No darling mother then can sympathize with you,— No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through; Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame, May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame.

But you need not be lost, all people are not bad, The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had; They'll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand, And point the road that leads up to the "Better Land."

Remember this, my child, wherever you may go, That God rules over all, though it may not seem so; And what you sow, you'll reap, with joy or misery, If not in time, O, surely in eternity.



TOO LATE.

A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear, I have not seen his face for many a weary year. Ah, many toilsome days we've spent with little train, And he was poor and weak, but never would complain.

I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears. We shared each other's joys and wept each other's tears! He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed; But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed.

And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled; So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled. But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last, Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past.

I've written him, and he has answered prompt and true; But we have never met as we had promised to. For he was busy there and I was busy here, And so our lots were cast apart from year to year.

But when a mutual friend told me this afternoon That he was very sick and wished to see me soon, I left my home at once and on the earliest train I'm speeding to his home across the distant plain.

He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait, O, for the lightning's speed! that I may not be late. The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past, The engine thunders on, the station's reached at last.

And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore, Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door. A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed, Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me—just dead!

I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears, And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years. "He asked for you," they said, but could no longer wait; Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late.



AFTER THE SHOWER.

After the shower the fields are green, The winds are hushed, the air is cool, The merry children now are seen Barefoot wading the wayside pool, Loitering on their way to school, After the morning shower.

After the shower the farmers walk Around their homes with thanks sincere. The shower is foremost in their talk, See! how it makes their crops appear, The finest seen for many a year. Thanks for the gentle shower.

Westward the dark clouds roll away To vanish in the ether blue, Eastward the curtains light and gay Exclude the glorious sun from view Till, as they shift, he flashes through And lights the charming scene.

Against the melting clouds, behold The lofty arch, the beauteous bow, The sacred sign to saints of old, As bright as when first seen below, How fair the matchless colors glow After the cooling shower.

Washed by the countless, crystal drops, Awhile from swarming insects free, The cattle clip the clover tops Forth wandering o'er the fertile lea, The birds sing with unusual glee After the drenching shower.

Over the hills and valleys green Wild flowers are blooming fresh and fair, In cottage lawns and yards are seen The good results of woman's care, Tulips and pinks and lillies rare Fresh from the timely shower.



A TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.)

I weep for the loss of a leader in thought, Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught, Have bless'd and encouraged the humble and poor, Who always were welcomed with joy at his door.

How happy the hours when we gathered around, To hear his solutions of problems profound; And bright through my mem'ry what pleasure returns When I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns.

The "Saturday Night," and "To Mary in Heaven," With true Scottish accent were touchingly given, And reckless "Don Juan's" most comical plight,— And pathos of "Harold" he gave with delight.

The pages of Hebraic sages divine, Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine; His choice conversation with children and men, Was often enriched with a song from his pen.

In public debate, whosoever arose, His well-grounded argument firm to oppose, Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare, That he was an honorable champion there.

And, those he offended, as everyone must, Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just, With kindness he reasoned all errors to show, And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe.

He owned like a hero the penalty dread— "By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread," And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows, Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose.

The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared, On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared; And few things delighted him more than to send, A rare little treat to an invalid friend.

He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride, The follies of fashion he loved to deride; But acknowledged true merit wherever 'twas shown, By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne.

His faults be forgotten, we've all gone astray, Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way, Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest, With angels of light, in the home of the blest.



SPRING.

Rosy morn is brightly breaking, Cheerful birds melodious sing, Earth with thankful songs awaking Hails with joy the merry Spring, Silver clouds in sunlight glowing Slowly float the azure dome, Tender flowers are sweetly blowing Round each cozy cottage home.

Dreary winter's icy fingers Have released the bending tree, Genial life reviving, lingers O'er the cold and sterile lea. From the rocky, snow-clad mountains, Where the breath of sunny Spring Has unfettered muffled fountains, Hear the songs of gladness ring.

In the morn of playful childhood, With dear friends 'mid sylvan bowers, O'er the fields and through the wildwood, Culling all the choicest flow'rs; Twining wreaths, each other crowning, Dew-drops bright for royal gems, Ne'er a thought of worldly frowning On the precious diadems.

Marched we on with true devotion, While the scenes of after years, Stirr'd the spirits deep emotion, With alternate hopes and fears. While before us lay life's prizes, Dazzling in the sunlight gleam,— How we gazed with sad surprises, When they vanished like a dream.

Many happy hearts grew weary, Rosy cheeks grew pale and white, Pleasant paths grew dark and dreary, Swept by storms of withering blight; How the changing years have fleeted, Strewing wrecks on either side, Cherished schemes have been defeated, And the cares of age abide.

But when cheery Spring advances, Crowned with gems of beauty rare, Pleasure like a fairy, dances O'er the landscape everywhere, And the tide of life flows higher, Gloom's dark curtains are withdrawn, And again youth's hidden fire, Thrills me as in life's fresh dawn.



JAMES McCAULEY.

James McCauley was born August 23, 1809, near Mechanics Valley, in Cecil county, and received his education in the log schoolhouse in that neighborhood known as Maffit's schoolhouse. He learned the trade of a cooper with his father John McCauley. After coming of age he taught school for a few years, and then commenced making threshing machines and horse powers, doing the wood and iron work himself. In 1836 he removed to New Leeds, where he has since resided.

In 1841, Mr. McCauley was appointed County Surveyor by Governor Pratt, and served in that capacity for several years and has ever since practiced land surveying with much success in all parts of Cecil county. In 1857 he was elected Register of Wills and served until the Fall of 1863. In 1864 he was elected a delegate to the General Assembly of the State, and served in the session of 1865, and the special session of 1866. Mr. McCauley has always been deeply interested in the cause of education and was chairman of the committee on that subject in the House of Delegates. While in the Legislature he was instrumental in securing the passage of the law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors in Cecil county on election day.

In the early part of 1868 Mr. McCauley was appointed School Commissioner, and soon afterwards Chief Judge of the Orphan's Court, to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the late Levi H. Evans, which he did with so much acceptability that he has since been elected for four terms of four years each.

In 1834, Mr. McCauley married Sarah, the youngest daughter of Hugh Beard, a well-known surveyor of this county. His first wife died in 1846, leaving five children. In 1849 he married Millicent, daughter of Jacob Price, of Sassafras Neck.

Mr. McCauley commenced to write poetry when a young man and has contributed poetry, but much more prose, to the newspapers of this county during the last half century.



HENRY CLAY.

He needs no monument, no marble pile, 'Tis vain thus to commemorate a name That must endure in noble grandeur while His country lives,—the temple of his fame.



VIRTUOUS AGE.

As early youth in brightness vies, With advent of the day, When Sol first opes his golden eyes, And chases night away.

So may the virtuous man compare, In his declining day, With setting sun, in ev'ning fair, Passing from earth away.

And though his face no more we see, He still reflects his light, And shines with glorious majesty, In other realms more bright.

And still his light doth ne'er decline, But gath'ring up fresh store, Through ages yet to come, shall shine, And shine, forever more.



ACROSTIC.

Enraptured thoughts intuitive, Make haste to greet thy page. Melodious with sweet accord, And classic too with age.

And ever may the sacred nine, Lead thee to their embrace, Inspire thy song with themes divine, Choice gems select from nature's mine, Enriched with matchless grace.

Be thine a life of social joy, Removed from care and pain, On earth thy early years employ, With prospect of that gain No mortal here can realize, Eternal bliss beyond the skies.



WORK TO-DAY.

Youth's the time; Youth's the season! Learn and labor while you may, Hear the voice of age and reason,— Work to-day.

Labor hard in morning's prime, Hasten on without delay, Make the most of early time— Work to-day.

Up betimes, nor let the sun Find you sleeping or at play, Sleep enough when life is done— Work to-day.

Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower, Seize the moments while you may, Nor idly pass one sunny hour— Work to-day.



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

Dear sister, has thy little son, Been snatched from thy embrace, Thy fav'rite child, thy darling one, Has left a vacant place.

His father oft with little John Beguil'd the hours away, To watch his little fav'rite son, Enjoy his childish play;

For there was laughter in his eye, And health was on his cheek, I fancy that he's standing by, And almost hear him speak.

The patt'ring of his little feet, In fancy's ear is heard, The music of his voice as sweet, As singing of a bird.

The objects that we fondly prize, How soon they pass away, And we are left to realize, The emblems of decay.

Dear sister, be resigned then, Nor let your faith grow dim, He cannot come to you again, But you can go to him.



SPRING.

Awake and sing, for early Spring Comes forth with beauty gay, With joy elate, both small and great Now bless the happy day.

Through all the earth comes beauty forth, So sweet, so fresh and fair, And ev'ry sound that echoes round, Comes with a gladsome air.

While from the hill the little rill, Comes trickling down so clear, Its bubbling voice made me rejoice, In many an early year.

Along the mead where'er we tread, Will little flow'rets spring, And through the air in colors rare, Waves many a tiny wing.

Back to their home, the songsters come, And gaily, blithely sing, The sun looks gay, I love the day, The sweet and early spring.



HOPE.

When storms arise, and tumults jar, And wreck this mortal form, There is a bright, a lovely star, That shines above the storm.

'Tis hope that buoys our spirits up, Along the chequer'd way, And when we drain the bitter cup It points a brighter day.

Though all the ills of life stand by, It proffers still to save; And when the shades of death are nigh, It looks beyond the grave.



AUTUMN.

How sad the breath of autumn sighs, With mourning and decay; The woods are clothed in varying dyes, Of funeral array.

Where beauty bloomed of late around, On mountain top and vale, Now wither'd foliage strews the ground, And tells a piteous tale.

And summer birds are on the wing, Bound for a warmer sky, They greeted us in early spring— They bid us now good bye.

So pass away our early years, Youth sinks into decay, And age, like autumn soon appears, And quick we pass away.



MRS. IDA McCORMICK.

Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county. She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of the Cecil Whig.

On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling.



MY FANCY LAND.

I'm roaming to-day in a far-away land Where the roses and violets grow, Where white waves break on a silvery strand, And are lost on the cliffs below. High up in a palace of sparkling gold Where voices are hushed and still, Where lips are silent and hearts are cold, And the days are rich with a glory untold, And no one disputes my will.

The walls are rich with an amber light, And waters in fountains fall, There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright, And servants within my call; There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet, With tender, plaintive chords, Like the patter of tiny innocent feet, Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet And their hearts speak out, their words.

All day from my turret I watch the sails That fleck the sweep of the tide,— Whose passengers all are joyous and hale, As into the harbor they ride. They enter my golden castle gate,— They roam thro' my stately halls,— They rest in chambers furnished in state, Then close by my glory-throne they wait, Until I shall answer their call.

There are faces bright with a merry light And the music of long ago; And others dark as Lethe's night And as cold as the winter's snow. Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp With blushes that come and go, Strangers to pain in this world so vast, With its pleasure now and sorrow at last, In the land we do not know.

They are bound for this strangely mystical land So shadowy, lone and so dim, And my castle's a port on the ocean strand, Where they wait for the ferryman grim, To row them away from the silvery beach Beyond the foam of the tide, Where a palace looms far away from their reach, Whose gates are closed with a clang to each Who have chosen the pathway wide.

They tell me I'm treading with careless feet This thorny, deceitful path, When the Master cometh my face to greet He will open his vials of wrath. But I turn again to the world so real, And my "Fancy Land" grows dim, Time's hand has taught me not to feel The wounds which sympathy cannot heal, And I anchor my faith in Him.



WITH THE TIDE.

Beneath the bright sun's dazzling ray, She watched his vessel sail away To distant, far-famed lands. Her heart was gone,—upon her hand Sparkled a diamond fair and grand, Telling in silent jubilee "His love is all the world to me."

Time goes by wings,—the years flew on, The days had come,—the summers gone, And still no loved one came To feed the burning passion flame Still glowing in her heart. They told her "in another land He captive held a heart and hand And graced Dame Fashion's mart."

She listened to love's second tale That came with Autumn's misty gale, And hid her heart within the fold Of satins rare, and lustrous gold, Sadness so deep, must live untold Shut in her marble palace high, Reared almost up to touch the sky.

Haughty and cold her heart had grown, For wealth and glory she lived alone, Yet as oft she watched an out bound ship Its prow in foamy waters dip, The day came back when lip to lip Her heart met his in a sad farewell. Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain— "He's falser than human tongue can tell."

* * * * *

September's sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the shore, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law. Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a noble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and passion warm.

She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;— "No welcome for the leal and true? Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I've come to you Faithful as when I went!"

"No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?" Thou'rt dead! Why have I lived for this? To gain a life of shipwrecked bliss? To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again?

* * * * *

A funeral train,—all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when 'twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;— A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,— A ship at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday.



THE OLD FASHION.

"The old, old fashion,—Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!"

—Dickens.

Despite all human passion, And all that we can do,— There is an old, old fashion That comes to me and you. It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell.

When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best. And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead.

It came in the wild March weather With bluster of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet. And then,—God pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child.

"Give thanks for the old, old fashion," No, that can never be. Where is the Divine compassion That God has shown to me? Fling wide each shining portal,— Let me—a sinner through,— Thank God for the immortal Is all that I can do.

No prayer of love or passion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fashion, Of immortality.



MY BABY AND THE ROSE.

A rose tree grew by the garden wall, And its highest blossom was just as tall As my baby's curly head; A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,— But sweeter from head to dimpled toes, Was the baby I fondly led.

Now summer is over and winter gone, And the winds of March are whistling on Where the rose its petals shed; No trace of rose perfumed and rare, No baby face as seraph fair, My baby sweet is dead.

The summer sun will shine again, And 'neath the pattering, warm June rain, Again the rose will bloom, And so beyond these lowering skies My baby dear, with smiling eyes, Shall peer through earthly gloom,

And guide me with her angel hand Through Heaven's gates,—and with me stand Away from worldly woes,— Where Heaven's flowers, divinely sweet, Soften the path for weary feet With perfume of the rose.



FOLGER McKINSEY.

Folger McKinsey was born in Elkton, on the 29th of August, 1866, in the cottage on Bow street now occupied by Thomas W. Green. His early life was spent in Elkton, except a few years in childhood when his parents resided in the West and South, until 1879, when they removed to Philadelphia, taking their son with them. His paternal grandfather was a Scotchman, and his grand parents on his mother's side were Germans, from the country bordering on the Rhine. Through the marriage of his maternal great grandmother he is distantly related to Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe. Both his parents are persons of intellectual ability, and have written verse, his mother having been a contributor to the local newspapers of this county, and to several western journals.

Mr. McKinsey received his education at the primary school of Miss Tabitha Jones, on Main street, in Elkton, where he was sent when seven years of age. Except an attendance of eight months at the public school of Elkton, he never attended any other schools. In early childhood he showed a great desire to read, and is indebted to his relative, William J. Jones, and to L. Marshall Haines and E.E. Ewing for the means of gratifying his early thirst for information. Shortly after removing to Philadelphia Mr. McKinsey entered a mercantile establishment as clerk, but soon afterwards accepted a position in the office of a publishing house, and subsequently entered the office of the Philadelphia and Reading railroad company as clerk in the record department. While in the office of the railroad company he wrote and published his first poem. It is called "Satana Victo" and is written in blank verse. Since that time he has been a prolific writer of both poetry and prose, much of which has been published.

In October, 1884, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of editor of the Shore Gazette, a weekly journal published at Ocean Beach, N.J., which he continued to fill for some months, when he returned to Philadelphia and accepted a position as special writer on a prominent daily journal of that city. In October, 1885, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of associate editor of the Cecil Whig, which he continued to fill until the following March when he became editor of the Daily and Weekly News, of Frederick City, Maryland. During the time he was connected with the Whig he began the publication of a journal in Darby, called the Delaware County Independent.

In January, 1886, Mr. McKinsey married Miss Fannie Holenrake Dungan, an estimable young English lady of Camden, N.J. Mr. McKinsey is a great admirer of Joaquin Miller and Walt Whitman, and a warm personal friend of the latter.

Though young in years he writes with as much fluency and ease as if he had been writing poetry for half an ordinary lifetime, and gives promise of a brilliant career that will be creditable to his native town, and beneficial to the human race.



WAITING THEIR CROWNS.

They wait, the forest monarchs tall, In naked beauty on the hills, Until the snows of Winter fall, And icy arms embrace the rills.

The golden glory of the days, When Indian Summer fills the land, Descends in gleams and dreamful haze, Like blessings from the Lord's right hand.

No matin call of tardy bird, Long stayed by sunshine in the north, Above the fluttering clouds is heard. A moment's pause, then bursting forth

In all the glorious sweets of song That thrill from soul to soul aflame, And die the barren hills among From whence the summer carols came.

All day the leafless monarchs wave Their hoary branches high in air, And white-winged spirits guard the grave Where late they laid the Autumn fair.

A sterner nature marks the land, The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep, The Summer trips it, hand in hand, With Autumn o'er the distant deep.

Where lift the dim, perpetual isles Their purple ensigns of the youth That ever dimples, romps and smiles Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth.

And deep within the wooded lane The oak and pine, in plaintive call, Unto the wintry tide complain, As leaves and brown nuts constant fall.

They wait their crowns, the naked kings! And down the avenues of night The frosty god, December, brings Them glistening diadems of white.

White petals of the virgin snow, With sprigs of ivy here and there, They deck the forest monarch's brow, While breezes whistle through his hair.

A sterner nature marks the soul, Men's lips draw near the cup of life, They wait to hear the centuries' roll That bring the kingly crowns of strife.

The spring-time months and summer years Beside the Autumn days are laid, Beneath the grave of conquered fears, Beneath the sloping hill-side's shade.

And deeper joy, serener faith, Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp, While death, the monarch, gently lay'th Upon their brows a kinglier clasp.

They wait no more the golden crown; Men, trees, the careless days of strife, Drift onward to the far, sweet town,— God's kingdom of eternal life.



SEA ECHOES.

I walk not by the sounding sea; I dwell full many leagues from shore And still an echo drifts to me Of the eternal, constant roar Of waves, that beetle past the crags And moan in weary flights of song Where wet sea moss and coral drags The shiny lengths of sand along.

I see beyond the friendly vales, And grand old hills that guard my home, To where the seaward petrel sails And storm winds of the Northland moan. I live again in brighter days, New-born from dreams of the dead past, When she and I stood there to gaze At sparkling hull, and spar, and mast

Of some staunch sea-craft bound amain At will of wayward wind and fate, Deep plunging in the waves to gain Some northern isle, or rich estate Of palm and pine in southward clime, Where all day long the playful air Pranks with the grizzled beard of time And paints his hoary visage fair.

Within the dim, old forests here, I wander now long leagues from shore, And still the old song haunts my ear, The century singing ocean's roar; And now I know, fond soul of love; Why still the murmurous echoes live, And sound for aye the hills above That back to earth the music give;

She, too, walked there in dreams with me, In love's sweet unity we trod The moon-bathed sands, and swore to be Forever true before our God. I see it still, her pale, calm face, With angel love-light in her eyes, And ever there, beside such grace, A dim, sweet token of surprise.

Oh, tender touch of one soft hand! I held it then in simple trust, Alas, ye waves that lick the sand! How long has that hand lain in dust? I see her soul in yonder star, I see the soft lines of her face, And could God so unkindly mar That angel beauty and its grace?

Roll, murmuring echoes of the sea! Repeat thy sweet, immortal moan, Drift ever inland unto me Within my sunny Southern home; And it shall be a tender dream— Thy plaintive music thrilling me, And her star face above—shall seem Like other days beside the sea When our lips touched eternally.



WHERE FANCY DWELLS.

The sea winds blow from western isles, From isles where fancy dwells and peace. Where summer sunshine softly smiles And perfumes of the far off east Float over waves white-capped with foam That glisten in the pale sweet light Shed from the far eternal dome Where fair star faces paint the night.

Life must have rest sometime, somewhere, On land or wave its peace shall be, And I have found my life's fond share In yon fair isle of Hebride; In yon fair isle where all day long The sunlight shadows drift and float And all the world seems bathed in song Borne trembling from the skylark's throat.

O! isle of peace, the waves that kiss Thy beaches all the centuries through, Flow from mysterious founts of bliss From founts o'er run with sunny dew, And o'er thy tree-tops lazily The perfumed breezes come and go With odors from that far countree Where eglantine and jessamine grow.

Fair isle of summer, isle of love, Where souls forget their bitter strife And mingled sadnesses that move In tempests o'er the sea of life; I kiss thy fair shore with my knee, And lift a thankful heart to God, For perfect joy comes unto me Where thy trees' blossomed branches nod.

Thy long sea waves float in beyond The dim blue lines of sunlit sky, Where films of cloudy lacework frond The billows tumbling mountain high; And shoreward in the still sweet eve The low songs of the mermaids drift, As in some coral grot they weave Their seaweed robes, and sometimes lift

Their long, strong, tangled lengths of hair Above the bosom of the wave, While 'mid its golden meshes fair The distant sunbeams stoop to lave. Sweet isle of fancy, far beyond The dark dim vales of human woe, My bark of love sails o'er the fond Blue waves that ever shoreward flow.

My bark sails on the unknown sea Led by a large, pale star alone, That star wherein her face may be, Who to that better land hath gone. O, never turn, brave white-sailed ship, Again towards that barren shore But bear me on the waves that dip And kiss yon isle forevermore.

Sweet day of rest when toil is past, When hearts can lay their burdens by And feel the peace God's angels cast In isleward flights from his fair sky! Sweet isle of love where fancy dwells, And nature knows no pang of care, I hear the music of its bells Far floating on the evening air.

I hear the lonely shepherd's song Flow down the green and mossy vale, And westward all the calm night long The restless sea gulls sail. I sometimes turn towards the stars With sudden shock of glad surprise, And half believe these island bars Are but the gates to Paradise.



AT KEY'S GRAVE.

I stood one summer, friend, beside The foam waves of a distant sea That muttered all the summer through A low sweet threnody.

A mournful song was ever on The lips that it were death to kiss, A song for those who died as died The brave at ancient Salamis.

A thousand graves lay in the trough Of that great ocean of the East, A thousand souls fled through its foam Towards the starlit land of peace.

And for each ship-wrecked soul that slept Beneath the dark inconstant waves The wind gave songs in memory Of men true-hearted, pure and brave.

But I have stood, sweet-singer, by Thy lonely, unmarked grave to-day, And all the songs thy memory got Came from the branches in their sway.

Ah, peace! ah, love! ah, friendship true! No wreath rests here wove by your hands To mark the Poet's silent tomb. As tombs are marked in other lands.

But in my noon-day dream there came From the fair bosom of the hills The voice of some sweet psalmist, thus— "'Tis so God wills, 'tis so God wills."



THE ETERNAL LIFE.

I care not for the life that is, I think not of the things that are; I live, oh! soul of tenderness, Beneath an angel blessedness That draws its light from one small star.

I know not if the world be ill, I care not for its throb of pain, I live, oh heart, in fellowship With other hearts that rise and dip In the great sea that floods the main

From east to west with tides of love— The ocean of Eternal Life, Whose waves flow ever free and warm From land of snow to land of palm And heal the naked wounds of strife.

I only know God's law is just, And that is all we need to know, I live down creeds of hate and spite, I build the nobler creeds of right That beautify our beings so.

The days are brief that come apace, When morn wakes up and night sinks down, But far beyond the hills of jet The glory of the sweet sunset Lights all the steeples of the town

Within whose walls no sadness lives, No broken hearts, no simple strife, For that I live, oh soul of faith, For that whereof the Master saith "Here find eternal love and life."



MRS. ROSALIENE ROMULA MURPHY.

Mrs. Rosaliene Romula Murphy, daughter of John and Hannah Mooney, was born in Philadelphia, May, 1, 1838, and married Thomas H.P. Murphy, son of John C. and Ann Rothwell Murphy, and grandson of Hyland Price, of Cecil county, on the 18th of May, 1858. Her education was obtained at a school taught by the Sisters of Mercy, and at the public schools of her native city.

Immediately after her marriage Mrs. Murphy came to Cecil county, and for ten years resided near the head of Bohemia river; subsequently she has resided in Middletown, Delaware, in Chester county, Pennsylvania, and for the last ten years in Philadelphia. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are the parents of eight children, four of whom are now living.

From early childhood Mrs. Murphy has shown a remarkable aptitude for literary work, and when quite a little girl at school, frequently took the highest average for composition. She commenced to write for the press at an early age and while in this county contributed poetry to the columns of the local newspapers and some of the journals of Wilmington and Philadelphia.



WOMAN'S RIGHTS.

Woman has certain rights I own, That none will dare deny; No king nor senate can destroy Her claims,—nor will they try. 'Tis hers to smooth the homeward path Of age,—her strength their stay; To guide their feeble footsteps here,— To brush life's thorns away.

'Tis hers to make a sunny home, To cherish and support With love, the one who claims her heart, Through good and bad report. To watch the tiny sleeping babe, Just nestling in her breast, To shield it with her mother-love, And guard it in its rest.

To watch in vigils of the night, The fever-tossed frame; To cool the dry, and parched lips, And ease the racking pain. To close the eyes when all is o'er, To weep with those who weep; To help the weary in their task, Keep guard whilst others sleep.

To love and cherish, guard, protect, Make home a sunny spot— Keep ever pure her mother name, A name not soon forgot! To win and wear her husband's love, As an honored, cherished crest; To hold her children's hearts, so "they Will rise and call her bless'd."

To nobly share the widow's woe, To dry the orphan's tears, To pray for strength for hearts oppress'd, And help allay their fears; To reach a helping, loving hand, To those who go astray, And woo them back again to God, As they faint along the way.

She claims but loving trusting hearts!— Let all their wealth be shown!— No law can take, nor ballot give The jewels of her crown! These, these, are all a woman's rights— Quite easy to attain— For most she governs, it is said, "When least she seems to reign."



ONLY A BABY.

My way was stopped, as I hurried on, A carriage pass'd—and again 'twas clear, But my glance took in the tiny box, And the mourners bending near. "Only a baby"—was lightly said— As I safely crossed the street, But my heart went with the little group, With their darling at their feet.

"Only a baby,"—God but knows The mother's bleeding heart; And the father's white, sad face would tell, How hard it is to part. "Only a baby!" what a void, In a merry, cheery home; An empty cradle, a half worn shoe; And a mother's broken tone.

"Only a baby!" the aching eyes Look out on the busy street, And fall on other laughing babes, And the silent form at her feet. "Only a baby!" a desolate home, Those stricken hearts will know, When they lay their darling down to rest, 'Neath the willows bending low.

"Only a baby!" how cold it seemed To speak of the angel near,— My heart went after the snowy form. For its parents I breathed a prayer: "Only a baby!" ah, the weary day And the sleepless night, The feverish longing—the aching heart— For the baby gone from sight!

"Only a baby!" the heart sobs out, What hopes lie shatter'd here, The broken bud—the tiny frame, An angel hovering near. "Only a baby!"—the years creep by— 'Twill ever be, tho' locks be gray; Growing no older—only their babe; As years before it passed away.



TO HELEN,

ON WRITING A SECOND TIME IN HER ALBUM.

You plucked a grey hair from my head, To-day, as you stood near me: There's plenty more, that are deftly hid By wavy crimps,—I fear me. 'Tis many years since last I wrote, With fun, and spirits plenty; But now my fourth son has a vote, And my babe's not far from twenty. Ah! so it goes; old time strides on, Nor cares for years, and worries, But knocks us here; and hits us there, As past us quick he hurries; We still are friends, and have our fun, In spite of years, and trouble; We've planted, reaped, and had our day. And now we're in the stubble.



RACHEL ELIZABETH PATTERSON.

Rachel Elizabeth Patterson, better known as Lizzie Patterson, is the daughter of William Patterson and Sarah (Catts) Patterson, and was born in Port Deposit, February 2, 1820. She is also the granddaughter of an Englishman who settled on Taylor's Island, in Chesapeake Bay, where he owned considerable property, which by some means seems to have been lost by his family.

Her father at one time kept a clothing store in Port Deposit, where he died when the subject of this sketch was quite young, leaving a family of helpless children, who were soon scattered among strangers. Elizabeth was placed in a family residing a short distance south of the village of Rising Sun. While in this family she was seized with a violent illness, which confined her to bed for many months and from which she arose a cripple and a sufferer for life.

Her poetic talent began to manifest itself in those early days of suffering, and during subsequent years of confinement she found solace and recreation by composing her "Songs in Affliction," which about thirty years ago, in accordance with the advice of her friends, she published in a small volume bearing that name. The first edition consisted of eight hundred, and was so well received as to warrant the publication of another one of five hundred copies. In 1872 she published another small volume, entitled "The Little Streamlet," which contained some poems written since the publication of the first volume. Miss Patterson at present and for many years past has resided in Baltimore.



"JUDGE NOT!"

How, poor frail and erring mortal, Darest thou judge thy fellow-man And with bitter words and feelings, All his faults and frailties scan?

Why rake out from time's dull ashes, And before the world display Deeds, it may be, long repented And forgiven, ere this day?

Canst thou search his secret feelings? Canst thou read his inmost soul? Canst thou tell the hidden motives Which his actions here control?

Is he erring? seek in kindness, Then, to win him back to peace; Is he weak? oh try to strengthen; Sad? then bid his sorrows cease!

Lay thou not a heavier burden By an unkind look or word, On a heart which may by anguish To its inmost depths be stirred.

O! forbear thy hasty judging! Should thy righteous God demand Half the justice which thy brother Is receiving from thy hand,

What, oh what would be thy portion, Though more righteous thou than he, Would not the glad gates of mercy Soon their portals close on thee?



THE WISH.

I do not wish thee worldly wealth— For it may flee away; I do not wish thee beauty's charms— For they will soon decay.

I do not wish for thee the joys Which from earth's pleasures spring; These give at best a fleeting bliss, And leave a lasting sting.

I do not wish thee mortal fame— This, like a meteor bright, Gleams but a moment on the sky, And leaves behind no light.

I wish for thee that richer wealth, No earthly mines reveal, "Which moth and rust cannot corrupt, And thief can never steal."

I wish for thee the sweeter joys, Which from religion flow; These have the power to soothe and bless, In hours of deepest woe.

I wish for thee the honor pure, Descending from on high; To lift thy soul away from earth, And raise it to the sky.

I wish that peace through all thy life, May on each step attend; May rapture crown its closing hour, And perfect bliss its end.



THE CHRISTIAN'S ANCHOR.

How oft when youthful skies are clear, And joy's sweet breezes round us play, We dream that as through life we steer, The morrow shall be like to-day.

We paint each scene with rainbow hues, And gaily sail on stormless seas, While hope, through life's bright future, views The port she thinks to make with ease.

But ah! how soon dark clouds of woe Spread o'er those skies a deepening shade, And waves of sorrow overflow, And all the rainbow glories fade.

'Tis thus earth's hopes, however bright, Expire and vanish, one by one, E'en as the shore recedes from sight, When glides the free bark swiftly on.

Yet the redeemed, with anchor firm, Time's swelling billows shall outride, And far beyond the raging storm Shall make the port on Canaan's side.

Oh, may this bright and blissful hope Fill my poor heart with joy and peace, Bid me 'mid all life's storms look up To yon blest land, where storms shall cease.

And when with life's last gale I've striven, And all its raging waves have pass'd, Oh, may I, in the port of heaven, My anchor Hope securely cast.



CALLANDER PATTERSON.

Callander Patterson was born near Perryville, Cecil county, May 6, 1820. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood. Many years ago he went to Philadelphia, where he studied dentistry, which he has since practiced in that city. Mr. Patterson commenced writing poetry when quite young, but published nothing until upwards of forty years of age. His poetry—of which he has written much—seems to have been of a religious character.

Owing to causes beyond our control, the following poem is the only one, adapted to this book, that we have been able to obtain.



GOD IS GREAT.

Our God is great! and to his arm I'll trust my destiny; For what in life or death can harm The soul that leans on thee?

Thine arm supports the universe, For by thy might alone The blazing comets speed their course, Revolving round thy throne.

They go and come at thy command To do thy sovereign will; Each one supported by thy hand, Its mission to fulfill.

Through boundless space, 'mid shining spheres, Those wingless heralds fly; Proclaiming through the lapse of years That God still reigns on high.

And all those burning suns of night That light the distant space, Declare thy power infinite, Thy wisdom and thy grace.

We try to scan those regions far Till vision fades away, And yet beyond the utmost star Are plains of endless day.

And when we earthward turn our gaze, With wonder and delight, We marvel at the lightning's blaze And tremble at its might.

And yet, thy hand is in it all, For there thy love is seen: By it the rain is made to fall, And earth is robed in green.

The cyclone on its path of death That rises in an hour, The fierce tornadoes' wildest breath, But faintly show thy power.

And though the laws are yet unknown That guide them in their path, They are the agents of thy throne For mercy, or for wrath.

Thus I behold thy wondrous arm And own thy works divine: Then what in life or death can harm So long as thou art mine?



TOBIAS RUDULPH.

Tobias Rudulph, the subject of this sketch, was the third person of that name and was the grandson of the Tobias Rudulph, who was one of four brothers who emigrated from Prussia and settled in Cecil county early in the eighteenth century. For many years the family took a conspicuous part in public affairs.

Tobias Rudulph's uncle and his uncle's cousin Michael, the son of Jacob, and the uncle of Mrs. Lucretia Garfield, very early in the Revolutionary war joined a company of Light Horsemen, which was recruited in this county and served with great bravery and distinction in Light Horse Harry Lee's Legion in his Southern campaigns. They were called the Lions of the Legion.

John Rudulph won the title of "Fighting Jack" by his courage and audacity, both of which essential requisites of a good soldier he seems to have possessed in a superabundant degree.

Tobias, the subject of this sketch, was born in Elkton, in the old brick mansion two doors east of the court house, on December 8, 1787. He was the oldest of four children, namely: Zebulon, a sketch of whose life appears in this volume; Anna Maria, who married James Sewell; and Martha, who married the Reverend William Torbert.

Anna Maria is said to have been a poetess of no mean ability, but owing to the state of literature in this county at the time she wrote, none of her poetry, so far as we have been able to learn was published, and after diligent search we have been unable to find any of her manuscript.

Tobias studied law with his mother's brother, James Milner, who resided in Philadelphia, where he practiced law,—but who subsequently became a distinguished Presbyterian minister and Doctor of Divinity—and was admitted to the Elkton Bar and practiced his profession successfully until the time of his death which occurred in the Fall of 1828. He was a man of fine ability and amused himself when he had leisure in courting the Muses, but owing to his excessive modesty published nothing now extant except "Tancred, or The Siege of Antioch," a drama in three acts, which was printed in Philadelphia, in 1827. Owing to the fact that simultaneously with its publication, a drama of the same name by another author appeared as a candidate for literary favor, Mr. Rudulph—though his work was highly commended by Joseph Jefferson the elder, then in the height of his dramatic career, through the foolish fear that he might he accused of plagiarism—suppressed his drama and never allowed it to be introduced upon the stage.

Mr. Rudulph married Maria Hayes. They were the parents of four children, Amelia, James, Anna Maria and Tobias. The two first mentioned are dead, the others reside in Elkton. Until a very recent period the family spelled the name Rudulph, which spelling has been followed in this work, though the name is now generally spelled Rudolph.



SELECTION FROM TANCRED.

Tancred was the son of the Marquis of Odo, surnamed the good, and Emma, the sister of Robert Guiscard who figured conspicuously in the wars which distracted Europe just previous to the first Crusade, which occurred under the leadership of Peter, the Hermit, and Walter, the Penniless, in A.D. 1096. The scene of the drama is laid at Antioch in 1097. A historian of the Crusades in speaking of the siege of Antioch, says that the wealth of the harvest and the vintage spread before them its irresistible temptations, and the herds feeding in the rich pastures seemed to promise an endless feast. The cattle, the corn and the wine were alike wasted with besotted folly, while the Turks within the walls received tidings of all that passed in the crusading camps from some Greek and Armenian christians to whom they allowed free egress and ingress. Of this knowledge they availed themselves in planing sallies by which they caused great distress to the Crusaders. The following extract comprises the third scene of the first act and is laid in the camp of the Crusaders—the chiefs being in council.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine. Alexius, Emperor of Greece. Bohemond, Prince of Tarentum. Tancred. Raymond, Count of Thoulouse.

Alex. The truce being ended, I propose, my friends, To-morrow we should storm the walls of Antioch— What say my worthy allies?—

Boh. If any here so base and cowardly, As to give other counsel, let him speak.—

Ray. I have known those, who foremost to advise, Were yet the last to venture on the battle.—

Boh. What means the Count of Thoulouse?—

Ray. Simply this;— That some men thoughtlessly sit down to eat, Without having first obtained an appetite.—

Boh. By the Holy Sepulchre I swear, That knight must have some stomach who maintains, What you have just now utter'd—

[Throws down his gauntlet.] There lays my guage— If you will wear my glove, choose with what arms We shall decide this quarrel.—

[Raymond advances to take up the glove.]

God. Hold, Thoulouse, let it lay.— I do impeach Bohemond of Tarentum of base wiles, And treachery most foul, to knighthood's cause—

Boh. Why then take you the glove.—

God. In mine own cause I do accept the challenge.—

[Takes up the glove.]

Alex. Is our league dissolv'd, and shall the holy cause For which embattled Europe is in arms, Be idly given to the scorn of men, To gratify our passions and vile feuds?— But speak Lorraine, for you have heretofore Been held the mediator in these jars— Upon what quarrel do you thus arraign Bohemond of Tarentum?—

God. A gorgeous canopy, a present from The gov'nor of Armenia I have lost— By what base means, Bohemond best can tell.—

Boh. True he can tell—and briefly thus it is— I won the silken bauble in a fight, And claim it as my spoil.—

God. You basely stole The treasure of a friend—Pancrates had The conduct of the present to my camp; You coward-like surprised him on the way, And robb'd him of my prize.—

Boh. (Contemptuously) Well be it so— I stole it, and will keep it— You may keep the glove.—

Alex. Christians, forbear, the Infidels will laugh, To know a silken toy has broke our league, And sav'd the Sepulchre—It must not be, My friends, that private discord shall cut short The work we have begun—Bohemond, no— Restore the treasure to its rightful Lord, And my pavilion shall replace the spoil.—

Boh. I do consent—provided Godfrey will Return my glove to the brave Count of Thoulouse—

Alex. That's nobly done Bohemond—but the war 'Twixt you and Thoulouse, is a war of words— Like two pert game cocks picking at a straw, You doubt each other's courage—then make proof Upon the Paynim forces if you please, Which is the braver man—To-morrow's field Will afford ample scope to try your blades Upon the common enemy of each, And leave unscathed his ally—I propose, That he who first shall scale the citadel, And plant the Red-Cross banner on the walls, Shall be rewarded with the victor's prize, And hold the government of Antioch— What says the council?—

All the Chiefs. We are all agreed.—

(Bohemond and Raymond advance and shake hands in apparent token of agreement.)

[Enter a Greek Messenger.]

Mes. The Persian succors are but one day's march, Beyond the Orontes.—

God. Why let them come and help to bury then, Their Paynim brothers.—Friends, I give you joy— Curse on my fortune, I do much regret The iv'ry tushes of that ruthless boar, Will keep me from the contest for fair fame.— Bohemond, you shall lead my Frisons on— And doubt not but you'll win the prize from Thoulouse.—

Boh. I thank your grace.



ZEBULON RUDULPH.

Zebulon Rudulph was the second son of Tobias Rudulph, an account of whose family is given elsewhere in this volume. He was born in Elkton, June 28, 1794. Though well remembered by some of the older residents of the place of his nativity who knew him when they were young, but little is known of his early life except that he was possessed of a kind heart and an affable disposition; and appears to have been more given to the cultivation of his literary tastes, than to the practice of those utilitarian traits which had they been more highly developed, would have enabled him to have reaped a richer pecuniary harvest than fell to his lot from the cultivation of the others.

For a time in early manhood Mr. Rudulph was engaged in merchandising in Elkton, and subsequently became the first agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company in that town, which office he held from the time the company commenced business in 1837, until 1840 or '41, when he removed to Memphis, Tennessee, where in 1847 he published a small volume of 247 pages entitled "Every Man's Book; or, the Road to Heaven Staked Out; being a Collection of Holy Proofs Alphabetically Arranged as a Text Book for Preachers and Laymen of all Denominations." Mr. Rudulph was a Universalist, and the object of the book was to inculcate the tenets of that denomination.

Mr. Rudulph remained in Memphis for a few years and subsequently removed to Izard county, Arkansas, where he died a short time before the commencement of the war of the rebellion. He was a voluminous writer, and the author of a large number of fugitive poems, many of which are said to have been quite humorous and possessed of much literary merit. Very few of his poems have been preserved, which is much regretted for the reason that it is highly probable that those extant do not fully set forth the poetical ability of their author. The following poems except the one entitled "Thoughts on the Death of his grandchild Fanny," were published in The Elkton Courier nearly half a century ago.



THE SURPRISE.

At twilight one ev'ning, a poor old man, Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days, (That now were dwindled to the shortest span:) Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys: Whose hoary locks should e'er protect from scorn, One who had ceased to court earth's fading joys,— Knock'd at a door, thus lonely and forlorn.

A pilgrim's staff supported his frail form, Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door; And feeble tho' he seemed, he feared not harm, For 'neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore. A menial came, and thus he spoke:—'Away! Old man, away! seek not to enter here: We feed none such as you: so hence! I say:— Perhaps across the street you'll better fare.'

In broken accents now the pilgrim plead— 'Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad; And bear a message from the absent dead, To one who dwells in this august abode. Thy mistress,—fair Beatrice,—dwells she here? If so, quick, bring me to her instantly; For I have speech that fits her private ear Forthwith: none else my words shall hear but she.'

Now, ushered thro' the spacious hall, he passed Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone, Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan. 'Be seated, aged father;' thus she said: 'And tell me whence you are, and why you seek A private conf'rence with a lonely maid Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek.

'If true it is, from distant lands you come, Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way; If so, be silent, be forever dumb, Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say, That all is well with one most dear to me, Who, two long years ago, forsook his home, And now forgets his vows of constancy, For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.'

As if to dash a tear, he bends his head, And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks: 'Alas! my words are few,—thy friend is dead!'— As monumental marble pale, she shrieks, And falls into the aged pilgrim's arms; Who, justly filled with terror and dismay, In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms, As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day.

But, slowly she revives—when, quick as light, His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by— And what is that that greets her 'wildered sight? Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?— Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned, Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:— And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned, He vow'd to her, he never more would rove.



THOUGHTS,

ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDCHILD FANNY.

And all wept and bewailed her: but He said, weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth.

—Luke 8:52.

Oh true, "she is not dead, but sleepeth—" Her dust alone is here; The spirit pure that Heavenward leapeth, Hath gone to bliss fore'er.

'Twas but a fragile flower that lent Its sweets to earth a day; From Heaven's parterre 'twas kindly sent, But 'twas not here to stay.

Weep not, fond mother, that lost one; 'Tis clasped in angel's arms— From earth's dread trials passed and gone, 'Tis decked in seraph's charms.

See how it beckons thee to come, And taste its rapture there;— No longer linger o'er that tomb— To join it let's prepare.



THE DECREE.

And the king said, bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other. Then spake the woman whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned upon her son, and she said, O my lord give her the living child, and in no wise slay it.

—I Kings 3:24-36.

Hark! did you not hear that loud shriek? Ah! do you not see that wild eye? List—do you hear that mother speak For her son that is doom'd to die?

Behold the eloquence of love! A mother for her child distress'd: A gush of feeling from above Invades and fills her yearning breast.

That flood of tears,—those wringing hands, Mark her abandonment of soul, As, list'ning to the king's commands, Her grief refuses all control.

My child! my child!—(tho' she betray it,) "The living child" give to my foe! 'Where is my child?—Oh! do not slay it! Let me my arms around it throw!'

Thus nature's impulse bursting forth, Reveals the mother's kindred blood, And stamps upon her claim the truth: Whilst foil'd the guilty claimant stood.

Such love breathes not in courts, where meet Soft, studied ease and pamper'd vice: As soon you'll find the genial heat Of nature's sun in fields of ice!

And that fond soul was one like she Who bathed the Saviour's feet with tears: And hers, like Mary's ecstasy, Flows from the influence of prayers:

For, Solomon had sought of God Not hoards of wealth, nor "length of days:" But holy unction from His rod, The bright indwelling of Truth's rays.



A VIEW FROM MOUNT CARMEL.

And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down upon the earth, and put his face between his knees. And said to his servant, 'Go up now, look towards the sea.' And he went up, and looked, and said, 'There is nothing.' And he said, Go again seven times. And it came to pass at the seventh time, that he said, behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand.

—I Kings 18:42,41.

Up Carmel's wood-clad height an aged prophet slowly creeps, And sadly drags his weary limbs o'er rocks and mossgrown steeps. He bows himself upon the earth, "his face between his knees," And thus he to his servant speaks, beneath the lofty trees.

"Go further up this craggy steep, and seaward look, I pray—" His faithful servant goes, and strains his vision towards that way, But says "there's nothing."—"Go sev'n times," the prophet says "for me,—" And on the seventh time, behold! arising from the sea,

A little cloud, as 'twere, no bigger than a human hand,— But swiftly, darkly spreading o'er the parched, thirsty land, It widely displays its threatening armies thro' the sky, Its lurid lightnings flash in forked streaks upon the eye.

Like countless fiery serpents thro' the troubled air, Whilst loud the roaring thunder bursts amid the flaming glare; And rage the winds, uprooting mountain oaks before the view,— Refreshing show'rs descend, and quick the fainting earth renew.

Scarcely could Israel's monarch in his chariot reach his court, Ere nature's pent up elements broke forth in airy sport, And to earth (which for three long years had known nor rain nor dew,) The long desired drops, their welcome downward course pursue.

Once more Samaria's people gladly tune their harps and sing The praises of Jehovah, God, the everlasting King:— Once more, the voice of gladness sounds where naught but anguish dwelt; There, once again, the gush of rapture, absent long, is felt!



MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS.

Mrs. Alice Coale Simpers was born in the old brick mansion known as "Traveler's Repose," a short distance south of Harrisville, in the Sixth district of Cecil county, on the first day of December, 1843.

The Coale family of which Mrs. Simpers is a member, trace their descent from Sir Philip Blodgett, a distinguished Englishman, who settled in Baltimore shortly after its foundation, and are related to the Matthews, Worthingtons, Jewetts, and other leading families of Harford county. On her mother's side she is related to the Jacksons, Puseys, and other well-known Friends of Chester county, Pennsylvania, and Wilmington, Delaware.

Mrs. Simpers' early education was received at Waring's Friends' School, near the village of Colora, which was kept up by a few families of Friends in the neighborhood. She also attended the State Normal School in Baltimore, and qualified herself for teaching in the public schools of the State, in which she taught for about ten years in Cecil county, and also in Dorchester county. She also taught school in the State of Illinois with great acceptability and success.

When Mrs. Simpers was quite young her father removed his family to the banks of the romantic Octoraro, near Rowlandville, and within less than two miles of the birth-place of the two poetic Ewings and the late John Cooley, and the romantic spot where Mrs. Hall lived when she wrote the poems which are published in this volume. The soul-inspiring beauty of this romantic region seems to have had the same effect upon her mind as it had upon the other persons composing the illustrious quintette, of which she is a distinguished member, and when only seventeen years of age she began to write poetry. At the solicitation of her friend, E.E. Ewing, she sent the first poem she published to him, who gave it a place in The Cecil Whig, of which he was the editor and proprietor.

In 1875 Mrs. Simpers began to write for the New York Mercury, which then numbered among its contributors Ned Buntline, Harriet Prescott, George Marshall, George Arnold, Bayard Taylor, W. Scott Way, and many other distinguished writers with whom she ranked as an equal in many respects, and many of whom she excelled as a brilliant satirist and pathetic painter of the quaint and the beautiful.

For ten years she continued to contribute letters, essays, stories and poems to the Mercury, and to advocate the claims of her sex to the right of suffrage, in which she still continues to be a firm believer. Mrs. Simpers has also contributed largely to the Woman's Journal and other periodicals.

Though possessed of a brilliant poetic genius, Mrs. Simpers is best known as a writer of prose; and, in addition to the large quantity of matter she has contributed to the newspaper press, is the author of a story of about two hundred pages illustrative of the principles and practices and exemplifying the social life of the Friends, for which she received a prize of two hundred dollars. This story was highly spoken of by Dr. Shelton McKenzie, with whom she was on terms of intimacy for some years immediately before his death, and also by many other distinguished writers.

On the 22d of February, 1879, the subject of this sketch married Captain John G. Simpers, who served with distinction in the Second Regiment Delaware Volunteers in the war of the rebellion. They, at the time of writing this sketch, reside near the summit of Mount Pleasant, and within a short distance of the birth-place of Emma Alice Browne.



THE MILLER'S ROMANCE.

The miller leaned o'er the oaken door, Quaint shadows swung on the dusty floor, The spider toiled in the dust o'erhead, With restless haste, and noiseless speed, Like one who toils for sorest need— Like one who toils for bread. "Ha!" says the miller, "does he pause to hark— Hark! Hark! Hark! To the voice of the waters, down in the dark— Dark! Dark! Dark! Turning the lumbering, mumbling wheel; Which moans and groans as tho't could feel?" "Ha!" laughed the miller, "he pauses not and why— In the sunshine pausing and musing I? When the spiteful waves seem to repeat— Repeat! Repeat! Repeat! The hateful word deceit— Deceit! Deceit! Deceit" "Nay," mused the miller, "their musical drip— Drip! Drip! Drip! Is like to naught but the trip— Trip! Trip! Trip! In the dance of her fairy feet, Or her rippling-laughter cool and sweet!"

* * * * *

Once more, The miller leans o'er the oaken door. Still play the shadows upon the floor, Still toils the spider overhead; Like one who toils for daily bread— "Since the red lips unto me have lied The spell hath lost its power, For never a false heart brings my bride Whatever else her dower!" And louder yet the waves repeat Their burthen old, deceit, deceit!

* * * * *

In flocks of brown, the leaves haste down, And floods, in the wild March weather; While the mill, the miller, and the miller's love dream, Have all grown old together!



THE LAST TIME.

We shall see the daylight breaking, Watch the rosy dawn awaking; We shall see the twilight fading— Adown the path the elms are shading, For the last, last time.

We shall see the blossoms swelling, Watch the spring-bird build his dwelling, See the dead leaves downward sailing, While the Autumn winds are wailing, For the last, last time.

We shall hear the song of pleasure, Join the dance's merry measure; Shrink and dread the form of sorrow, Which may meet us on the morrow, For the last, last time.

We shall feel hates' venomed dart Aimed to pierce the inmost heart; We shall know love's sweet caressing, Breathed from lips our own are pressing, For the last, last time.

But in that land where we are going, Where the skies are ever glowing; In that fair and fadeless clime, Never comes the last, last time.



ONLY A SIMPLE MAID!

And this is the end of it all! It rounds the years completeness, Though only a walk to the stile Through fields a-foam with sweetness. Only the sunset light, Purple and red on the river, Only a calm "good night," That means good bye forever!

I can only go back to my simple ways— To my homely household cares; And yet,—and yet—in after days I shall think of you in my prayers. We can bear so much in youth; Who cares for a swift sharp pain? The two-edged sword of truth Cuts deep, but leaves no stain, And over the ways we have trod together, My foot shall fall as lightly, As though my heart were a feather.

Only a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep; Patient when children cry, Soft to lull them to sleep; Glad when another delving hand Finds a gem to wear on the breast, While hers found only sand; Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come, The peach with its waxen pink, The waving snow of the plum; I shall think how I used to wait And watch—so happy to see you pass, I could almost kiss your shadow As it fell on the dewy grass. A love is but half a love, That contents itself with less Than love's utmost faith and truth And love's unwavering tenderness.

Only this walk to the stile— This parting word by the river; It seems to me whatever shall go or come— Memory shall hold forever! Sweetheart, good bye, good bye, After all—drear poverty and toil For the rich, red flower of love to grow, Were but a cold and barren soil: And so, good bye, good bye!



THE MYSTIC CLOCK.

A NEW YEAR'S POEM.

"Warden, wind the clock again! Mighty years are going on Through the shadows, joy and pain, And the happy hearted dawn."

High within Time's temple hoar Doth this mystic timepiece stand, And when'er twelve moons have vanished The clock is wound by unseen hand; But we hear the pinions rushing Through the storied air o'erhead, And our hearts grow sick and silent With throbs of fear and dread; For the temple seemeth crowded With still forms all white and shrouded, Like the pale, uncoffined dead; Stirs the startled soul within With a grief too deep for tears, Bowing with a mighty anguish— O'er our dead and wasted years.

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!" O'er the horologe's mystic dial, Watch the sweep of shadowy ages Ere the pens of seers and sages Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages. But lo! the warden winds again— And see yon radiant star arise Flaming in the Orient skies; Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing, Which the joyous hosts are singing, To the humble shepherds, keeping Patient watch, while kings are sleeping! See the wise men in the manger, Bow before the Heavenly stranger! Lowliest born beneath the sun! Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish, And the sword and sceptre vanish, Ere His given work be done!

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!" But in vain the charge is given, For see the mighty Angel stand, One foot on sea, and one on land, Swearing with uplifted hand, Nevermore in earth or heaven Shall the mystic key be found Or the mighty clock be wound!



"RUBE" AND "WILL."

AN EPISODE RELATED BY AUNT SHEBA.

He'ah dat ole gray sinna H's jes brimful o' gas, Singin' dat tomfool ditty As he goes hobblin' pas'! He betta be prayin' and mebbe H'll git in de fold at las'! Yes, he's gwine to de grabe up yonder By de trees dar on de hill, Where all alone by hisself one day He buried po' massa Will! You see dey war boys togedder; To-day dey'd cuss an' fight; But dey'd make it up to-morrow And hunt fur coons at night.

It wasn't much ob a massa, Ole missus made you see! Folks sed, "dem Walden niggas Mought about as well be free." Once dey went fur de turkeys, Dat's Rube and Massa Will, Wid roastin' ears fur stuffin', Made a barbecue behind de mill! But dey couln'd keep it secret, Ole missus found 'm out, An' she vow'd to sell dat nigga— He was a thievin' lazy lout, He was a ruinin' Massa Willum; Dat fac', she said, was plain; She'd sell him! On her plantation He'd never set his foot again.

An' suah befo' de sun next day went down. To take dat nigga Reuben A trader had cum from town. I guess she was glad to sell 'm Fur she needed de money bad, An' meant to spen' it mos'ly In de schoolin' ob her lad! But jes as dat ole trader Had slipt de han'cuffs on, We sees young massa cumin' Ridin' cross de lawn; He stopped right dar afore 'm, His face was pale as death, With all his might he shouted, Soon as he got his bref: "Take dem right off dat nigga! (and jerkin' his pistol out) Take 'em off I tell you! An' min' what you're about; Or I'll send you to de debil Faster dan you 'spec to go." Den massa trader dusted And he didn't trabbel slow.

* * * * *

Ah me! dem times seems like a dream, It was so long ago! Ole missus died next year, De war cum'd on at last And all de Souf lan' echoed With de joyful freedom blast. We lef' de ole plantation, We trabbled de Norf lan' thro; Chilled by de winds in Winter, In Summer drenched wid dew; But we neber cum to Canaan, Nor found de promised lan', And back to de ole plantation We cum a broken ban'. But Rube had stayed heah faithful, Stayed by his massa's side, And nussed him in de fever Till in his arms he died; But de freedum star in Hebben, It brightens year by year, An' our chillun has foun' de Canaan, Oh yes! des foun' it here; So I don't care what you call us, De tribes ob Sham or Hem, Dat blessed lan' o' promise, Has come right home to dem.



THE LEGEND OF ST. BAVON!

Shaded lights were burning low— Muffled bells swung to and fro— Solemn monks were chanting slow— Chanting of the Crucified; When the good St. Bavon died.

Oft had he trod the jeering street, With bare and bleeding feet; Leaving crimson-flecked the snow In memory of his Master's woe;

With grief closed lips, sat he apart, The comrade of the dead man's heart; At last the chanting throng were gone And he was with th' dead alone;

When the bare uncurtained room Grew still and ghastly like a tomb, On the icy neck he fell And begged the death-sealed lips to tell

If one deed were left undone,— That in that radiance like the sun Didst shade with grief the spirit flown, Or dim the brightness of his crown!

Then heard his spirit's inmost ear A voice that he alone could hear, "A shadow walks with me akin to pain, I seek to shun it, but in vain,

"For as I left the life of time, And journeyed toward th' blessed clime, I passed along that darkened shore. Where wail the lost forevermore.

"As on that awful gulf I walked, A black-robed demon with me talked: 'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry, ''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I.

"'I, with the tempter's gilded snare, Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer; Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun, My power had vanished; thou hadst won.'

"Above the harps and angel's songs I hear, The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer; Oh, comrade! brother! saint! Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!"



DAVID SCOTT (of James.)

DAVID SCOTT (of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first cousin, David Scott (of John)—to a sketch of whose life the reader is referred for other information respecting the family—was born on his father's farm, called "Scott's Adventure," on the road leading from Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879.

His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood.

In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until 1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death.

In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and served six years with great acceptability.

In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the time of his death.

In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him.

In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of "Anselmo," and the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper during the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life.

For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years.

Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character.



THE FORCED ALLIANCE.

Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend?

—Miss Whittlesey.

Ah, that our natural wants and best affections Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle! Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections, Whose derelictions merit such corrections, Must bear the illicit smuggle!

We would it were not so. This compromising, Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden, Of higher natures, with the wants arising From poor humanity—'tis a sympathizing That may not all be hidden.

We both have learned there is a high soul feeling, That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven; And one of us, there is a sad congealing Of sweet affection!—a veil the rock concealing, Where hearts are rent and riven.

Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion; And arbitrary fate is earth's arbiter; The adverse elements of a marvelous union, With counter-currents vex the spirit's pinion, When high intents invite her.

It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing May wring the spirit with a quivering pain; Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring, Is but a momentary, blissful sharing, That flutters back again.

It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow, Or wander withering in the maze of doubt, Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow, Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow— That will not all go out.

Yes! there are bosom-chords—thanks to the Giver! The sad, low whisperings of which can never Be all subdued, though they may shake and shiver With death and coldness, if we brave the river With wise and strong endeavor.

O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling! Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink; 'Tis past!—too late—too late, vain trump, your swelling; My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling— 'Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling— O what a joy to think!



MY COTTAGE HOME.

A VESPER HYMN.

Awake, my harp! a song for thee, While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers; 'Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free— Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers? For the day's well spent, And I'm content, Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary; 'Tis a heaven below, The joys to know— The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery.

The world's all beauteous now and bright, And calm as a cradled infant sleeping, And the chords of love are attuned aright, Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leaping As free and sweet As a brother's greet In a foreign land all strange and dreary; And halls more bright Have less delight, I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery.

My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home! With its trellised vines around the casement clinging, And the happy strain of that sweet refrain, The gentle tones of loved ones ringing, When the day's well spent, And all content. What though the o'er-labored limbs are weary? Our hearts are free And merry, and we Rejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery.

With wants so few, while hearts so true, With a fond concern, are beating near us; We'll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile. The approving smile of Him to cheer us, Who makes us to know The poor and the low. Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary, At last will rest With the truly blest— O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery.



THE MIGHTY ONE.

You have felt his power—you have felt his power— For a mighty one is he: He is found in the field and is known in the bower And hid in the cup of the tenderest flower, He lurks where you may not see.

He's a sleepless sprite, and at dead of night He'll come with his feathery tread, And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams, And light up your vision with silver beams, Though he leaves you an aching head.

Away, and away, like a thought, he flies, His home in the air and sea; Of all that is earth he claims a birth, And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forth On the breeze's back, unceasingly.

In the sea's great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps, In chambers of coral and gold— Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weeps O'er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps, And places that never were told—

He is everywhere, and very well known In palace, in court, and cot; Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown, He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne, And his chains are spells of thought.

The maiden has murmured in 'plaint so low, While the tear trickled over a smile, That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till "no," Was the heart's quick response, "I would not have him go— The 'Annoyer' may linger awhile."

He shadows the pages of classic lore In the student's loneliest hour, And wakes up a thought that had slept before— An image is born that can die no more— The student feels his power.

A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river, A voice in the song of birds; It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiver Of oak, beech and fir-leaf—it speaketh forever In thrilling, mysterious words;

'Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well, His presence you may not shun; For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell, And poets may sing us and sages may tell That Love is a mighty one!



THE SURVIVING THOUGHT.

How long, ah me! this weary heart hath striven With vanity, and with a wild desire! How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven, While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given, One after one expire?

These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable; And we are all too prone to clutch them fast, Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable, To which a "thread of gossamer is cable—" They cannot—cannot last!

Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing— The settlement of proud Belshazzar's doom! These timely buds must early feel a blighting— This earthly strife—ah, 'tis a sorry fighting! The victory—the Tomb!

The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished; The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright— Are they all gone—forever gone, and perished— Ev'n the last bud my silent tears had nourished— Have all been Death's delight?

And will he come and mock me with his booty, And twirl my visions round his bony finger? And will he tell my heart no other beauty Upon the earth is mine—no other duty, Than for his mandate linger?

Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished, Assert thy heritage—exert thy might; Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished, And pain and wrong's envenomed part out-anguished, One ray breaks through the night.

There is, there is one blessed thought surviving; The heart's sure fulcrum in the saddest strait— An overture to this unequal striving— A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving! Bear up, my heart, and wait.

Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful; A calm must follow each untoward blast; With steady eye look forward to the sequel; The common road will then seem less unequal, That brings us home "at last."

Come trial, pain, and disappointment's shiver, Ye are my kindsmen—brothers of this clay; We must abide and I must bear the quiver A little while, and we shall part forever— Beyond the surges of that shoreless river Ye cannot "come away."



THE WORKING MAN'S SONG.

Toil, toil, toil, Ever, unceasingly; The sun gets up, and the sun goes down, Alike in the city, in field or town, He brings fresh toil to me, And I ply my hard, rough hands With a heart as light and free As the birds that greet my early plow, Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow In gusts of song and glee.

Toil, toil, toil, Early, and on, and late: They may call it mean and of low degree, But I smile to know that I'm strong and free, And the good alone are great. 'Tis nature's great command, And a pleasing task to me, For true life is action and usefulness; And I know an approving God will bless The toiler abundantly.

Toil, toil, toil— Glory awaits that word; My arm is strong and my heart is whole, And exult as I toil with manly soul That the voice of Truth is heard. On, Comrades! faint not now— Ours is a manly part! Toil, for a glorious meed is ours— The fulcrum of all earthly powers Is in our hands and heart.

Toil, toil, toil— Life is labor and love: Live, love and labor is then our song, Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng, With our Architect above. Then monuments will stand That need no polish'd rhyme— Firm as the everlasting hills, High as the clarion note that swells The "praises of all time."



ODE TO DEATH.

I do not fear thee, Death! I have a bantering thought!—though I am told Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold; And that thy upas breath Rides on the vital air; Monarch and Prince of universal clime, Executor of the decrees of Time— Sin's dark, eternal heir.

Over the land and sea Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings, And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings, Over the feast the panting summer brings, "For me—'tis all for me!" All seasons and all climes— In city crowded, and in solitude, Ye gather your unsatisfying food; Ev'n through the rosy gates of joy intrude Thy deep, sepulchral chimes.

I know thee well, though young; Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke Hast thou. A brother, sister—then the Oak, (Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,) Round which our young hopes clung! Ye wantonly have crush'd, By your untimely and avenging frost, The buds of hope which bid to promise most; Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost, Could ye, O! Death have hush'd

The music that endears, And makes this chill'd existence tolerable? Yet will I not such selfishness—'tis well; I hear, I hear a happier, holier swell From out the eternal spheres! I do defy thee, Death! Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears? To weary out the agony of years, With nothing but the bitter brine of tears, And scarcer existing breath.

My soul is growing strong, And somewhat fretful with its house of clay, And waiting quite impatiently to lay It off, and soar in light away, To hymn th' "eternal song." This is a cowardice Perhaps—a deep, mean selfishness withal. That whets our longings in the spirit's thrall To lay aside these trials, and forestall The hours of Paradise.

Thou wise, Eternal God! Oh, let me not offend Thy great design! Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign, Make me be patient, let me not repine Beneath this chast'ning rod; Though storm and tempest whelm, And beat upon this naked barque, 'tis well; And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell— Hush, rebel thoughts!—my heart be calm and still, The Master's at the helm!



HENRY VANDERFORD.

Henry Vanderford, editor and journalist, was born at Hillsborough, Caroline county, Md., December 23, 1811. His maternal ancestors were from Wales, his paternal from Holland. He was educated at Hillsborough Academy, a celebrated institution at that time, having pupils from the adjoining counties of Queen Anne's and Talbot. He acquired a knowledge of the art of printing in the office of the Easton Star, Thomas Perrin Smith, proprietor. From 1835 to 1837 he published the Caroline Advocate, Denton, Md., the only paper in the county, and neutral in politics, though the editor was always a decided Democrat, and took an active part in the reform movement of 1836, which resulted in the election of the "Glorious Nineteen" and the Twenty-one Electors. The press and type of the Advocate were transferred in 1837 to Centreville, Queen Anne's county, where he founded the Sentinel, the first Democratic paper published in that county, in January, 1838. He was appointed for three successive years by Governor Grason chief judge of the Magistrate's Court, but declined the office. In 1840 he was appointed Deputy Marshal for Queen Anne's, and took the census of that county in that year. In 1842 he sold the Sentinel and removed to Baltimore, where, three years later, he resumed his profession and founded The Ray, a weekly literary and educational journal, and the subsequent year published the Baltimore Daily News, and the Weekly Statesman, in company with Messrs. Adams and Brown, under the firm of Adams, Vanderford & Brown. The News and Statesman were Democratic papers. In February, 1848, he bought The Cecil Democrat of Thomas M. Coleman, enlarged the paper, quadrupled its circulation, and refitted it with new material. In 1865 he sold out the Democrat to Albert Constable and Judge Frederick Stump, and bought a farm in St. Mary's county, Md., and engaged in agriculture. Three years later, failing health of himself and family, induced him to sell his farm and remove to Middletown, Del., where he founded the Transcript, and resumed the business of a printer and publisher. The Transcript was the first paper published in that town, and was a success from the start. It was transferred in 1870 to his youngest son, Charles H. Vanderford. From 1870 to 1878 he was associated with his eldest son, William H. Vanderford, in the publication of The Democratic Advocate, Westminster, Md. In 1873 he was elected to the House of Delegates from Carroll county, and in 1879 to the Senate, in which body he held the important position of Chairman of the Committee on Finance, and was a member of the Committee on Engrossed Bills and the Committee on Printing.

On the 6th of June, 1839, he married Angelina, the daughter of Henry Vanderford, of Queen Anne's county, a distant relative of his father. Mr. Vanderford is a member of the Masonic Order, and he and his wife are both communicants of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the Church of their ancestors, as far back as the history of the Church can be traced in the Eastern part of Maryland. Charles Vanderford, great grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was a vestryman of St. Paul's Parish, Centreville, Md., in 1719. Charles Wrench Vanderford was his grandfather, and a member of the Old Maryland Line, in the Revolutionary war. William Vanderford, his father, was a native of Queen Anne's county, where the family held a grant of land of one thousand acres from the crown, located between Wye Mills and Hall's Cross Roads, on which the old mansion was built of brick imported from England.

Mr. Vanderford is now in retiracy, in the 76th year of his age, but still active, and in the possession of good health and as genial and cheerful as in the days of his prime.



ON THE MOUNTAINS.

Written after a visit to Rawley Springs, in the mountains of Virginia.

On the mountains! Oh, how sweet! The busy world beneath my feet! Outspread before my raptur'd eyes The wide unbounded prospect lies; The panoramic vision glows In beauty, grandeur and repose. I gaze into the vaulted blue And on the em'rald fields below; The genial sunlight shimmers down Upon the mountain's rugged crown, The eye sweeps round the horizon Until its utmost verge is won. The hoary peaks, with forests crown'd, Spread their vast solitudes around, And intervening rocks and rills The eye with very transport fills. The bosom wells with joy serene While viewing all the lovely scene, The spirit soars on airy wings Above all sublunary things. I peer into the depths profound Of the cerulean around, And ether's far-off heights I scan, As if, to feeble finite man, The power of vision here were given To view the battlements of heaven. But, though I gaze and gaze intent, Close scanning all the firmament, No Mount of Vision unto me Does this bold summit prove to be. Though in elysian wrapt the while, Where sublimated thoughts beguile, Icarian pinions, all too frail, Were sure my fancy's flight to fail. Confined within this mortal clod, Vain man would yet ascend to God, Presumptuous, as of yore, to be The heir of immortality. But, from those fair, celestial heights Of fervid fancy's loftiest flights, My airy visions topple down To where cool reason's realm is found, And fancy folds her weary wings, Content, the while, with earthly things.



PROGRESS.

"Man hath sought out many inventions."

The planets, forced by Nature's law, Within their orbits ceaseless roll, And man the lesson thence may draw— By industry to reach his goal.

Hail! industry's all-conquering might! Hail! engineering's giant skill! That clambers up the mountain height, And intervening valleys fill.

The enterprise of man shall know No bounds upon this mundane sphere, Whate'er his hands may find to do He executes with skill and care.

His genius Nature's self subdues, And all her powers subservient lie At his command, and pleas'd he views His great resources multiply.

He mines the earth and skims the air, He plows the main, descends the deep, And through its silent chambers there, Electric forces flash and leap.

He flies, upon the wings of steam, Mounts up with aerostatic pow'r, He paints with every solar beam— Unfolds new wonders ev'ry hour!

Not in material things alone Does Progress mark its high career, Fair science builds her regal throne, And morals her triumphal car.

Man stands erect—his image fair In God's own likeness first was cast, His high prerogatives appear, He seeks his destiny at last.

Upward and onward is his course, In mental and in moral life, With higher purpose, now, perforce, With loftier aspirations rife.

In matters both of Church and State, A high ambition spurs him on, With buoyancy and hope elate, He plies his task till it be done.



WINTER.

Written in the month of January, the ground covered with snow.

'Tis winter, drear winter, and cold the winds blow, The ground is all cover'd with ice and with snow, The trees are all gemm'd with a crystalline sheen, No birdling or blossom are now to be seen.

The landscape is wearing a mantle of white, Its verdure lies wither'd and hidden from sight, Rude Borean blasts bleakly blow o'er the hills, 'Till the life-current, coursing, his icy-breath chills.

The rills in their ice-fetters firmly are bound As the frost-spirit breathes o'er the face of the ground The icicles pendant hang over the eaves, And the wind whirls in eddies the rustling leaves.

It shrieks through the casement and in at the door— All through the long night hear it fitfully roar, The mitre ethereal silently flies So keen and so cutting through storm-troubled skies.

The dark leaden clouds dim the light of the sun, And the dull dreary hours drone slothfully on, Euroclydon forges the cold biting sleet, And the snow-drifts he piles at the traveler's feet.

The wealthy, at ease in their mansions so warm, Heed not the rude blast of the pitiless storm— The loud-roaring tempest, the elements din, Serve only to heighten their comforts within.

The poor, in their hovels, feel keenly the blast, And shudder and shake as the storm-sprite goes past; Oh! pity the poor, in their lowly estate, And turn them not empty away from your gate.



LINES

ON WITNESSING THREE SISTERS DEPOSITING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND, IN ST. ANN'S CEMETERY, MIDDLETOWN, DELAWARE.

At an early hour of the Sabbath morn, Beside the ancient, sacred pile, I stood Of old St. Ann's. The ivy careless clamber'd Along its moss-grown, antique walls; The sun-light bathed in golden glory The calm, sequester'd scene, and silence Reigned through all the leafy grove, Save where the warbling songster pour'd His wood-notes wild, or where "the gray old trunks That high in heaven mingled their mossy boughs," Murmur'd with sound of "the invisible breath That played among their giant branches," And "bowed the wrapt spirit with the thought Of boundless power and inaccessible majesty." Within the lone church no loitering footfall O'er threshold, aisle, or chancel echoed, No sound intruded on the hush profound Of that ancient temple. The pale sleepers In the weird city of the dead lay mute, Their mouldering ashes mingling with the dust, While sculptured tablets with memorial brief, Their memories from oblivion rescued.

As thus upon the scene around I gazed, The fresh-turned earth upon a new-made grave, Within its marble confines neat enclosed, My vision steadfast fixed, and I beheld Three maidens, bearing each a rich bouquet, Approach the tomb, and softly by its side Stoop down and place thereon their floral gems In token of the love they bore the friend So late inurned, whom yet they fondly cherish'd. Full preparation one had duly made To stand beside her at the bridal altar; But now, beside her early grave she stood, With floral tokens of unfailing love For the fair young wither'd flower beneath. Touching and beautiful the lovely sight Of such devotion deep at friendship's shrine. My sterner heart, in welling sympathy, Throbb'd its response to this ennobling act Of these fair sisters, and did them homage Deep down within its silent recesses. Oh, when with them life's fitful fever ends May ne'er be wanted hand of sympathy To strew affection's token o'er their graves.



MERRY MAY.

Ethereal mildness, gentle showers. Springing verdure, opening flowers, Apple blossoms, bobolinks, Budding roses, blushing pinks, Cherries snowy, peach buds sleek, Rivaling a maiden's cheek, Balmy zephyrs, halcyon hours, Song of birds and scent of flowers, Vernal season, swelling spray, All belong to Merry May.

THE END