Chapter II: Part 2

And now, my cousin fair, adieu,
My promise I have somehow kept,
That I would write a line for you,
I hope you will these lines accept.

STANZAS

Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott, upon the occasion of
the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 1882.

Kind gentlemen and ladies fair,
I have a word or two to say,
If you have got the time to spare,
Sit down, and hear my humble lay.

No tiresome homily, I bring,
To chill your joys and make you sad,
I'd rather hear you laugh or sing,
Than see you solemn, dull or mad,

A bow that's always bent, they say,
Will lose its force and wonted spring,
And Jack's all work and never play,
Makes him a dull and stupid thing.

Man's greatest lesson is mankind,
A problem difficult to solve,
I've turned it over in my mind,
And reached, at last, this sage resolve:

That when I know myself right well,
I have a key to all the race,
Thoughts, purposes and aims that tell
On me, are but a common case.

There is a time to laugh and sing,
A time to mourn and grieve as well;
Then let your song and laughter ring,
This is no time on griefs to dwell.

We've met to greet our friend, T.J.,
And tender our congratulations,
Without forgetting Phebe A.,
In our most heartfelt salutations.

For four-and-twenty changeful years
They've worn the bright hymenial bands,
And shared each other's hopes and fears,
And each held up the other's hands.

He, like a stately, giant oak,
Has spread his branches wide and high,
Unscathed by lightning's fatal stroke,
Or tempest raving through the sky.

She, like a tender, trusting vine,
Twines round and through and o'er the tree;
Her modesty and worth combine,
To hide what roughness there might be,

Beneath this cool, refreshing shade,
The wretched quite forget their woes,
The hungry find the needed bread,
The weary wanderer, his repose.

Long live this honored, worthy pair!
May fortune come at their command!
And may their sons and daughter fair,
Grow up to grace their native land!

And when their earthly toils are o'er,
And they repose beneath the sod,
Theirs be a home on that bright shore,
Illumined by the smile of God.

BIRTHDAY VERSES.

Written for a little girl on her ninth birthday.

In the morning of life's day, All before is bright and gay, All behind is like a dream, Or the morn's uncertain beam, Falling on a misty stream.

In the morning of thy youth, Learn this sober, solemn truth; Life is passing like a stream, Or a meteor's sudden gleam; Like the bright aurora's blaze, Disappearing while we gaze; Soon the child becomes a maid, In the pride of youth arrayed, And her mind and form expand To proportions great and grand; Then she changes to a wife, Battling with the ills of life; Thus we come and thus we go, And our cups with joy and woe, Oft are made to overflow. Each returning bright birthday, Like the mile-stones by the way, Will remind you as you go-- Though at first they pass so slow That behind there is one more And, of course, one less before; Watch the moments as they fly, With a never tiring eye-- Since you cannot stop their flow, O! improve them as they go.

ROLL CALL.

Written on the death of William Sutton, a member of the order of
Good Templars.

Call the roll! Call the roll of our band,
Let each to his name answer clear,
There's danger abroad, there's death in the land,
Call the roll, see if each one is here.

The roll call is through, one answers not,
Brother Sutton, so prompt heretofore,
Has answered another roll call; the spot
Which knew him shall know him no more.

He's at rest by the beautiful river,
Which flows by the evergreen shore,
Where the verdure of spring lasts forever,
And sickness and death are no more.

O alas! that the righteous should die,
While sinners so greatly abound,
In the world that's to come we'll know why,
The latter incumber the ground.

This mystery we'll then comprehend,
And all will be plain to our sight,
Then dry up the tears which flow for our friend,
In full faith that God doeth right.

IN MEMORIAM

RENSELLAER BIDDLE.

A noble heart is sleeping here,
Beneath this lowly mound;
With reverence let us draw near,
For this is holy ground.

The mortal frame that rests below
This consecrated sward,
Was late with heavenly hope aglow,
A temple of the Lord.

His charity was like a flood,
It seemed to have no bound,
But reached the evil and the good,
Wherever want was found.

The poor and needy sought his door,
The wretched and distressed,
He blessed them from his ample store,
With shelter, food and rest.

Giving his substance to the poor,
He lent it to the Lord;
While each returning harvest brought
Him back a rich reward.

Thus passed his useful life away,
Dispensing good to all,
Till on the evening of his day,
He heard his Master call.

"Brave soldier of the cross, well done,
You've fought a noble fight;
Come up, and claim the victor's crown,
And wear it as your right."

"For all your works of christian love
And heaven-born charity,
Are registered in Heaven above
As so much done to Me."

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE.

Dear Mollie, in thy early days, While treading childhood's dreamy maze, Peruse this book with care: Peruse it by the rising sun; Peruse it when the day is done, Peruse it oft with prayer.

Search it for counsel in thy youth, For every page is bright with truth And wisdom from on high. Consult it in thy riper years, When foes without and inward fears Thy utmost powers defy.

And when life's sands are well nigh run And all thy work on earth is done, In patience wait and trust, That He whose promises are sure Will number you among the pure, The righteous and the just.

CHRISTMAS GREETING, 1877.

Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

The rolling seasons come and go, As ebbs the tide again to flow, And Christmas which seemed far away A year ago, is near to-day. And day and night in quick succession, Are passing by like a procession. While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried shore, Where days and nights will be no more, And where time's surging tide will be, Absorbed in vast eternity. Where then shall we poor mortals go? No man can tell, we only know We are but strangers in the land. Our fathers all have gone before, And shortly we shall be no more. This hall where we so often meet Will soon be trod by other's feet, And where our voices now resound, Will other speakers soon be found. And thus like wave pursuing wave, Between the cradle and the grave The human tide is prone to run, The sire succeeded by the son. May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have passed away, We all may meet on that blessed shore, Where friends shall meet to part no more.

ANNIVERSARY POEM.

Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann
Peterson.

No costly gifts have I to bring,
To grace your festive board,
This humble song, I've brought to sing,
Is all I can afford.

Then let my humble rhyme be heard
In silence, if you please,
You'll find it true in ev'ry word,
It flows along with ease.

We've met in honor of our friend
Who seventy years ago,
Came to this earth some years to spend,
How many none can know.

The world is using her so well,
I hope she'll tarry long,
And ten years hence I hope to tell,
"I have another song."

THE PETERSON GENEALOGICAL TREE.

I'll sing you a song of a wonderful tree, Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me; Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky, While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy, Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw, Which fill'd him with wonder, amazement and awe. This vision the wise men all failed to expound, Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found. What the king saw in vision, we lit'rally see, In the Peterson genealogical tree; It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew; Its roots being small and its branches but few. The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it, And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it. Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure, And like plants of slow growth 'tis bound to endure. While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession, And the ages move on in an endless procession, While the sun in its glory reigns over the day, And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway, While the planets their courses pursue in the sky, And far distant stars light their torches on high, May this family tree grow taller and stronger And its branches increase growing longer and longer. May every branch of this vigorous tree, Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea, And under its shade may the poor and distressed Find shelter and comfort and kindness and rest, And when the great harvest we read of shall come When the angels shall gather and carry it home May this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found, Transplanted from earth into holier ground, Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight, Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night, Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more, And friends never part. On that beautiful shore, May we hope that the friends who have met round this board, And greeted each other in social accord, May each meet the others to part never more.

LINES

Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill
public school, and read at her funeral.

The mysteries of life and death,
Lie hidden from all human ken,
We know it is the vital breath
Of God, that makes us living men.

We also know, _that_ breath withdrawn,
And man becomes a lifeless clod,
The soul immortal having gone
Into the presence of its God.

Here knowledge fails and faith appears,
And bids us dry the scalding tear,
And banish all our anxious fears,
Which cluster round the loved ones here.

The deep, dark, cold, remorseless grave
Has closed o'er lovely Jennie's face,
No art, nor skill, nor prayers could save
Her from its terrible embrace.

Home now is dark and desolate,
And friends and schoolmates are in tears,
While strangers wonder at the fate,
Which crushed her in her tender years.

Death never won a brighter prize,
Nor friends a richer treasure lost,
Another star has left our skies,
But heaven is richer at our cost.

We mourn but not in hopeless grief,
In tears we kiss the chast'ning rod,
This sweet reflection brings relief,
That all is good that comes from God.

Through and beyond this scene of gloom,
Faith points the mourner's downcast eyes,
While from the portals of the tomb,
They see their lost loved one arise,

In blooming immortality;
As she comes forth they hear her sing
O! grave, where is thy victory!
O! monster death where is thy sting!

WHAT IS MATTER?

DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE JOHNSTON.

How are you, George, my rhyming brother? We should be kinder to each other, For we are kindred souls at least; I don't mean kindred, like the beast,-- Mere blood and bones and flesh and matter,-- But what this last is makes no matter. Philosophers have tried to teach it, But all their learning cannot reach it; 'Tis matter still, "that's what's the matter" With all their philosophic chatter, And Latin, Greek, and Hebrew clatter, Crucibles, retorts, and receivers, Wedges, inclined planes, and levers, Screws, blow pipes, electricity and light, And fifty other notions, quite Too much to either read or write. Just ask the wisest, What is matter? And notice how he will bespatter The subject, in his vain endeavor, With deep philosophy so clever, To prove you what you knew before, That matter's matter, and no more. Well, this much then, we know at least, That matter's substance, and the beast And bird and fish and creeping thing That moves on foot, with fin or wing, Is matter, just like you and me. Are they our kindred? Must it be That all the fools in all creation, And knaves and thieves of every station In life, can call me their relation? But that's not all--the horse I ride, The ox I yoke, the dog I chide, The flesh and fish and fowl we feed on Are kindred, too; is that agreed on? Then kindred blood I quite disown, Though it descended from a throne, For it connects us down, also, With everything that's mean and low-- Insects and reptiles, foul and clean, And men a thousand times more mean. Let's hear no more of noble blood, For noble brains, or actions good, Are only marks of true nobility.

The kindred which I claim with you, Connects us with the just and true, And great in purpose, heart and soul, And makes us parts of that great whole Whose bonds of all embracing love A golden chain will ever prove To bind us to the good above. Then strive to elevate mankind By operating on the mind; The empire of good will extend, A helping hand in trouble lend, Go to thy brother in distress, One kindly word may make it less, A single word, when fitly spoken, May heal a heart with sorrow broken, A smile may overcome your foe, And make his heart with friendship glow, A frown might turn his heart to steel. And all its tendencies congeal, Be it our constant aim to cure The woes our fellow men endure, Teach them to act toward each other As they would act toward a brother. Thus may our circle wider grow, The golden chain still brighter glow; And may our kindred souls, in love United live, here and above, With all the good and wise and pure, While endless ages shall endure.

ANNIVERSARY HYMN.

Written for the anniversary of the Jackson Sabbath School, Aug.
23rd, 1870.

The ever rolling flood of years, Is bearing us, our hopes and fears, With all we are or crave, Into that fathomless abyss-- A world of endless woe or bliss, Beyond the darksome grave.

One year of priceless time has passed, Since we in Sabbath school were class'd, To read and sing and pray; To hear the counsels of the good; Have we improved them as we should? How stands the case to-day?

How have we used this fleeting year? Have we grown wiser? O, I fear, And tremble to reflect, How sadly it has gone to loss, How I have shunn'd my daily cross, Some idol to erect.

To gain some trifling, selfish end, It may be I have wronged a friend, And turned his love to hate; How many idle words I've said; How many broken vows I've made; How shunn'd the narrow gate!

O Lord! forgive our wanderings wide, Our oft departures from thy side, And keep us in thy fold; Be thou our Shepherd and our all; Protect these lambs, lest any fall, And perish in the cold.

On this our Anniversary, Help us to put our trust in Thee, And lean upon Thy arm; Direct us through the coming year; Protect us, for the wolf is near, And shield us from all harm.

Our Superintendent superintend; On him Thy special blessings send, And guide him in the way; Enrich our Treasurer with Thy grace, So that he may adorn the place, He fills so well to-day.

Write on our Secretary's heart Thy perfect law; and O, impart, To our Librarian dear, The volume of thy perfect love Which cometh only from above, And casteth out all fear.

In pastures green, O lead us still! And help us all to do thy will, And all our wants supply; Help us in every grace to grow, And when we quit thy fold below, Receive us all on high.

Then, by life's river broad and bright, Our blissful day will have no night; On that immortal plain May all the Jackson scholars meet, And all their loving teachers greet, And never part again.

THE INTELLECTUAL TELEGRAPH.

ADDRESSED TO MISS C. CASHO.

Dear friend! O, how my blood warms at that word,
And thrills and courses through my every vein;
My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr'd--
Friend! Friend! repeats it o'er and o'er again.

I'll make a song of that sweet word, and sing
It oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours,
Till list'ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring,
And echo answers, Friend! with all her powers.

'Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubt
If any can explain, though all have seen,
How kindred spirits find each other out,
Though deserts vast or oceans lie between.

Some golden sympathetic cords unseen,
Unite their souls as if with bands of steel,
So finely strung, so sensitively keen,
The slightest touch all in the circle feel.

Their pulses distance electricity,
And leave the struggling solar rays behind,
The slightest throb pervades immensity,
And instant reaches the remotest mind.

'Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me,
Which raises me above this earthly clod,
To think the cords which bind our souls may be
Connected some way with the throne of God.

I sometimes think my wild and strange desires,
And longings after something yet unknown,
Are currents passing on those hidden wires
To lead me on and upward to that throne.

These visions often do I entertain,
And, if they are but visions, and the birth
Of fancy, still they are not all in vain;
They lift the soul above the things of earth.

They teach her how to use her wings though weak,
And all unequal to the upward flight--
The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak,
Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight.

LINES ON AN INDIAN ARROW-HEAD.

Rude relic of a lost and savage race!
Memento of a people proud and cold!
Sole lasting monument to mark the place
Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled.

Cold is the hand that fashion'd thee, rude dart!
Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow!
And cold the dust of the heroic heart,
Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow.

Unnumbered years have o'er their ashes flown;
Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone;
All that remains is this rude pointed stone,
To tell of nations mighty as our own.

Such is earth's pregnant lesson: through all time
Kingdom succeeds to kingdom--empires fall;
From out their ashes, others rise and climb,
Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall.

ACROSTIC

TO MISS ANNIE ELIZA M'NAMEE.

My much respected, fair young friend In youth's bright sunshine glowing: Some friendly token I would send, Some trifle, worth your knowing.

A lovely bird; the garden's pride; Nurs'd with the utmost care, No flow'r, in all the gardens wide; Incited hopes so rare: Each passing day develops more Each beauty, than the day before.

Lovely in form, in features mild; In thy deportment pure: Zealous for right, e'en from a child, A friend, both true and sure.

May thy maturer years be bright, Cloudless and fair thy skies; No storms to fright, nor frosts to blight, And cause thy fears to rise. May thy last days, in peace go past, Each being better than the last; Eternally thy joys grow brighter-- So prays D. Scott the humble writer.

MINUTES

OF THE JACKSON HALL DEBATING SOCIETY, DEC. 5, 1877.

My muse inspire me, while I tell The weighty matters that befell On Monday night at Jackson Hall December fifth. I'll tell it all, Day and year I'll tell you even, 'Twas eighteen hundred seventy-seven. The Jacksonites were out in force, No common thing was up of course, But something rare and rich and great, 'Twas nothing short of a debate; What was the question? Let me see, Yes; "Can Christians consistently Engage in war against a brother And at the same time love each other?" But first and foremost let me say, My muse has taken me astray, So I'll return to the beginning Digression is my common sinning For which your pardon I implore, If granted, I will sin no more, That is no more till the next time, For when I'm forging out a rhyme, The narrative which I would fix up, I somehow rather oddly mix up.

A president must first be got, So they elected James M. Scott, He said he'd serve; (and that was clever,) A little while, but not forever. A paper called a "constitution," Was read and on some person's motion, Was all adopted, at a word, A thing that seemed to me absurd. Then instantly to work they went, And filled the chair of president, And William Henderson they took, They knew their man just like a book. A scribe was wanted next to keep, A record of their doings deep. On looking round they cast the lot, And so it fell on David Scott. A treasurer was next in order When looking up and down the border, For one to hoard the gold and silver, The mantle fell on Joseph Miller. The executive committee Was now to fill and here we see A piece of work I apprehend, May lead to trouble in the end, For while they only wanted five, Yet six they got, as I'm alive, First they installed Peter Jaquett, Then John Creswell, two men well met, James Law, but they were not enough, And so they added William Tuft. One more was wanted that was plain, That one was found in John McKane, But when the five were call'd to meet There were but four came to the seat; There are but four, said one so racy, So they elected William Gracy. Now you perceive this grave committee Which numbers five both wise and witty, Has got into a pretty fix With but five seats and numbers six. The question for the next debate Was then selected, which I'll state If I have only got the gumption To make some word rhyme with resumption, "Should Congress now repeal the act To pay all debts in gold in fact."

The speakers now were trotted out Their sides to choose and take a bout Upon the question, which I stated As having been so well debated, Namely, "Can christians go to war," The very devil might abhor To contemplate this proposition Offspring of pride and superstition That brothers by a second birth, Should make a very hell of earth. The war of words waxed loud and long, Each side was right, the other wrong; The speakers eager for the fray, Wished their ten minutes half a day; But time and tide will wait for none, So glibly did the gabble run, That nine o'clock soon spoiled the fun, And all that rising tide of words, Was smothered never to be heard. The fight is o'er, the race is run, And soon we'll know which side has won, But this is not so easy done; Indeed I have a world of pity For the executive committee Who hear in silence all this clatter And then decide upon the matter; To give each speaker justice due, And sift the error from the true, Is not an easy thing to do. To decide what facts have any bearing Upon the question they are hearing, And generally keep in hand The arguments, so strong and grand, And draw from them a just conclusion Without a mixture of confusion; The negative got the decision Unanimous, without division. The speakers then took their position, Upon the doubtful proposition Of the repeal of gold resumption, Upon the plausible presumption, That those who pay must have the money, That laws of Congress, (that seems funny,) Are not above the laws of trade, And therefore cannot be obeyed. Here now my muse, poor worthless jade, Deserted, as I was afraid From the beginning she would do; So I must say good-night to you, And these long rambling minutes close, In just the dullest kind of prose.

RETROSPECTION.

The phantoms have flown which I cherished;
The dreams which delighted have passed;
My castles in air have all perished--
I grieved o'er the fall of the last.

'Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow;
It passed like a vapor away--
As the mist which hangs over the meadow
Dissolves in the sun's burning ray.

The joys of my youth are all shattered;
My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore;
The friends of my childhood are scattered;
Their faces I'll see never more.

Some are estranged, some have gone under;
The battle of life is severe.
When I stand by their graves, the wonder,
The mystery, seems to be clear:

They were vet'rans more noble than I;
And placed in the van of the fight,
They fell where the hero would die,
When he bleeds for truth and the right.

The battle of life is proceeding--
The rear will advance to the van;
I'll follow where duty is leading,
And fall at my post like a man.

ACROSTIC

TO MISS FLORENCE WILSON M'NAMEE.

Maiden, lovely, young and gay, In the bloom of life's young May! Sweet perfumes are in the air; Songs of gladness ev'rywhere!

Flowers are springing round thy way, Lovely flowers, bright and gay: Over head and all about Rings one constant joyous shout! Earth is carpeted with green, Nature greets you as her queen. Call the trees and flow'rs your own, Each will bow before your throne. While in youth's enchanting maze, Incline thy steps to wisdom's ways! Lead a quiet peaceful life; Swiftly fly from noise and strife; Own thy Lord before mankind; 'Neath his banner you will find More than all this world can give; Contentment while on earth you live, Nearer to your journey's end, All your aspirations tend: May you end your days in peace; Earthly ties in joy release; Eternally thy joys increase; That this may be thy joyous lot Ever prays thy friend D. Scott.

THE BOOK OF BOOKS.

Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan, June
1st, 1868.

Esteemed young friend
This book I send,
I know full well thou wilt receive;
For thou canst read
Its shining creed,
And understand it and believe.

Oh could I say
As much to-day,
What joys would thrill this heart of grief,--
I do believe.
Oh Lord, receive
My prayer--help THOU mine unbelief!

This book though small,
Is more than all
The wealth of India to thee;
Oh priceless treasure!
Rich beyond measure
Are all who build their hopes on thee.

THE LESSON OF THE SEASONS.

Written for a little girl on her eleventh birthday.

Fleeting time is on the wing-- Surely Winter, joyous Spring, Glowing Summer, Autumn sere, Mark the changes of the year.

Late the earth was green and fair, Flowers were blooming everywhere; Birds were singing in the trees, While the balmy healthful breeze, Laden with perfume and song, Health and beauty flowed along.

But a change comes o'er the scene; Still the fields and trees are green, And the birds keep singing on, Though the early flowers are gone; And the melting noon-day heat, Strips the shoes from little feet, And the coats from little backs; While the paddling bare-foot tracks, In the brooklet which I see, Tell of youthful sports and glee. Hay is rip'ning on the plain, Fields are rich in golden grain, Mowers rattle sharp and shrill, Reapers echo from the hill, Farmer, dark and brown with heat, Push your labor--it is sweet, For the hope, in which you plow, And sow, you are reaping now. Corn, which late, was scarcely seen, Struggling slowly into green, 'Neath the Summer's torrid glow-- How like magic it does grow; Rising to majestic height, Drinks the sunbeams with delight, Sends its rootlets through the soil, Foraging for hidden spoil; Riches more than golden ore, Silent workers they explore: With their apparatus small, Noiselessly they gather all. When their work is done, behold Treasures, richer far than gold, Fill the farmers store-house wide-- And his grateful soul beside.

But the scene must change again, Hill and dell and spreading plain, Speak so all can comprehend Summer's reign is at an end. Forests, gorgeously arrayed, (Queens such dresses ne'er displayed) Grace the coronation scene Of the lovely Autumn queen. Birds, with multifarious notes, Ringing from ten thousand throats, Shout aloud that Summer's dead, And Autumn reigns in her stead. Now another change behold-- All the varied tints of gold, Purple, crimson, orange, green-- Every hue and shade between, That bedecked the forest trees, Now lie scattered by the breeze. The birds have flown. Faithless friends Love the most when they're best fed; And when they have gained their ends, Shamefully have turned and fled. Winter claims his wide domain, And begins his frigid reign. Thus the seasons come and go: Spring gives place to Summer's glow; Then comes mellow Autumn's sway, Rip'ning fruits and short'ning day; Gorgeous woods in crimson dress, Surpassing queens in loveliness. Then the Frost King mounts the throne, Claims the empire for his own; Hail and rain and sleet and snow Are his ministers that go On the swift wings of the blast, At his bidding, fierce and fast.

Like the seasons of the year, Your young life will change, my dear. Now you're in your early Spring, Hope and joy are on the wing; Flow'rets blooming fresh and gay, Shed their fragrance round your way. Summer's heat is coming fast, And your Spring will soon be past; For, where you are, I have been; All that you see, I have seen. Hopes that beamed around my way, Cast their light on yours to-day. All that you do, I have done; All your childish ways I've run, All your joys and pangs I've had-- All that make you gay or sad; I have sported in the brook, Truant from my work or book; Chased the butterfly and bee, Robb'd the bird's nest on the tree; Damm'd the brook and built my mill; Flew my kite from hill to hill; Sported with my top and ball-- Childish joys, I know them all. Childish sorrows, too I've felt-- Anguish that my heart would melt; Tears have wet my burning cheek, Caused by thoughts I could not speak. Mysteries then confused my brain, Which have since become more plain; Much that then seemed plain and clear Has grown darker year by year; When my artless prayers I said, Skies were near--just over head; And the angels seemed so near, I could whisper in their ear. All that I have learned since then, I would give, if once again, Those bright visions would return. For I find, the more I learn, Further off the skies appear, And the angels come not near. Though in better words I pray, Heaven seems so far away, That I wish, but wish in vain, That the skies were near again; That no other words I knew, But those simple ones and few, That the angels used to hear, When I whispered in their ear. I would barter all the fame, Wealth and learning that I claim, Which a life of toil have cost, For those priceless seasons lost.

JOHN A. CALHOUN, MY JOE JOHN.

A PARODY.

This poem was the outgrowth of a newspaper controversy between John
A. Calhoun, a school teacher of this county, and one of the trustees
of Jackson Hall, who wrote above the signature of "Turkey," in which
Mr. Calhoun said some rather hard things about the school trustees
of the county. The poem was written at the request of the trustee,
who was the other party engaged in the controversy.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, "I wonder what you mean?" You're always getting in some scrape and getting off your spleen; Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however things may go; You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name; It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it defame By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know, Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the "Turkey" let alone; My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own. "There's nothing in a name," John, and this you ought to know, That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour; Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour. But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go, Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim; So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low, And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice; And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are not nice;) And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show, And use those "open eyes" of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools; And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low, By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace, And may your honest name, John, so mightily increase, That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow-- But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

EMMA ALICE BROWNE.

Emma Alice Browne was born about forty-five years ago, in an unpretentious cottage, which is still standing near the northeast corner of the cross-roads, on the top of Mount Pleasant, or Vinegar Hill, as it was then called, about a mile west of Colora. She is the oldest child of William A. Browne and Hester A. Touchstone, sister of the late James Touchstone. Her father was the youngest son of William Brown, who married Ann Spear, of Chester county, and settled a few yards north of the State Line, in what is now Lewisville, Chester county, Pennsylvania, where his son William was born, early in the present century. He was a stonemason by trade, and though comparatively uneducated, was possessed of a brilliant imagination, and so highly endowed by nature with poetic ability that he frequently amused and delighted his fellow-workmen by singing songs which he extemporized while at his work. There is no doubt that his granddaughter, the subject of this sketch, inherited much of her poetic talent from him; though her family is connected with that of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, the English poetess, whom though in some respects she resembles, we hesitate not to say she greatly surpasses in grandeur of conception and beauty of expression.

William Brown was a half-brother of the mother of the editor of this book; consequently Emma and he are cousins. If, therefore, this sketch should seem to exceed or fall short of the truth, the reader must attribute its imperfections to the inability of the writer to do justice to the subject, or to the great, but he hopes pardonable, admiration which he has long entertained for his relative's literary productions.

The Brown family are of Scotch-Irish extraction, and trace their lineage away back through a long line of ancestors to the time when the name was spelled Brawn, because of the great muscular development of the rugged old Scotch Highlander who founded it.

William Brown's early education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood where he was born. He was endowed by nature with a logical mind, a vivid imagination and great practical common sense; and a memory so tenacious as to enable him to repeat a sermon almost, if not quite, verbatim, a year after he had heard it delivered. Early in life he became an exemplary member of the Methodist Church, and was ordained as a Local Preacher in the Methodist Protestant persuasion, by the Rev. John G. Wilson, very early in the history of that denomination, in the old Harmony Church, not far south of Rowlandville. Subsequently he was admitted to the Conference as a traveling minister and sent to southeastern Pennsylvania, where he continued to preach the gospel with much success until his death, which occurred when his daughter Emma was a child about eight years of age.

Emma's education began on her father's knee, when she was little if any more than three years old. Before she was four years old she could repeat Anacreon's Ode to a Grasshopper, which her father had learned from a quaint old volume of heathen mythology, and taught his little daughter to repeat, by reciting it aloud to her, as she sat upon his knee. Subsequently, and before she had learned to read, he taught her in the same manner "Byron's Apostrophe to the Ocean," Campbell's "Battle of Hohenlinden," and Byron's "Destruction of Sennacherib," all of which seem to have made a deep impression upon her infantile mind, particularly the latter, in speaking of which she characterizes it as "a poem whose barbaric glitter and splendor captivated my imagination even at that early period, and fired my fancy with wild visions of Oriental magnificence and sublimity, so that I believe all my after life caught color and warmth and form from those early impressions of the gorgeous word-painting of the East." Emma's subsequent education was limited to a few weeks' attendance at a young ladies' seminary at West Chester, Pennsylvania, and a like experience of a few weeks in Wilmington, Delaware, when she was about sixteen years old. But her mind was so full of poesy that there was no room in it for ordinary matters and things, and the duties of a student soon became so irksome that she left both the institutions in disgust. Of her it may be truly said, "she lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came," for she composed verses at four years of age, and published poems at ten. Her first effusions appeared in a local paper at Reading, Pa. Being a born poetess, her success as a writer was assured from the first, and her warmth of expression and richness of imagery, combined with a curious quaintness, the outgrowth of the deep vein of mysticism that pervades her nature, soon attracted the attention of the _literati_ of this country, one of the most distinguished of whom, the late George D. Prentice, did not hesitate to pronounce her the most extraordinary woman of America; "for," said he, "if she can't find a word to suit her purpose, she makes one." While some of her earlier poems may have lacked the artistic finish and depth of meaning of those of mature years, they had a beauty and freshness peculiar to themselves, which captivated the minds and rarely failed to make a deep impression upon the hearts of those who read them.

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

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

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

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

EARLIER POEMS.

MY BROTHER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY FATHER.

IN MEMORIAM, 1857.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AT THE NIGHTFALL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MIDNIGHT CHIME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAY-THALIA.

TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MEMORIES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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