Chapter 14

No prayer of love or passion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fashion, Of immortality.

MY BABY AND THE ROSE.

A rose tree grew by the garden wall, And its highest blossom was just as tall As my baby's curly head; A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,-- But sweeter from head to dimpled toes, Was the baby I fondly led.

Now summer is over and winter gone, And the winds of March are whistling on Where the rose its petals shed; No trace of rose perfumed and rare, No baby face as seraph fair, My baby sweet is dead.

The summer sun will shine again, And 'neath the pattering, warm June rain, Again the rose will bloom, And so beyond these lowering skies My baby dear, with smiling eyes, Shall peer through earthly gloom,

And guide me with her angel hand Through Heaven's gates,--and with me stand Away from worldly woes,-- Where Heaven's flowers, divinely sweet, Soften the path for weary feet With perfume of the rose.

FOLGER McKINSEY.

Folger McKinsey was born in Elkton, on the 29th of August, 1866, in the cottage on Bow street now occupied by Thomas W. Green. His early life was spent in Elkton, except a few years in childhood when his parents resided in the West and South, until 1879, when they removed to Philadelphia, taking their son with them. His paternal grandfather was a Scotchman, and his grand parents on his mother's side were Germans, from the country bordering on the Rhine. Through the marriage of his maternal great grandmother he is distantly related to Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe. Both his parents are persons of intellectual ability, and have written verse, his mother having been a contributor to the local newspapers of this county, and to several western journals.

Mr. McKinsey received his education at the primary school of Miss Tabitha Jones, on Main street, in Elkton, where he was sent when seven years of age. Except an attendance of eight months at the public school of Elkton, he never attended any other schools. In early childhood he showed a great desire to read, and is indebted to his relative, William J. Jones, and to L. Marshall Haines and E.E. Ewing for the means of gratifying his early thirst for information. Shortly after removing to Philadelphia Mr. McKinsey entered a mercantile establishment as clerk, but soon afterwards accepted a position in the office of a publishing house, and subsequently entered the office of the Philadelphia and Reading railroad company as clerk in the record department. While in the office of the railroad company he wrote and published his first poem. It is called "Satana Victo" and is written in blank verse. Since that time he has been a prolific writer of both poetry and prose, much of which has been published.

In October, 1884, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of editor of the _Shore Gazette_, a weekly journal published at Ocean Beach, N.J., which he continued to fill for some months, when he returned to Philadelphia and accepted a position as special writer on a prominent daily journal of that city. In October, 1885, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of associate editor of the _Cecil Whig_, which he continued to fill until the following March when he became editor of the _Daily_ and _Weekly News_, of Frederick City, Maryland. During the time he was connected with the _Whig_ he began the publication of a journal in Darby, called the _Delaware County Independent_.

In January, 1886, Mr. McKinsey married Miss Fannie Holenrake Dungan, an estimable young English lady of Camden, N.J. Mr. McKinsey is a great admirer of Joaquin Miller and Walt Whitman, and a warm personal friend of the latter.

Though young in years he writes with as much fluency and ease as if he had been writing poetry for half an ordinary lifetime, and gives promise of a brilliant career that will be creditable to his native town, and beneficial to the human race.

WAITING THEIR CROWNS.

They wait, the forest monarchs tall, In naked beauty on the hills, Until the snows of Winter fall, And icy arms embrace the rills.

The golden glory of the days, When Indian Summer fills the land, Descends in gleams and dreamful haze, Like blessings from the Lord's right hand.

No matin call of tardy bird, Long stayed by sunshine in the north, Above the fluttering clouds is heard. A moment's pause, then bursting forth

In all the glorious sweets of song That thrill from soul to soul aflame, And die the barren hills among From whence the summer carols came.

All day the leafless monarchs wave Their hoary branches high in air, And white-winged spirits guard the grave Where late they laid the Autumn fair.

A sterner nature marks the land, The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep, The Summer trips it, hand in hand, With Autumn o'er the distant deep.

Where lift the dim, perpetual isles Their purple ensigns of the youth That ever dimples, romps and smiles Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth.

And deep within the wooded lane The oak and pine, in plaintive call, Unto the wintry tide complain, As leaves and brown nuts constant fall.

They wait their crowns, the naked kings! And down the avenues of night The frosty god, December, brings Them glistening diadems of white.

White petals of the virgin snow, With sprigs of ivy here and there, They deck the forest monarch's brow, While breezes whistle through his hair.

A sterner nature marks the soul, Men's lips draw near the cup of life, They wait to hear the centuries' roll That bring the kingly crowns of strife.

The spring-time months and summer years Beside the Autumn days are laid, Beneath the grave of conquered fears, Beneath the sloping hill-side's shade.

And deeper joy, serener faith, Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp, While death, the monarch, gently lay'th Upon their brows a kinglier clasp.

They wait no more the golden crown; Men, trees, the careless days of strife, Drift onward to the far, sweet town,-- God's kingdom of eternal life.

SEA ECHOES.

I walk not by the sounding sea; I dwell full many leagues from shore And still an echo drifts to me Of the eternal, constant roar Of waves, that beetle past the crags And moan in weary flights of song Where wet sea moss and coral drags The shiny lengths of sand along.

I see beyond the friendly vales, And grand old hills that guard my home, To where the seaward petrel sails And storm winds of the Northland moan. I live again in brighter days, New-born from dreams of the dead past, When she and I stood there to gaze At sparkling hull, and spar, and mast

Of some staunch sea-craft bound amain At will of wayward wind and fate, Deep plunging in the waves to gain Some northern isle, or rich estate Of palm and pine in southward clime, Where all day long the playful air Pranks with the grizzled beard of time And paints his hoary visage fair.

Within the dim, old forests here, I wander now long leagues from shore, And still the old song haunts my ear, The century singing ocean's roar; And now I know, fond soul of love; Why still the murmurous echoes live, And sound for aye the hills above That back to earth the music give;

She, too, walked there in dreams with me, In love's sweet unity we trod The moon-bathed sands, and swore to be Forever true before our God. I see it still, her pale, calm face, With angel love-light in her eyes, And ever there, beside such grace, A dim, sweet token of surprise.

Oh, tender touch of one soft hand! I held it then in simple trust, Alas, ye waves that lick the sand! How long has that hand lain in dust? I see her soul in yonder star, I see the soft lines of her face, And could God so unkindly mar That angel beauty and its grace?

Roll, murmuring echoes of the sea! Repeat thy sweet, immortal moan, Drift ever inland unto me Within my sunny Southern home; And it shall be a tender dream-- Thy plaintive music thrilling me, And her star face above--shall seem Like other days beside the sea When our lips touched eternally.

WHERE FANCY DWELLS.

The sea winds blow from western isles, From isles where fancy dwells and peace. Where summer sunshine softly smiles And perfumes of the far off east Float over waves white-capped with foam That glisten in the pale sweet light Shed from the far eternal dome Where fair star faces paint the night.

Life must have rest sometime, somewhere, On land or wave its peace shall be, And I have found my life's fond share In yon fair isle of Hebride; In yon fair isle where all day long The sunlight shadows drift and float And all the world seems bathed in song Borne trembling from the skylark's throat.

O! isle of peace, the waves that kiss Thy beaches all the centuries through, Flow from mysterious founts of bliss From founts o'er run with sunny dew, And o'er thy tree-tops lazily The perfumed breezes come and go With odors from that far countree Where eglantine and jessamine grow.

Fair isle of summer, isle of love, Where souls forget their bitter strife And mingled sadnesses that move In tempests o'er the sea of life; I kiss thy fair shore with my knee, And lift a thankful heart to God, For perfect joy comes unto me Where thy trees' blossomed branches nod.

Thy long sea waves float in beyond The dim blue lines of sunlit sky, Where films of cloudy lacework frond The billows tumbling mountain high; And shoreward in the still sweet eve The low songs of the mermaids drift, As in some coral grot they weave Their seaweed robes, and sometimes lift

Their long, strong, tangled lengths of hair Above the bosom of the wave, While 'mid its golden meshes fair The distant sunbeams stoop to lave. Sweet isle of fancy, far beyond The dark dim vales of human woe, My bark of love sails o'er the fond Blue waves that ever shoreward flow.

My bark sails on the unknown sea Led by a large, pale star alone, That star wherein her face may be, Who to that better land hath gone. O, never turn, brave white-sailed ship, Again towards that barren shore But bear me on the waves that dip And kiss yon isle forevermore.

Sweet day of rest when toil is past, When hearts can lay their burdens by And feel the peace God's angels cast In isleward flights from his fair sky! Sweet isle of love where fancy dwells, And nature knows no pang of care, I hear the music of its bells Far floating on the evening air.

I hear the lonely shepherd's song Flow down the green and mossy vale, And westward all the calm night long The restless sea gulls sail. I sometimes turn towards the stars With sudden shock of glad surprise, And half believe these island bars Are but the gates to Paradise.

AT KEY'S GRAVE.

I stood one summer, friend, beside The foam waves of a distant sea That muttered all the summer through A low sweet threnody.

A mournful song was ever on The lips that it were death to kiss, A song for those who died as died The brave at ancient Salamis.

A thousand graves lay in the trough Of that great ocean of the East, A thousand souls fled through its foam Towards the starlit land of peace.

And for each ship-wrecked soul that slept Beneath the dark inconstant waves The wind gave songs in memory Of men true-hearted, pure and brave.

But I have stood, sweet-singer, by Thy lonely, unmarked grave to-day, And all the songs thy memory got Came from the branches in their sway.

Ah, peace! ah, love! ah, friendship true! No wreath rests here wove by your hands To mark the Poet's silent tomb. As tombs are marked in other lands.

But in my noon-day dream there came From the fair bosom of the hills The voice of some sweet psalmist, thus-- "'Tis so God wills, 'tis so God wills."

THE ETERNAL LIFE.

I care not for the life that is, I think not of the things that are; I live, oh! soul of tenderness, Beneath an angel blessedness That draws its light from one small star.

I know not if the world be ill, I care not for its throb of pain, I live, oh heart, in fellowship With other hearts that rise and dip In the great sea that floods the main

From east to west with tides of love-- The ocean of Eternal Life, Whose waves flow ever free and warm From land of snow to land of palm And heal the naked wounds of strife.

I only know God's law is just, And that is all we need to know, I live down creeds of hate and spite, I build the nobler creeds of right That beautify our beings so.

The days are brief that come apace, When morn wakes up and night sinks down, But far beyond the hills of jet The glory of the sweet sunset Lights all the steeples of the town

Within whose walls no sadness lives, No broken hearts, no simple strife, For that I live, oh soul of faith, For that whereof the Master saith "Here find eternal love and life."

MRS. ROSALIENE ROMULA MURPHY.

Mrs. Rosaliene Romula Murphy, daughter of John and Hannah Mooney, was born in Philadelphia, May, 1, 1838, and married Thomas H.P. Murphy, son of John C. and Ann Rothwell Murphy, and grandson of Hyland Price, of Cecil county, on the 18th of May, 1858. Her education was obtained at a school taught by the Sisters of Mercy, and at the public schools of her native city.

Immediately after her marriage Mrs. Murphy came to Cecil county, and for ten years resided near the head of Bohemia river; subsequently she has resided in Middletown, Delaware, in Chester county, Pennsylvania, and for the last ten years in Philadelphia. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are the parents of eight children, four of whom are now living.

From early childhood Mrs. Murphy has shown a remarkable aptitude for literary work, and when quite a little girl at school, frequently took the highest average for composition. She commenced to write for the press at an early age and while in this county contributed poetry to the columns of the local newspapers and some of the journals of Wilmington and Philadelphia.

WOMAN'S RIGHTS.

Woman has certain rights I own, That none will dare deny; No king nor senate can destroy Her claims,--nor will they try. 'Tis hers to smooth the homeward path Of age,--her strength their stay; To guide their feeble footsteps here,-- To brush life's thorns away.

'Tis hers to make a sunny home, To cherish and support With love, the one who claims her heart, Through good and bad report. To watch the tiny sleeping babe, Just nestling in her breast, To shield it with her mother-love, And guard it in its rest.

To watch in vigils of the night, The fever-tossed frame; To cool the dry, and parched lips, And ease the racking pain. To close the eyes when all is o'er, To weep with those who weep; To help the weary in their task, Keep guard whilst others sleep.

To love and cherish, guard, protect, Make home a sunny spot-- Keep ever pure her mother name, A name not soon forgot! To win and wear her husband's love, As an honored, cherished crest; To hold her children's hearts, so "they Will rise and call her bless'd."

To nobly share the widow's woe, To dry the orphan's tears, To pray for strength for hearts oppress'd, And help allay their fears; To reach a helping, loving hand, To those who go astray, And woo them back again to God, As they faint along the way.

She claims but loving trusting hearts!-- Let all their wealth be shown!-- No law can take, nor ballot give The jewels of her crown! These, these, are all a woman's rights-- Quite easy to attain-- For most she governs, it is said, "When least she seems to reign."

ONLY A BABY.

My way was stopped, as I hurried on, A carriage pass'd--and again 'twas clear, But my glance took in the tiny box, And the mourners bending near. "Only a baby"--was lightly said-- As I safely crossed the street, But my heart went with the little group, With their darling at their feet.

"Only a baby,"--God but knows The mother's bleeding heart; And the father's white, sad face would tell, How hard it is to part. "Only a baby!" what a void, In a merry, cheery home; An empty cradle, a half worn shoe; And a mother's broken tone.

"Only a baby!" the aching eyes Look out on the busy street, And fall on other laughing babes, And the silent form at her feet. "Only a baby!" a desolate home, Those stricken hearts will know, When they lay their darling down to rest, 'Neath the willows bending low.

"Only a baby!" how cold it seemed To speak of the angel near,-- My heart went after the snowy form. For its parents I breathed a prayer: "Only a baby!" ah, the weary day And the sleepless night, The feverish longing--the aching heart-- For the baby gone from sight!

"Only a baby!" the heart sobs out, What hopes lie shatter'd here, The broken bud--the tiny frame, An angel hovering near. "Only a baby!"--the years creep by-- 'Twill ever be, tho' locks be gray; Growing no older--only their babe; As years before it passed away.

TO HELEN,

ON WRITING A SECOND TIME IN HER ALBUM.

You plucked a grey hair from my head, To-day, as you stood near me: There's plenty more, that are deftly hid By wavy crimps,--I fear me. 'Tis many years since last I wrote, With fun, and spirits plenty; But now my fourth son has a vote, And my babe's not far from twenty. Ah! so it goes; old time strides on, Nor cares for years, and worries, But knocks us here; and hits us there, As past us quick he hurries; We still are friends, and have our fun, In spite of years, and trouble; We've planted, reaped, and had our day. And now we're in the stubble.

RACHEL ELIZABETH PATTERSON.

Rachel Elizabeth Patterson, better known as Lizzie Patterson, is the daughter of William Patterson and Sarah (Catts) Patterson, and was born in Port Deposit, February 2, 1820. She is also the granddaughter of an Englishman who settled on Taylor's Island, in Chesapeake Bay, where he owned considerable property, which by some means seems to have been lost by his family.

Her father at one time kept a clothing store in Port Deposit, where he died when the subject of this sketch was quite young, leaving a family of helpless children, who were soon scattered among strangers. Elizabeth was placed in a family residing a short distance south of the village of Rising Sun. While in this family she was seized with a violent illness, which confined her to bed for many months and from which she arose a cripple and a sufferer for life.

Her poetic talent began to manifest itself in those early days of suffering, and during subsequent years of confinement she found solace and recreation by composing her "Songs in Affliction," which about thirty years ago, in accordance with the advice of her friends, she published in a small volume bearing that name. The first edition consisted of eight hundred, and was so well received as to warrant the publication of another one of five hundred copies. In 1872 she published another small volume, entitled "The Little Streamlet," which contained some poems written since the publication of the first volume. Miss Patterson at present and for many years past has resided in Baltimore.

"JUDGE NOT!"

How, poor frail and erring mortal, Darest thou judge thy fellow-man And with bitter words and feelings, All his faults and frailties scan?

Why rake out from time's dull ashes, And before the world display Deeds, it may be, long repented And forgiven, ere this day?

Canst thou search his secret feelings? Canst thou read his inmost soul? Canst thou tell the hidden motives Which his actions here control?

Is he erring? seek in kindness, Then, to win him back to peace; Is he weak? oh try to strengthen; Sad? then bid his sorrows cease!

Lay thou not a heavier burden By an unkind look or word, On a heart which may by anguish To its inmost depths be stirred.

O! forbear thy hasty judging! Should thy righteous God demand Half the justice which thy brother Is receiving from thy hand,

What, oh what would be thy portion, Though more righteous thou than he, Would not the glad gates of mercy Soon their portals close on thee?

THE WISH.

I do not wish thee worldly wealth-- For it may flee away; I do not wish thee beauty's charms-- For they will soon decay.

I do not wish for thee the joys Which from earth's pleasures spring; These give at best a fleeting bliss, And leave a lasting sting.

I do not wish thee mortal fame-- This, like a meteor bright, Gleams but a moment on the sky, And leaves behind no light.

I wish for thee that richer wealth, No earthly mines reveal, "Which moth and rust cannot corrupt, And thief can never steal."

I wish for thee the sweeter joys, Which from religion flow; These have the power to soothe and bless, In hours of deepest woe.

I wish for thee the honor pure, Descending from on high; To lift thy soul away from earth, And raise it to the sky.

I wish that peace through all thy life, May on each step attend; May rapture crown its closing hour, And perfect bliss its end.

THE CHRISTIAN'S ANCHOR.

How oft when youthful skies are clear, And joy's sweet breezes round us play, We dream that as through life we steer, The morrow shall be like to-day.

We paint each scene with rainbow hues, And gaily sail on stormless seas, While hope, through life's bright future, views The port she thinks to make with ease.

But ah! how soon dark clouds of woe Spread o'er those skies a deepening shade, And waves of sorrow overflow, And all the rainbow glories fade.

'Tis thus earth's hopes, however bright, Expire and vanish, one by one, E'en as the shore recedes from sight, When glides the free bark swiftly on.

Yet the redeemed, with anchor firm, Time's swelling billows shall outride, And far beyond the raging storm Shall make the port on Canaan's side.

Oh, may this bright and blissful hope Fill my poor heart with joy and peace, Bid me 'mid all life's storms look up To yon blest land, where storms shall cease.

And when with life's last gale I've striven, And all its raging waves have pass'd, Oh, may I, in the port of heaven, My anchor Hope securely cast.

CALLANDER PATTERSON.

Callander Patterson was born near Perryville, Cecil county, May 6, 1820. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood. Many years ago he went to Philadelphia, where he studied dentistry, which he has since practiced in that city. Mr. Patterson commenced writing poetry when quite young, but published nothing until upwards of forty years of age. His poetry--of which he has written much--seems to have been of a religious character.

Owing to causes beyond our control, the following poem is the only one, adapted to this book, that we have been able to obtain.

GOD IS GREAT.

Our God is great! and to his arm I'll trust my destiny; For what in life or death can harm The soul that leans on thee?

Thine arm supports the universe, For by thy might alone The blazing comets speed their course, Revolving round thy throne.

They go and come at thy command To do thy sovereign will; Each one supported by thy hand, Its mission to fulfill.

Through boundless space, 'mid shining spheres, Those wingless heralds fly; Proclaiming through the lapse of years That God still reigns on high.

And all those burning suns of night That light the distant space, Declare thy power infinite, Thy wisdom and thy grace.

We try to scan those regions far Till vision fades away, And yet beyond the utmost star Are plains of endless day.

And when we earthward turn our gaze, With wonder and delight, We marvel at the lightning's blaze And tremble at its might.

And yet, thy hand is in it all, For there thy love is seen: By it the rain is made to fall, And earth is robed in green.

The cyclone on its path of death That rises in an hour, The fierce tornadoes' wildest breath, But faintly show thy power.