Chapter IV: Part 4

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

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

THE INFANT ST. JOHN, THE BAPTIST.

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

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

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

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

SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES.

Ibi tu calentem Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici.

--Horace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FOUNTAIN REVISITED.

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

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

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

DEATH OF SAMSON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AN INFANT'S PRAYER.

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

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

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

JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY.

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

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

Mr. Cooley studied law in the office of the late Col. John C. Groome, and was admitted to the Elkton bar on the 4th of April, 1850. He practiced his profession in Elkton for a short time, during a part of which he was counsel to the County Commissioners, but removed to Warsaw, Illinois, where he continued to practice his profession for six years, after which he came to Harford county, where he resided until the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion, when he joined the Union army and continued to serve his country until the close of the war. In 1866, he married Miss Hattie Lord, of Manchester, New Hampshire, and settled in Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, where he was engaged in teaching a classical school until the time of his death.

Mr. Cooley was born within a few miles of the birthplace of William P. and E.E. Ewing, and Emma Alice Brown and almost within sight of the mansion in which Mrs. Hall wrote the poems which are published in this book.

Mr. Cooley was a born poet, a voluminous and beautiful writer, and the author of several poems of considerable length and great merit.

Mr. Cooley's widow and son, Marvin L. Cooley, still survive, and at present reside in Darlington.

A STORY WITH A MORAL.

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

FORTY YEARS AFTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PAST.

Still--still the Earth each primal grace renews, And blooms, or brightens with Creation's hues: Repeats the sun the glories of the sky, Which upward lured the earliest watcher's eye; Yet bids his beams the glowing clouds adorn With all the charms of Earth's initial morn, And duplicates at eve the splendors yet That fixed the glance, that first beheld him set.

LOVED AND LOST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR.

KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A VALENTINE.

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

LINES

SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND.

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

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

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

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

GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK.

George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858.

He is among the very best classical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest in _The Cecil Democrat_, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill.

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

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

Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published.

STONEWALL JACKSON.

[1863.]

AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IN MEMORIAM.

FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862.

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

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

Frank is dead! In life's young morning, When heavenly promise lit his day, His smitten spirit, homeward turning, Forsook its tenement of clay. No more to battle here with sin; No more to suffer mid earth's din.

Frank is dead! By fever stricken, How long he suffered, and how deep! With none to feel his hot blood quicken, No loved one near to calm his sleep. No mother's presence him to gladden: Naught, naught to cheer--all, all to sadden.

Frank is dead! His pangs are over. His gentle spirit hence has flown. Strangers, with earth, his body cover, Strangers attend his dying moan. On stranger forms his eyes last close, To meet A FRIEND in their repose.

Frank is dead! Aye! weep, fond mourner! The grand, the beautiful is lost. Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner, On passion's billows tempest-tossed, Has found a source of sweeter bliss In realms that sunder wide from this.

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

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

Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasure Has closed his bright career too soon To realize how rich a treasure The ranks had entered ere high noon. His brilliant promise, dashed in youth, One less is left to fight for truth.

Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortals. No more we'll see his noble brow Or flashing eye; but in the portals Above, by faith I see him now With gladden'd step and fluttering heart, Marching to share the better part.

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

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

NEW-YEAR ODE.

[1863.]

Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear be shed. The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead. His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends his woes. As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peaceful be its close.

Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear drop fall. The couch of birth is waiting the egress of the pall. Haste! Hasten the obsequies:--the natal hour is nigh. Waste not a moment weeping when expectation's high.

* * * * *

Draw back the veil; the curtain lift.
Ho! Thirsting hearts, rejoice!
The new-born is no puny gift:--
Time's latest, grandest choice.

Nurseling and giant! Infant grown!
Majestic even now!
'Tis well that such a restless throne
Descends to such as thou.

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

'Tis thine to choose the part thou'lt take, Oh giant mighty! Thine to make An early choice; lose not an hour. 'Tis crime to waste prodigious power. Great, vast, appalling, is the task By fate assigned to thee. No mask Of indecision now is given. The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. The hour is dark:--the danger nigh. The ravens caw: the eagles cry. The breakers dash--the chasm yawns: The skies are lurid:--chaos dawns. Thunder with thunder-peal is riven As if to shake earth's faith in heaven! All, all is wild! No sun! No moon! Earth, air and sky, in dire commune, Demand--what hand shall guide them now?

New-Year, stand forth and bide the call To thee address'd. We stand or fall As thou decree'st. Frown, and we perish. Smile, we rise To joys that savor of the skies. Bid lethargy depart thy brow And strike for right and truth. Young, thou; but hast no youth. No hours are thine for sportive mirth. Minerva-like, mature from birth, Great deeds and valiant thine must be, In wisdom guided, fair and free.-- Deeds that no year hath known before; Fraught not with strife;--drenched not in gore. Free from old taint of fell disease And ancient forms of party strife. Rich in the gentler modes of life With sweeter manners, purer laws, Forerunner of those years of ease That token a sublimer cause!

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

Thou speak'st not, giant, but I feel Hope's roseate flush upon my brow. Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. New aims thy glory will reveal. Thou heed'st the anguished bosom's smart, And thou wilt choose the better part. Thou'lt live on hist'ry's brightest page A monarch mighty, gentle sage: Great, great for what thou wilt have done And blest in all the course thou'lt run:-- Thy crown not carved in brass or wood, To crumble or decay; But be in endless day, Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good. And truth and peace will round thee weave An amaranthyne wreath of love, Its blessed motto ... trust--believe. And thou wilt share the realm above, Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet, Around one common mercy-seat.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

MY BIRTHDAY.

TO S---- 1864.

The night is strangely, wildly dark;
The thunders fiercely roll,
And lightnings flash their angry spark;
But thou absorb'st my soul.
I have no care for storm-king's cloud,
How black soe'er it be;--
No truant thought for earth's dark shroud:
I'm thinking, love, of thee.

To-night the God of battles views,
With deprecating eye,
A scene where demons wild infuse
A thirst for victory.
'Tis His, not mine to guide the storm;
'Tis His to calm the sea:
My spirit hovers 'round thy form.
I'm thinking, love, of thee.

Time's cycle once again has wrought
Its round:--I'm twenty six.
Another mile-stone's gained--sad thought--
Toward deep, silent Styx.
I count no laurels I have won;
Years bring no joy to me,
While yet alone I wander on
In timid thought of thee.

Years six and twenty have been mine
To journey on alone:
Shall I as many more repine,
Before I am undone?
Or shall the journey henceforth take
A brighter phaze for me?
Shall I next six-and-twenty make
My journey, love, with thee?

If so, good-bye grim doubt and fear:
Adieu to arid sand.
All Hail! Oh prospect bright and clear!
All Hail, oasis grand!
Hand joined in hand, heart linked with heart,
Come joy, come hope, come glee!
United, ne'er on earth to part,
I'll always think of thee.

If not, Good-bye! The spirit breaks;
The fountain soon must dry.
If not, good God! The temple shakes;
It totters! What am I?
A wreck of hope!--An aimless thing!
A helmless ship at sea
To whose last spar love still must cling,
And sigh:--Alas!--for thee.

MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON.

Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends' Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to _The Cecil Democrat_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Gertrude St. Orme."

A BIRTHDAY GREETING

TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW.

[JULY 4TH, 1886.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MURMURINGS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE OLD OAK TREE.

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

--George P. Morris.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

SWEET FLORIDA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EVENING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REV. WILLIAM DUKE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HYMN.

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

--Hebrews 11:15,16.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HYMN.

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

--Romans 6:13.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REJOICING IN HOPE.