Chapter 10

Take the harp, nor longer leave it Sighing on the willow tree; Pass thy gentle fingers o'er it, And awake its melody; The streams tho' icy chains may bind them, Still will murmur back thy trill, And the roses wild, though blasted, On thy cheeks are blooming still.

Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers The lone groves and valleys fill; And tho' winter's frosts have sear'd them, Thou canst dream they're beauteous still-- Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure, And wild flowers above them rise; What tho' chilly blasts have strewn them, Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs!

Take the harp, nor on it dirges Longer let Eolus play; Touch it, and those notes of sadness Change to joyous rhapsody! And tho' the grape, the gift of Autumn, Has been prest to crown the bowl-- Still in thy tresses shine its clusters, While down thy snowy neck they roll.

Take the harp, and wake its numbers To thy sister planet's praise, As up the eastern sky she blazes, Followed by the morning rays; Queen of starry heaven beaming, From her azure realm afar; So thou dost shine midst beauty's daughters, Love's bright and glorious morning star.

DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing.

I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale Decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away.

--Moore.

And thou art dead, The gifted, the beautiful, Thy spirit's fled! Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more! Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb-- He hath touched thee--thou hast left us in thy bloom! How oft amid the virgin throng, I've seen thee, fairest, dance along; And thine eyes, so brightly dark, Gleaming like the diamond's spark; But now how dim Those orbs are left-- By Death bereft Of their brightness, And that neck of its whiteness, Where once the curling tress descended, Where once the rose and lily blended, As the warm blush came and flew; Now o'er all hath Death extended His pallid hue-- Sallow and blue; And sunken 'neath the purple lid, Those eyes are hid, Once so bright; And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white, All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds! In its snowy folds-- Then fare thee well, sweet one, Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run, And with the flowers thou art sleeping, And o'er thy grave the friends are weeping Of thine early day. Thou wert lovely--aye, as Spring, When birds and blossoms bloom and sing, The happy, happy hours welcoming Of gentle May. In the past I see thee shining, Like the star of tender morning, A day of love and peace divining, And the sky of Hope adorning. Smiles--that dimpled mouth are wreathing; Music--those rosy lips are breathing, Like morn glancing through the sky, Like the zephyr's softest sigh. Ah, then, who'd dream that aught so fair, Was fleeting as the Summer air? Yet in that hour Disease, so deceitful, stole upon thee, As blight upon a flower; And thou art dead! And thy spirit's past away. Like a dew-drop from the spray, Like a sunbeam from the mountain, Like a bubble from the fountain; And thou art now at rest, In thy damp, narrow cell, With the clod heap'd o'er thy breast; Fare thee well!

ASPHODEL.

I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When raging tempests wildly blow, Mid storm and darkness--wond'rous powers! Heaping the stainless, virgin snow Above thy fragile form, that bowed Beneath the blighting frost that fell, Scattering o'er earth those gorgeous hues, Thy grace and pride, sweet Asphodel.

I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When dreary winter leaves the plain, And smiling spring leads forth in state, With vestal pride, her flow'ry train, And vernal songs of love and hope, In one harmonious concert swell-- Amid the floral throng I'll turn To thee, alone, sweet Asphodel.

I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When morning dawns upon the world, And through the golden gates of Heaven, Like fiery cars his beams are hurled, Driving the shades of somber night, Back to their caverned haunts to dwell-- Thou'lt come to me with charms renewed, My peerless flower, sweet Asphodel.

WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING.

William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father's farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing's early life was spent on his father's farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to the _Ladies' Garland_, the _Cecil Whig_ and _Cecil Democrat_. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of the _Daily Atlas_ of that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until the _Atlas_ was merged into the _Gazette_. He then accepted a position on the _Southern Lady's Book_, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New York _Tribune_, New York _Evening Post_ and _Chicago Tribune_.

In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865.

In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa.

Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author.

THE ANGEL VOICE.

"Oh mother, dear mother, As calmly last night I lay on my pallet An angel in white Hover'd o'er me, and softly Said--'come, brother, come, Away from this world, To a heavenly home!'"

"Then let me die, mother-- Tho' sweet birds are singing, And flowers in brightness And beauty are springing On hillside and mountain, O'er meadow and lea, They no longer possess Any sweetness for me."

"For that angelic voice, Ringing still in my ear, Has attuned my heart To a holier sphere; And like a caged eagle, My soul pines to stay So long from its home-- Its redeemer away."

O, pale grew that mother, And heavy her heart, For she knew her dear boy From her sight must depart, And be laid, cold and stiff, In the earth's humid breast, Where the wicked cease troubling, The weary have rest;

But she smoothed down his pillow, And murmured a prayer, For the Giver of mercies Her loved one to spare; But ere she had finished Her pious request, His spirit had flown To the realms of the blest!

THEN AND NOW.

[MIDNIGHT.]

I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again; And though that love has cost me much of pain, Of agony intense, I would live o'er Most willingly, each bitter hour I've known Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heart On one by thee deemed worthier is set, And I must bear the keen and deathless smart, Of passion unrequited, or forget That which is of my very life a part. To cherish it may lead to madness, yet I will brood over it: for oh, The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe.

[DAYDAWN.]

"I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again;" Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more Devotedly I love thee now, than when Those lines were written. But avails it aught? Have I return? Hold I the slightest part Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? I dare believe so:--nor will soon resign The dream I've cherished long, that some day thou'lt be mine.

THE NEGLECTED HARP.

I touch not that harp, Let it slumber alone; For its notes but awaken Sad memories of one Whose hand often swept The soft wires along, And aroused them to music, To love, and to song.

But Death, the destroyer, Ere grief threw a ray O'er her flowery path, Snatched her rudely away; And the harp that resounded, With loveliest tone, To her delicate touch, Has since slumbered alone.

Then awake not a strain-- Let it still repose there, And be breathed on alone By the sweet summer air; For its numbers though lively, Though joyous and light, But cast o'er my spirits A wildering blight.

ALONE.

Never, no nevermore, Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine, Or on my breast thy weary head recline, As oft of yore.

And though thou wert to me Life's only charm, I yet can bear A little while, since thou art free from care, Alone to be.

For to my heart is given, The cheering hope, that soon, where pain And partings are unknown, we'll meet again-- In yonder heaven.

GONE ASTRAY.

Leila, thou art resting well, In thy lonely, narrow cell-- Dark and lonely, narrow cell,-- And I would with thee had died, And was sleeping by thy side,-- In the graveyard by thy side,-- She who gave thee being, she Who made life a joy to me,-- A blessing and a joy to me.

Were she with thee, I could bear All life's agony and care,-- Bitter agony and care,-- But alas, she went astray From the straight and narrow way,-- Virtue's straight and narrow way-- And, O misery, became To her sex a thing of shame,-- A thing of infamy and shame.

Now, of her and thee bereft, Naught have I to live for left,-- Naught on earth to live for left;-- And with bleeding heart I roam, From a desecrated home,-- A broken, desecrated home,-- Looking, longing for the day When my life shall ebb away,-- To its giver, ebb away.

For I feel, a God of love, In the better land above,-- Brighter, better land above,-- To these yearning arms again, With a soul all free from stain,-- Free from every earthly stain,-- Will the wanderer restore, To be tempted nevermore-- Passion-tempted nevermore.

LAY OF THE LAST INDIAN.

They are gone--They are gone, From their green mountain homes, Where the antelope sports, And the buffalo roams; For the pale faces came, With insidious art, And the red men were forced From their homes to depart!

In the land Manitou Bestowed on their sires, Oh! never again Round their bright council-fires, Will they gather, to talk Of the feats they have done, Or, to boast of the scalps By their prowess they've won.

For they've gone--they have passed, Like the dew from the spray, And their name to remembrance Grows fainter each day; But for this were they forced From their ancestors' graves; They dared to be freemen, They scorned to be slaves.

CHARLES H. EVANS.

Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him.

Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature of _Agricola_. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware.

For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses.

INFLUENCES.

Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever.

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.