The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland by Various

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

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

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

MUSINGS.

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

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

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

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

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

LINES.

WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE.

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

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

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

MRS. SARAH HALL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

SKETCH OF A LANDSCAPE

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

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

WITH A ROSE IN JANUARY.

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

LIFE.

SUGGESTED BY A SUMMER EVENING.

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

MRS. SALLIE WILLIAMS HARDCASTLE.

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

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

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

Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted
to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen
her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own
age, were published in the _Virginia Sentinel_. She was an occasional
contributor to the _Literacy Companion_, _Magnolia Weekly_, and other
Southern periodicals.

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

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

ON RECEIPT OF A BOUQUET.

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

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

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

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

OCTOBER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLD LETTERS.

TO MRS. ANNIE P----.

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

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

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

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

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

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

JUNE ROSES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MUSIC.

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

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

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

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

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

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

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

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

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

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

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

MRS. MARY ELIZA IRELAND.

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

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

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

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

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

Since then she has been an acceptable contributor to _Cottage Hearth_,
_Household_, and other domestic magazines, besides the _Literary World_,
_Ladies' Cabinet_, _Woman's Journal_, and several church papers; and has
written two prize stories, which took first prizes.

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

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

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

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

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

AT THE PARTY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MOTHER AND SON.

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

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

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