The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland by Various
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Various >> The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland
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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.
Tost on the troubled sea of life,
On every side assailed,
Involved in passion's stormy strife,
In irksome suff'rance held.
The faithful word of promise cheers
And bears my spirits up,
Dispels my dark desponding fears
And stablishes my hope.
Hope that shall every toil survive,
That smoothes the rugged path,
That mitigates the ills of life,
And soothes the hour of death.
And when the storms of life are o'er,
And all our conflicts cease,
When landed on the heavenly shore
To enjoy eternal peace.
Hope at the last, her charge resigned,
Securely we dismiss,
And an abundant entrance find,
To the abodes of bliss.
Till then our progress she attends
To solace and relieve:
And waits till every conflict ends
To take her final leave.
Possessed of all we hoped below,
Our utmost wish attained,
Our happiness complete, we know
Our full perfection gained.
Thus may I cheerfully endure,
Till thus my warfare past;--
Suffice for me the promise sure,
I shall be crowned at last.
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