The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland by Various

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

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

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

THE MISSIONARY'S STORY.

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

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

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

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

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

TRANSITION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DOROTHY MOORE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOMEWARD BOUND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

GEORGE JOHNSTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HERE AND HEREAFTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TURTLE'S SERMON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORAL.

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

SKYE.

THE DOG WITH THE BEAUTIFUL EYE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT, TRY IT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

BYE AND BYE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILLIAM JAMES JONES.

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

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

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