, Lie mouldering within the gloom.

Ah! few and dim the lights that gleam Around me in life's dismal maze, Scarce seen amid the somber haze That shrouds me in life's dismal dream. I never drank the wine of bliss, Made sweeter by the wealth of joy; My cup is mix'd with griefs alloy, And I have tasted only this.

Life's problem oft to solve, I try, And hope I have not lived in vain, And borne this galling fetter chain Through all its years without a sigh. Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried— My own in sympathy I shed O'er joys and hopes of others dead, By sorrow's legions crucified.

Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting, Shadowy and evanescent, Scarce full orb'd before the crescent Tells us of their final setting. And soon our starry dreams are wreck'd, And all our earthly hopes sublime Lie stranded on the shores of Time, In drapery of woe bedeck'd,

Yet I know 'tis vain repining;— Though to-day the sky with sorrow May be overcast, to-morrow All the love-lights may be shining, Made brighter by the long eclipse; And shadows of earth's dreary night, That shrouded from my spirit's sight, Life's glorious Apocalypse.

To tread this weary round of Toil Is not the whole of mortal life;— There is an unseen inner strife, Where battling for the victor's spoil, The wrong contendeth with the right,— Passion and pride with gentleness Pity with sorrow and distress— And faith with sin's deep with'ring blight.

And truth my spirit oft beguiles, While her dear face is wreath'd in smiles, By whisp'ring sweetly unto me; As thou hast measured, it shall be In justice meted out to thee, When thou hast reached the blissful isles Beyond the misty veil of Time; Thou'lt find a rest from earthly wars, And healing for thy earthly scars, Within that sweet supernal clime.



THE TURTLE'S SERMON.

An old and crafty terrapin, Who lately found his speech, Like many another simple lout, Concluded he could preach.

And so he waddled to the shore, And thus address'd his friends— The bullfrogs and the snappers bold, About their latter ends.

And told them all how they must be Made into soup at last; And how the serpent sharp can see When last year's hide is cast.

And how the wary pickerel Enjoys the minnow sweet, Which he doth never fail to catch, When it goes out to skate;

And how the beaver builds his house Within his winter dam; And how the oyster lays its egg, And hatches out a clam;

And how the busy bumble bee, Doth blow his little horn, Whene'er he goes in quest of food, Amid the standin' corn:

And how the gentle butterfly Sings many a merry tune Because he's glad he has escaped From out the old cocoon;

And how the rabbit flies his kite, When he can find a string; And how the owl sits up all night, To hear the squirrel sing;

And many other curious things That did his hearers good,— Of cats that did a swimmin' go And eels that chew'd the cud;

And toads that dance upon their ears When they a courtin' go; And moles that stand upon their heads, That they may see the show.

His sermon, as you see, was queer, And muchly out of joint;— And 'cause the preacher took no text, He failed to make his point.

And soon his hearers all grew tired, And mortified and vex'd, Because he chose to play the fool, And preach without a text.

And so they left him there alone— And this is what befel— He grew so mad it broke his heart, And almost burst his shell.

MORAL.

If you successfully would preach, Be sure a text to take, And stick unto it like a leech Until your point you make.



SKYE.

THE DOG WITH THE BEAUTIFUL EYE.

Someone has written a song about "Tray," But no one has courage to write about Skye; So methinks I will rhyme, in my own rugged way, Of the queer little dog with the beautiful eye.

The land that he came from is said to be cold, And nature has dress'd him its storms to defy— In the ugliest coat that ever was seen— But giv'n him a charming and beautiful eye.

His coat is so ugly it makes him look old And scrawny and poor and most ready to die; But you'd change your opinion, I think, if you saw The life and the beauty that beams from his eye.

'Twere hard to conceive of an uglier thing Than this queer little dog from the island of Skye— Grotesque and uncouth, and ugly as sin— Yet bless'd with a mild and a beautiful eye.

Among dogs, like the heathen Chinee among men, His civilization is not very high; But then his dark ways we can always excuse On account of his lovely and charming bright eye.

He is sad and forlorn, yet so gentle and kind, You could not but love him I'm sure it you'd try— This dog so demure and so kindly inclined— This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.

Sometimes he will follow his master to church; Tho' his piety's weak, I must say with a sigh, Perhaps he's as good as some other ones there Whose piety seems to be all in their eye.

He's full of strange antics—most little dogs are— And tho' he's forlorn, he can mischief descry; Indeed—I'm strongly impress'd with the fact— It eternally lurks in his beautiful eye.

His hair is the queerest that dog ever wore; Tho' kind to his master, of strangers he's shy; He is wise in his way; deeply learned in dog lore; Intelligence beams from his beautiful eye.

He's patient and faithful, affectionate too; My love for his virtues time's lapse will defy; I'm sure, if you knew him, you'd love him, like me, This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.



IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT, TRY IT.

'Tis better far to wear away In honest strong endeavor, Than idly rust in slow decay And work and labor never; By honest toil to earn your bread, Or wherewithal to buy it; 'Tis very well, and truly said— If you don't believe it, try it.

Ye idle loafers in the streets, The honest workman spurning, Know this—a living to be sweet Is better for the earning. To loaf and lounge and lie about, On others' toil to riot, Is only practiced by a lout; No honest man will try it.

Oh! him that earns his daily bread! Despise and spurn him never, A thousand blessings on his head 'Tis he that feeds you ever. Should others work no more than you Quite spare would be your diet, Your gills would turn a livid hue If they would stop and try it.

Then go to work with hands or head, You'll surely profit by it; And strive to earn some honest bread— You can, if you will try it.

Ye sweeter ones of gentler sex, Who tread the pavement hourly, I do not wish your hearts to vex, Then pray don't take it sourly— Methinks sometimes 'tis no disgrace Tho' seldom you are nigh it, To be at home, your proper place,— If you don't believe it, try it. Are there no duties there to do? If so "be up and doing!" No clothes to mend, that you could sew, No beer that's worth the brewing? Then stay at home, sometimes, at least, My counsel, don't defy it, A little rest's as good's a feast, If you don't believe it, try it.

'Tis easy quite to do the right, And in it there is beauty, What e'er you do, do with your might, But always do your duty. Be true unto yourself, and then— Wise counsel—don't decry it, You can't be false to other men— If you don't believe it, try it.



BYE AND BYE.

Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever rising Up before wild Fancy's eyes, With their untold and beauteous splendor, Make us present things despise.

And procrastination whispers softly, Wait a little longer yet; Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal, And be cause of deep regret.

Wait with patience just a moment longer, Then with safety clutch them fast— Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us, Till the lucky time is past.

Moments freighted deep with joy ecstatic All unheeded pass away; While we musing scan the misty future, Hoping they will ever stay.

Bye and bye! may gaily point us forward, Unto scenes with joy o'ercast— Only mirage of Life's barren desert, They are found to be at last.

Bye and bye! with all its artful scheming, Though it may seem most sublime, Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her, Knowing only present time.

Reason tells us now's the time for action, And this truth will ever last, Written as it is throughout all nature, On the pages of the Past.



WILLIAM JAMES JONES.

William James Jones was born in Elkton, August 25, 1829, and received his education at the common school and Academy in that town. His youth and early manhood was spent in mechanical pursuits and in the improvement of his mind by a desultory course of reading, and in perfecting himself in the knowledge of the Latin language.

In 1852, Mr. Jones purchased a half interest in the Cecil Whig and became the editor of that journal for a short time, and until its founder P.C. Ricketts, who was then editing the Daily News, of Baltimore, returned from that city and resumed the duties of editor of the Whig.

In 1853, Mr. Jones commenced the study of the law in the office of John C. Groome, Esq., in Elkton and was admitted to the Bar, September 21, 1855.

In politics Mr. Jones was a Whig, but allied himself with the American party when it was in course of formation and continued to be an active member as long as the party lasted. In 1857 he was appointed State's Attorney for Cecil county, to fill a vacancy, and in 1859 was elected to the same office for the term of four years. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion Mr. Jones allied himself with the Union cause and was elected to the House of Delegates by the Union party in 1863, and was appointed two years afterwards, United States' District Attorney for the district of Maryland, and held the office for about a year, and until he was removed by President Andrew Johnson for opposing his policy of reconstruction. In 1858 he married Miss Mary Jane Smith, of Connecticut. They are the parents of one son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is the wife of Rev. Walter E. Avery, of the Wilmington Conference.

Mr. Jones is one of the most earnest and successful members of the Elkton Bar, and though not a voluminous writer, in early life contributed poetry to the columns of the Cecil Whig, of which the following poems are specimens.



AUTUMN.

The autumn winds are moaning round And through the branches sighing, And autumn leaves upon the ground All seared and dead are lying.

The summer flowers have ceased to bloom For autumn frosts have blighted, And laid them in a cheerless tomb By summer sun unlighted.

Thus all our "fondest hopes decay" Beneath the chill of sorrow, The joys that brightest seem to-day Are withered by the morrow.

But there are flowers that bloom enshrin'd In hearts by love united, Unscathed by the autumn wind, By autumn frost unblighted.

And there are hearts that ever thrill With friendship warm and glowing, And joys unseared by sorrow's chill With hallowed truth o'erflowing.



MARY'S GRAVE.

In a quiet country churchyard From the city far away, Where no marble stands in mockery Above the mould'ring clay; Where rears no sculptured monument— There grass and flowers wave 'Round a spot where mem'ry lingers— My once-loved Mary's grave.

They laid her down to slumber In this lonely quiet spot, They raised no stone above her, No epitaph they wrote; They pressed the fresh mould o'er her As earth to earth they gave— Their hearts with anguish bursting, They turned from Mary's grave.

She knew not much of grief or care Ere yet by Death's cold hand, Her soul was snatched from earth away To join the spirit band: Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam, No more her sufferings crave The hand of pity, but the tear Falls oft o'er Mary's grave.

I too would pay my tribute there, I who have loved her well. And drop one silent, sorrowing tear This storm of grief to quell; 'Tis all the hope I dare indulge, 'Tis all the boon I crave, To pay the tribute of a tear, Loved Mary, o'er thy grave.



TO ANSELMO.

Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James.

I know thee not, and yet I fain Would call thee brother, friend; I know that friendship, virtue, truth, All in thy nature blend.

I know by thee the formal bow, The half deceitful smile Are valued not; they ill become The man that's free from guile.

I know thee not, and yet my breast Thrills ever at thy song, And bleeds to know, that thou hast felt The weight of "woe and wrong."

'Tis said the soul with care opprest Grows patient 'neath the weight, And after years can bear it well E'en though the load be great.

And, that the heart oft stung by grief Is senseless to the pain, And bleeding bares it to the barb, To bid it strike again.

I care not if the heart has borne All that the world can give, Of "disappointment, hate and scorn;" In hope 'twill ever live,

And feel the barb'd and poison'd stings Of anguish, grief and care, As keenly as in years gone by, When first they entered there.

The weary soul by care opprest May utter no complaints, But loaths the weight it cannot bear And weakens till it faints.



FLOWERS.

Bring flowers for the youthful throng, Of variegated glow, And twine of them a gaudy wreath Around each childish brow.

Bring flowers for the maiden gay, Bring flowers rich and rare, And weave the buds of brightest hue Among her waving hair.

Bring flowers to the man of grief— They hold the syren art, To charm the care-look from his brow, The sorrow from his heart.

Bring flowers for the sick girl's couch; 'Twill cheer her languid eye To know the flowers have bloomed again, And see them ere she die.

Bring flowers when her soul has fled, And place them on her breast, Tho' ere their blooming freshness fade We lay her down to rest.



LIFE.

Life at best is but a dream, We're launched upon a rapid stream, Gushing from some unknown source, Rushing swiftly on its course, Save when amid some painful scene, And then it flows calm and serene, That we may gaze in mute despair On every hated object there.

Fortune our bark and hope our chart, With childish glee on our voy'ge we start, The boat glides merrily o'er the wave. But ah! there's many a storm to brave, And many a dang'rous reef to clear, And rushing rapid o'er which to steer.

Anon the stream grows wide and deep, While here and there wild breakers leap, O'er rocks half hidden by the flood, Where for ages they have stood, Upon whose bleak and rugged crest, Many a proud form sank to rest, And many a heart untouched by care Laid its unstained offering there.

Ah! they have met a happier lot, Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgot The pleasing scenes of childhood's years, 'Mid that tempestuous vale of tears Which farther on begirts the stream, Where phantom hopes like lightning gleam Through the murky air, and flit around The brain with hellish shrieking sound Conjuring up each mad'ning thought, With black despair or malice fraught.

Swiftly, on in our course we go To where sweetest flow'rs are hanging low We stretch our hand their stems to clasp But ah! they're crush'd within our grasp, While forward th' rushing stream flows fast And soon the beauteous scene is past.

At last we view another sight, The shore with drifted snow is white, The stream grows dark and soon we feel An icy coldness o'er us steal, We cast our eyes ahead and see The ocean of Eternity.

When once amid its peaceful waves No holier joy the bosom craves— Ten thousand stars are shining bright Yet one reflects a purer light— No sooner does its glowing blaze Attract the spirit's wand'ring gaze, Than all is turned to joy we see— That star is Immortality.



JOHN HENRY KIMBLE.

John Henry Kimble was born in Buckingham township, Bucks county, Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H. Kimble, and is descended on his father's side from English stock, being a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother's side, his grandfather, Seruch Titus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name indicates, was of Italian descent.

Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has won local distinction as a debater.

In 1870 his first verses were published in the Morris Scholastic a newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for the Cecil Whig. In 1875 he wrote "The Patrons of Husbandry," a serial poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with illustrations. It was pronounced by competent critics to be one of the "best and most natural descriptions of farm life ever written." It attracted wide attention and received favorable comment from the N.Y. World and other leading papers. He wrote another serial in 1876, entitled "Two Granges."

Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of 1872, '73 and '74 he taught in the public schools of this county with satisfaction to his patrons.

In December, 1873, he was married to Miss Sarah Teresa Gallagher, daughter of John E. Gallagher, of the Fourth district. They have five children, three daughters and two sons. In 1880, Mr. Kimble moved from the farm near Fair Hill, where he had spent twenty-five years, to Appleton, where he still resides. He is now a frequent and popular contributor to the Cecil Democrat.



HIS LAST TUNE.

The shade of death had haunted him Through many a weary day; With dread disease his youthful frame Was wasting slow away. He took his violin and sighed,— "I am too weak to play."

But, rising in his cushioned chair, He grasps, with trembling hand, The neck and bow, and tunes the strings And thinks of concerts grand; And hears the crowd applauding loud As when he led the band.

Inspired with supernatural power He plays a melody, Forgetting all the terrors of His mortal malady; And, as of yore, his soul once more Is with the gay and free.

Something responsive in the soul Wakes with melodious sound A lively melody that makes The languid pulse rebound, While recollection takes the mind Through many a happy round.

Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow To suit his changing will; A march, a waltz, a polka, and An intricate quadrille, Each in its turn is rendered with An artist's ready skill.

With failing strength he strikes at length His favorite—"Home, Sweet Home;" His dreamy spirit ceases with The pleasing past to roam, And, through the future, seems to rise Up, up to Heaven's high dome.

And mingling with his violin He hears the joyful strains That vibrate o'er angelic hosts, Where song supernal reigns! Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him Above all mortal pains.

The last sweet note of that sweet tune Within the room has died— And now he's playing on the harp Upon the other side Of death's dark river, safe and free, Among the glorified.



ADVICE TO AN AMBITIOUS YOUTH.

You look with joy to-day along life's vista clear, And great will be your deeds through many a happy year, And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaim A hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame.

Your life will be above the common herd, I trow, You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now: Success attend your steps; a word I would not say To chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way.

Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight, The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great, You feel so strong; and wish life's battle would begin, You'll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win.

But may be you will fail, 'tis ten to one you will, And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill, Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do; But many little things will prove if you are true.

To carry brick and stone for someone else's wall, To do the hardest part and get no praise at all, To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance, And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance;

Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see, How many men will scoff at your adversity, And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear, But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear.