Chapter 2

I've talked with rulers, in and ex, With working man and boss; Mayor Valentine! they you unsex-- You surely are a horse.

For every blooded horse one meets, Or clever mare he passes, He finds in all the city streets A score of brainless asses.

A Jackass, in the days of old, Dress'd in a lion's skin, Went forth to ape the lion bold, And raised a mighty din:

His ass-ship's ears he could not hide; His roaring would not pass; The startled beasts his ears descried, And recognized the ass.

The moral of this tale you'll meet Each market day in town, With scales in hand, in Market street, Dress'd in the lion's gown:

He roars, 'tis true, but scan him well Whene'er you see him pass; Look at his ears and you can tell He's but a braying ass.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH SCOTT.

Ransom'd spirit, spread thy wings, Leave thy broken house of clay; Soar from earth and earthly things, To the realms of endless day.

Weary pilgrim, take thy rest, Thine has been a tiresome road; Aching head and tortur'd breast, Added to thy galling load.

Patient sufferer, dry thy tears, All thy sorrows now are o'er; Foes without, or inward fears, Never can afflict thee more.

Faithful soldier of the cross, All thy conflicts now are done; Earthly triumphs are but loss, Thine is an immortal one.

Palms of vict'ry thou shall bear, And a crown of fadeless light Will be given thee to wear, And a robe of spotless white.

Thou shalt join the countless throng, Which, through tribulation, came: And repeat the angels' song-- "Worthy! worthy is His name

Who hath conquered death and hell; Captive led captivity; Always doing, all things well; Giving us the victory!"

MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS.

The following poem was read at the forty-fifth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. James Swaney, on January 11th, 1883. Mr. and Mrs. Swaney's residence is not far from the site of the school house where Mr. Scott first went to school.

Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here; 'Tis fit that we should make this call Thus early in the year.

That time flies rapidly along, And hurries us away, Has been the theme of many a song, And it is mine to-day.

I stand where in my childhood's days, I often stood before, But nothing meets my altered gaze As in the days of yore.

The trees I climbed in youthful glee, Or slept beneath their shade. Have disappeared--no trace I see Of them upon the glade.

The school house, too, which stood near by, Has long since ceased to be; To find its site I often try, No trace of it I see.

The road I traveled to and fro, With nimble feet and spry, I cannot find, but well I know It must have been hard by.

The pond where skating once I fell Upon the ice so hard-- I lost my senses for a spell, And hence became a bard--

Is dry land now where grain or grass Is growing year by year; I see the spot, as oft I pass, No ice nor pond is there.

A barn is standing on the spot Where once the school house stood; A dwelling on the playground lot, A cornfield in the wood.

I mourn not for these altered scenes, Although it seems so strange That all are changed; I know it means That everything must change.

I mourn the loss of early friends, My schoolboy friends so dear; I count upon my fingers' ends The few remaining here.

In early youth some found their graves, With friends and kindred by; While some beneath the ocean's waves In dreamless slumbers lie;

While many more, in distant lands, No friends nor kindred near, Are laid to rest by strangers' hands, Without one friendly tear.

A few survive, both far and near, But O! how changed are they! Like the small band assembled here, Enfeebled, old, and gray.

Strange feelings rise within my soul, My eyes o'erflow with tears, As backward I attempt to roll The flood of by-gone years.

This honored pair we come to greet, For five-and-forty years Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Have worn the nuptial gears.

The heat and burden of the day They honestly have borne, Until their heads are growing gray, Their limbs with toil are worn.

In all the ups and downs of life-- Of which they've had their share-- They never knew domestic strife, Or, if at all, 'twas rare.

They now seem standing on the verge Of that unfathomed sea, Just waiting for the final surge That opes eternity.

When comes that surge, or soon or late, May they in peace depart; And meet within the shining gate, No more to grieve or part.

THE DONATION VISIT.

The following poem was read upon the occasion of a donation visit by the Head of Christiana congregation to their pastor, Rev. James I. Vallandigham.

Fair ladies dear, and gentlemen. I thought not to be here to-day: But I'm a slave, and therefore, when My muse commands, I must obey.

I've struggled hard against her power, And dashed her yoke in scorn away, And then returned, within an hour, And meekly bowed and owned her sway.

I know the ground on which I stand And tremble like an aspen when I see around, on every hand, Such learned and such gifted men,

Who really have been to college, And know the Latin and the Greek; And are so charged with general knowledge That it requires no little cheek

In an obscure and modest bard To meet a galaxy so bright,-- Indeed, I find it rather hard To face the music here to-night.

Dear friends, we've met, as it is meet That we should meet at such a time, Each other and our host to greet,-- Or guest, 'tis all the same in rhyme.

No king nor queen do I revere; The majesty of God I own. An honest man, though poor, is peer To him that sits upon a throne.

I long to see the coming day When wicked wars and strifes shall cease, And ignorance and crime give way Before the march of truth and peace.

That welcome day is drawing near; I sometimes think I see its dawn; The trampling of the hosts I hear, By science, truth and love led on.

I see the murderous cannon fused, With its death-dealing shot and shell, For making railway carwheels used, Or civil railway tracks as well.

And small arms, too, will then be wrought Into machines for cutting wheat; While those who used them will be taught To labor for their bread and meat.

God speed the day,--'tis bound to come, But not as comes the lightning's stroke; But slowly, as the acorn dumb Expands into the giant oak.

Now, reverend sir, I turn to you, To say what all your flock well know; You, as a pastor kind and true, Have led the way we ought to go.

You have rejoiced in all our joys, And sympathised with us in trouble; You have baptized our girls and boys-- And often you have made them double.

With all your gifts and talents rare, You meekly take the servants place, And guard the sheep with jealous care And hold the lambs in your embrace.

In all the ups and downs of life We've found in you a constant friend; You've counselled peace, discouraged strife, And taught us all our ways to mend.

For eight-and-twenty years you've stood A watchman on the outer wall; Repressing evil, aiding good, And kindly watching over all.

Though age may enervate your frame And dim the lustre of your eye, No lapse of time can soil your name, For names like yours can never die.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES.

Another star has left the sky, Another flower has ceased to bloom; The fairest are the first to die, The best go earliest to the tomb.

That radiant star, whose cheering ray, Adorn'd her quiet, rural home, Went down, in darkness, at mid-day. And left that quiet home in gloom.

That lovely flower, admired so much, In all its loveliness, was lost, It withered at the fatal touch Of death's untimely, killing frost.

The mourners go about the street, While children tell their tale of woe To every passer-by they meet, In faltering accents, faint and low.

"Dear Mary Hayes is dead," they say, While tears roll down their cheeks like rain, "Her eyes are closed, she's cold as clay," And then their tears gush out again.

And stalwart men are dumb with grief, And sorrow pales the sternest cheek, While gentler women find relief, In tears--more eloquent than speech.

Surely there is some fairer land, Where friends who love each other here Can dwell, united heart and hand, Nor death nor separation fear.

Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears; Fond father, raise thy drooping head; Kind brothers, banish all your fears; Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead,

The care-worn casket rests in dust, The fadeless jewel wings its flight To that fair land, we humbly trust, To shine with ever glowing light.

For, on that ever-vernal shore, When death's appalling stream is cross'd, Your star will shine forevermore, Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON.

She is not dead, but sleepeth.

--Luke 8:52.

She is not dead, she's sleeping The dreamless sleep and drear; Her friends are gathered weeping Round her untimely bier.

She is not dead, her spirit, Too pure to dwell with clay, Has gone up to inherit The realms of endless day.

She is not dead, she's singing With angel bands on high; On golden harp she's singing God's praises in the sky.

She is not dead, O mother, Your loss you will deplore; Kind sisters and fond brother, Your Nora is no more!

No more, as we have seen her, The light and life of home, Of christian-like demeanor, Which ever brightly shone:

Of youth the guide and teacher, Of age the stay and hope-- To all a faithful preacher, To whom we all looked up.

She is not dead, she's sleeping, Her loving Saviour said; Then friends repress your weeping, God's will must be obeyed.

She is not dead, she's shining In robes of spotless white; Why then are we repining? God's ways are always right.

She is not dead--O never Will sorrow cross her track; She's passed Death's darksome river, And who would have her back?

Back from the joys of heaven! Back from that world of bliss! Call back the pure, forgiven, To such a world as this?

A world of grief and anguish-- A world of sin and strife-- In which the righteous languish, And wickedness is rife,

She is not dead, she's shouting, Borne on triumphant wing, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry, O Death, where is thy sting?"

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1878.

Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping, Closed thine eyes to all below; Round thy grave kind friends are weeping, Ling'ring, loath to let thee go.

Husband fond and children dear, Crushed and stricken by the blow, Banish ev'ry anxious fear, While we lay the lov'd one low.

For the angel's trump shall sound, And the bands of death will break; Then the pris'ner in this mound Shall to endless life awake.

Then the spirit which is gone Will return and claim this dust, And this "mortal will put on Immortality," we trust.

When that glorious day shall dawn, And the bridegroom shall descend With a gorgeous angel throng, The glad nuptials to attend,

Oh, the rapture of that meeting! We of earth can never know Till we mingle in the greeting, Of our lov'd, lost long ago.

Let me like the righteous die, Let my last end be like his; When I close, on earth, my eye, Let me wake in realms of bliss.

STANZAS

Read at the celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele, Dec. 13, 1884.

Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here to-day; 'Tis nice for neighbors thus to call, In such a social way.

We meet to celebrate a day, Which people seldom see; Time flies so rapidly away 'Tis like a dream to me;

Since I, a lad with flaxen hair First met our friend, so gray; We both were free from thought and care, But full of hope and play.

Well Joseph Steele, we may be glad That we are here to-day, Although it makes me somewhat sad To think of friends away.

Of all our schoolboy friends but few Alas! can now be found, Not many but myself and you Are still above the ground.

I count upon my fingers' ends About the half, I know. Of all acquaintances and friends With whom we used to go;

To _Humphreys_ and _Montgomery_ To _Cochran_ and to _Dance_, And some, who slip my memory, That used to make us prance,

Whene'er we missed a lesson Or placed a crooked pin Just where some one would press on Enough to drive it in.

O, it was fun alive, I vow, To see that fellow bounce And hear him howl and make a row And threaten he would trounce

The boy that did the mischief, But that boy was seldom found, And so, he had to bear his grief And nurse the unseen wound;

But time and rhyme can never tell The half our funny pranks, And that we ever learned to spell, We ought to render thanks.

Poor Dance! I always pitied him For he was just from college, And never having learned to swim, Was drowned with all his knowledge.

Of Cochran, I but little knew, He was a stranger here, 'Twas always said he would get blue, And acted very queer.

Montgomery I knew right well, He was rather kind than cross, He taught the willing how to spell, And always would be boss.

He wrote a very pretty hand And could command a school: His appetite got the command, And that he could not rule.

One day he took a heavy slug Of something rather hot; He took that something from a jug, And shortly he was not.

Who "took" him, though, I never can Nor need I ever say; But when the Lord doth take a man, 'Tis seldom done that way.

Poor Humphreys was a sort of crank (Folks said his learning made him mad,) But this I know, he always drank, And that will make the best man, bad.

Excuse this rather long digression, My pen has carried me astray; These schoolboy days make an impression From which 'tis hard to get away.

Then let me turn, and return too, For I have wandered from my text,-- Well, Mr. Steele, how do you do? I hope you are not vexed.

'Tis pleasant in our riper years To have our children come And bring their children--little dears, They make it seem like home.

An old man's children are his crown, And you may well be proud When from your throne you just look down Upon this hopeful crowd.

But now my neighbors dear, adieu; "The best of friends must part;" I'll often kindly think of you, And treasure each one in my heart;

And if we never meet again On this poor frozen clod, O! may we meet to part no more Around the throne of God.

TO MARY.

The following lines suggested by the beautiful story of the sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany, (Luke, 10:38-42,) were addressed to Miss Mary M., of Wilmington, Del.

In Bethany there dwelt a maid, And she was young and very fair; 'Twas at her house that Jesus stayed, And loved to stay, when he was there.

For Mary seated at his feet, In rapture hung upon His word: His language flow'd in accent sweet, Such language mortal never heard.

Her sister, cross in looks and word, (The cares of life have this effect,) Came and accused her, to her Lord, Of idleness and of neglect.

"Martha, Martha," He kindly said, Forego thy troubles and thy care-- One needful thing, a crust of bread, Is all I ask with thee to share.

"Mary hath chosen that good part, To hear my word and do my will, Which shall not from her trusting heart Be taken." It shall flourish still.

Dear Mary, in this picture see Thy own, drawn by a master hand; Name, face and character agree Drawn by Saint Luke, an artist grand.

IMPROMPTU

TO MRS. ANNA C. BAKER.

Composed in the top of a cherry tree when the wind was blowing a gale.

In fishing for men, I should judge from your looks You've always had biters enough at your hooks. And whenever you dipp'd your net in the tide You had little need to spread it out wide. To encircle so many you wish'd for no more And like the old fishers sat down on the shore, Casting all the worthless and bad ones away-- Preserving the good and the true to this day. May the promising youth, I saw by your side All blooming and beaming, your hope and your pride, Be a pillar of state, so strong and so tall As to make you rejoice, that you made such a haul.

LAMENT FOR THE YEAR 1887.

Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

My tale to-night is full of woe, I would that it were one of gladness; I would not thrill your hearts, you know, With notes of grief or sadness.

My friend and yours is near his end, His pulse is beating faint and low, 'Tis sad to lose so good a friend, His time has come and he must go.

His life is ebbing fast away, His mortal race is almost run, He cannot live another day, Nor see another rising sun.

While watching round his dying bed, The tears we shed are tears of sorrow, We'll close his eyes for he'll be dead, And carried hence before to-morrow.

His frame, so fragile now and weak, Was late the seat of vital power, But now, alas! he cannot speak, He's growing weaker every hour.

Old seventy-seven, your friend and mine, Has done his part by you and me, Then friends, let us unite and twine, A bright wreath to his memory.

His reign has been a checker'd reign, While some have suffered loss and wrong, We have no reason to complain, So come and join me in my song.

He found me in the lowly vale, In poverty with robust health, And sweet contentment in the scale, Outweighing fame and pomp and wealth.

Destroying war beneath his reign, Has drench'd the earth with blood and tears, Which ever flow, but flow in vain, As they have done through countless years.

When will the reign of peace begin? When will the flood of human woe, That flows from folly, pride, and sin, Subside, and ever cease to flow?

God speed the time when war's alarms, Will never more convulse the earth, And love and peace restore the charms Which dwelt in Eden at its birth.

Old seventy-seven, again adieu, We'll ne'er again each other see. I've been a constant friend to you, As you have always been to me.

"Step down and out" you've had your day, Your young successor's at the gate, Let him be crowned without delay, The royal stranger seventy-eight.

VERSES

Presented to my daughter with a watch and a locket with a picture of myself.

Receive, my child, this gift of love, And wear it ever near thy heart, A pledge of union may it prove, Which time nor distance ne'er can part.

I've watched thy infant sleep, and prest My eager lips against thy brow, And lingered near thy couch, and blest, Thy tender form with many a vow.

But O! the rapture of that hour, None but a parent's heart can know When first thy intellectual power Began the germ of life to show.

I've marked the progress of thy mind, And felt a thrill of joy and pride, To see thy youthful steps inclined To wisdom's ways and virtue's side.

And when this fiery restless soul, Has chafed the thread of life away And reached, or high or low, the goal, And fought and won or lost the day,--

Then cherish this bright gift, my dear, And on those features kindly gaze, And bathe them with a filial tear, When I'm beyond all blame or praise.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF WILMINGTON.

Chill frost will nip the fairest flower; The sweetest dream is soonest pass'd; The brightest morning in an hour, May be with storm clouds overcast.

So Josephine in early bloom, Was blighted by death's cruel blast, While weeping round her early tomb, We joy to know, she is not lost.

Fond mother, dry that tearful tide, Your child will not return, you know: She's waiting on the other side And where she is, you too may go.

YOUTHFUL REMINISCENCES.

Their schoolboy days have form'd a theme, For nearly all the bards I know, But mine are like a fading dream Which happen'd three score years ago.

My memory is not the best, While some things I would fain forget Come like an uninvited guest, And often cause me much regret.

I see the ghosts of murdered hours, As they flit past in countless throngs, They taunt me with their meager powers, And ridicule my senseless songs.

'Tis useless now to speculate, Or grieve o'er that which might have been, My failures though they have been great, Are not the greatest I have seen.

In school I was a quiet child, And gave my teachers little fash, But as I grew I grew more wild, And hasty as the lightning's flash.

Of study I was never fond, My school books gave me no delight, I patronized the nearest pond, To fish or swim by day or night.

And when the frosts of winter came, And bound the streams in fetters tight, It gave me pleasure all the same To skate upon their bosom bright.

I was athletic in my way And on my muscle went it strong, And stood to fight or ran to play, Regardless of the right or wrong.

In wrestling I did much excel And lov'd to douse a boasting fop, Nor cared I how or where we fell Provided I fell on the top.

I loved my friends with all my might, My foes I hated just as strong, My friends were always in the right, My foes forever in the wrong.

A sportsman early I became, A sort of second Daniel Boone, And bagg'd my share of ev'ry game From cony, up or down, to coon.

No tawny chieftain's swarthy son, Was ever fonder of the chase, Than I was of my trusty gun, Although I had a paler face.

I shot the squirrel near his den. The silly rabbit near her lair; And captured ev'ry now and then, A pheasant in my cunning snare.

And many things I think of here, Which time forbids me now to say, That happen'd in my wild career, To me, since that eventful day

When my fond mother wash'd my face, And combed my flaxen hair, And started me in learning's race, And breath'd to heav'n a silent prayer,

That I might grow to man's estate, And cultivate my opening mind; And not be rich or wise or great, But gentle, true and good and kind.

My mother's face, I see it yet, That thoughtful face, with eyes of blue, I trust I never shall forget Her words of counsel, sage and true.

She left me, when she pass'd away, More than a royal legacy, I would not for a monarch's sway, Exchange the things she gave to me.

She gave me naught of sordid wealth, But that which wealth can never be, Her iron frame and robust health, Are more than diadems to me.

She left to me the azure sky, With all its countless orbs of light, Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye, And beautify the dome of night.

The deep blue sea from shore to shore, The boundless rays of solar light, The lightnings flash, the thunders roar-- I hold them all in my own right.

And lastly that there be no lack, Of any good thing by her given, She left to me the shining track, Which led her footsteps up to heaven.

STANZAS

TO A LITTLE GIRL ON HER BIRTHDAY.

My dear, the bard his greeting sends, And wishes you and all your friends, A happy birthday meeting. Let social pleasures crown the day, But while you chase dull care away, Remember time is fleeting.

Then learn the lesson of this day, Another year has pass'd away, Beyond our reach forever. And as the fleeting moments glide, They bear us on their noiseless tide, Like straws upon the river,

Into that vast, unfathomed sea, Marked on the map "eternity," With neither bound nor shore. There may we find some blissful isle Where basking in our Saviour's smile, We'll meet to part no more.

TO MISS MARY BAIN.

My cousin fair, dear Mary B, Excuse my long neglect I pray, And pardon too, the homely strain, In which I sing this rustic lay.

My muse and I are sorted ill, I'm in my yellow leaf and sere; While she is young and ardent still And urges me to persevere.

She reads to me the roll of fame, And presses me to join the throng, That surge and struggle for a name, Among the gifted sons of song.