Chapter 3

Of that vain stuff the world calls fame I've had I think my ample share. At best 'tis but a sounding name An idle puff of empty air.

For more than once I've been the choice Of freemen to enact their laws, And patriots cheered me when my voice, I raised to vindicate their cause.

And more than this I've brought to pass, For I have made a lot of ground Produce the second blade of grass, Where formerly but one was found.

But now I love the calm retreat, Away from tumult, noise and strife, And in the works of nature sweet I learn her laws, the laws of life.

The monuments which I erect Will hand my name for ages down, While tombs of kings will meet neglect, Or worse, be greeted with a frown.

My trees will bloom and bear their fruit, My carp-pond glitter in the sun; My cherished grape-vines too, though mute, Will tell the world what I have done.

Now lest you think that I am vain, And that my trumpeter is dead, I'll drop this graceless, boasting strain, And sing of you, dear Coz, instead.

Of all my Cousins, old or new, I love the prairie chicken best, I see the rising sun in you,-- Although you're rising in the west.

The picture you are working on, I'd almost give my eyes to see, I know it is a striking one, For it is of the "deep blue sea."

But how you ever took the notion To paint a picture of the sea Before you ever saw the ocean, Is something that surprises me.

I'm glad you have the skill to paint, And pluck to labor and to wait; And too much sense to pine and faint, Because the world don't call you great.

True greatness is achieved by toil, And labor for the public good, 'Tis labor breaks the barren soil, And makes it yield our daily food.

Then cultivate your talents rare, And study nature's lovely face, And copy every tint with care; Your work will then have life and grace.

When fame and fortune you attain, And more than royal sway is sure, 'Twill be the majesty of brain, A majesty that must endure,

Till thrones of kings and queens shall tumble, And monuments of stone and brass, Shall into shapeless ruin crumble, And blow away like withered grass.

The world moves on with quickening pace, And those who falter fall behind, Then enter for the mental race, Where mind is pitted against mind.

While we are cousins in the flesh, In mind I think we're nearer still, Your genius leads you to the brush, But mine inclines me to the quill.

And now, my cousin fair, adieu, My promise I have somehow kept, That I would write a line for you, I hope you will these lines accept.

STANZAS

Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott, upon the occasion of the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 1882.

Kind gentlemen and ladies fair, I have a word or two to say, If you have got the time to spare, Sit down, and hear my humble lay.

No tiresome homily, I bring, To chill your joys and make you sad, I'd rather hear you laugh or sing, Than see you solemn, dull or mad,

A bow that's always bent, they say, Will lose its force and wonted spring, And Jack's all work and never play, Makes him a dull and stupid thing.

Man's greatest lesson is mankind, A problem difficult to solve, I've turned it over in my mind, And reached, at last, this sage resolve:

That when I know myself right well, I have a key to all the race, Thoughts, purposes and aims that tell On me, are but a common case.

There is a time to laugh and sing, A time to mourn and grieve as well; Then let your song and laughter ring, This is no time on griefs to dwell.

We've met to greet our friend, T.J., And tender our congratulations, Without forgetting Phebe A., In our most heartfelt salutations.

For four-and-twenty changeful years They've worn the bright hymenial bands, And shared each other's hopes and fears, And each held up the other's hands.

He, like a stately, giant oak, Has spread his branches wide and high, Unscathed by lightning's fatal stroke, Or tempest raving through the sky.

She, like a tender, trusting vine, Twines round and through and o'er the tree; Her modesty and worth combine, To hide what roughness there might be,

Beneath this cool, refreshing shade, The wretched quite forget their woes, The hungry find the needed bread, The weary wanderer, his repose.

Long live this honored, worthy pair! May fortune come at their command! And may their sons and daughter fair, Grow up to grace their native land!

And when their earthly toils are o'er, And they repose beneath the sod, Theirs be a home on that bright shore, Illumined by the smile of God.

BIRTHDAY VERSES.

Written for a little girl on her ninth birthday.

In the morning of life's day, All before is bright and gay, All behind is like a dream, Or the morn's uncertain beam, Falling on a misty stream.

In the morning of thy youth, Learn this sober, solemn truth; Life is passing like a stream, Or a meteor's sudden gleam; Like the bright aurora's blaze, Disappearing while we gaze; Soon the child becomes a maid, In the pride of youth arrayed, And her mind and form expand To proportions great and grand; Then she changes to a wife, Battling with the ills of life; Thus we come and thus we go, And our cups with joy and woe, Oft are made to overflow. Each returning bright birthday, Like the mile-stones by the way, Will remind you as you go-- Though at first they pass so slow That behind there is one more And, of course, one less before; Watch the moments as they fly, With a never tiring eye-- Since you cannot stop their flow, O! improve them as they go.

ROLL CALL.

Written on the death of William Sutton, a member of the order of Good Templars.

Call the roll! Call the roll of our band, Let each to his name answer clear, There's danger abroad, there's death in the land, Call the roll, see if each one is here.

The roll call is through, one answers not, Brother Sutton, so prompt heretofore, Has answered another roll call; the spot Which knew him shall know him no more.

He's at rest by the beautiful river, Which flows by the evergreen shore, Where the verdure of spring lasts forever, And sickness and death are no more.

O alas! that the righteous should die, While sinners so greatly abound, In the world that's to come we'll know why, The latter incumber the ground.

This mystery we'll then comprehend, And all will be plain to our sight, Then dry up the tears which flow for our friend, In full faith that God doeth right.

IN MEMORIAM

RENSELLAER BIDDLE.

A noble heart is sleeping here, Beneath this lowly mound; With reverence let us draw near, For this is holy ground.

The mortal frame that rests below This consecrated sward, Was late with heavenly hope aglow, A temple of the Lord.

His charity was like a flood, It seemed to have no bound, But reached the evil and the good, Wherever want was found.

The poor and needy sought his door, The wretched and distressed, He blessed them from his ample store, With shelter, food and rest.

Giving his substance to the poor, He lent it to the Lord; While each returning harvest brought Him back a rich reward.

Thus passed his useful life away, Dispensing good to all, Till on the evening of his day, He heard his Master call.

"Brave soldier of the cross, well done, You've fought a noble fight; Come up, and claim the victor's crown, And wear it as your right."

"For all your works of christian love And heaven-born charity, Are registered in Heaven above As so much done to Me."

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE.

Dear Mollie, in thy early days, While treading childhood's dreamy maze, Peruse this book with care: Peruse it by the rising sun; Peruse it when the day is done, Peruse it oft with prayer.

Search it for counsel in thy youth, For every page is bright with truth And wisdom from on high. Consult it in thy riper years, When foes without and inward fears Thy utmost powers defy.

And when life's sands are well nigh run And all thy work on earth is done, In patience wait and trust, That He whose promises are sure Will number you among the pure, The righteous and the just.

CHRISTMAS GREETING, 1877.

Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society.

The rolling seasons come and go, As ebbs the tide again to flow, And Christmas which seemed far away A year ago, is near to-day. And day and night in quick succession, Are passing by like a procession. While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried shore, Where days and nights will be no more, And where time's surging tide will be, Absorbed in vast eternity. Where then shall we poor mortals go? No man can tell, we only know We are but strangers in the land. Our fathers all have gone before, And shortly we shall be no more. This hall where we so often meet Will soon be trod by other's feet, And where our voices now resound, Will other speakers soon be found. And thus like wave pursuing wave, Between the cradle and the grave The human tide is prone to run, The sire succeeded by the son. May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have passed away, We all may meet on that blessed shore, Where friends shall meet to part no more.

ANNIVERSARY POEM.

Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson.

No costly gifts have I to bring, To grace your festive board, This humble song, I've brought to sing, Is all I can afford.

Then let my humble rhyme be heard In silence, if you please, You'll find it true in ev'ry word, It flows along with ease.

We've met in honor of our friend Who seventy years ago, Came to this earth some years to spend, How many none can know.

The world is using her so well, I hope she'll tarry long, And ten years hence I hope to tell, "I have another song."

THE PETERSON GENEALOGICAL TREE.

I'll sing you a song of a wonderful tree, Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me; Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky, While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy, Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw, Which fill'd him with wonder, amazement and awe. This vision the wise men all failed to expound, Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found. What the king saw in vision, we lit'rally see, In the Peterson genealogical tree; It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew; Its roots being small and its branches but few. The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it, And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it. Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure, And like plants of slow growth 'tis bound to endure. While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession, And the ages move on in an endless procession, While the sun in its glory reigns over the day, And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway, While the planets their courses pursue in the sky, And far distant stars light their torches on high, May this family tree grow taller and stronger And its branches increase growing longer and longer. May every branch of this vigorous tree, Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea, And under its shade may the poor and distressed Find shelter and comfort and kindness and rest, And when the great harvest we read of shall come When the angels shall gather and carry it home May this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found, Transplanted from earth into holier ground, Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight, Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night, Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more, And friends never part. On that beautiful shore, May we hope that the friends who have met round this board, And greeted each other in social accord, May each meet the others to part never more.

LINES

Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill public school, and read at her funeral.

The mysteries of life and death, Lie hidden from all human ken, We know it is the vital breath Of God, that makes us living men.

We also know, _that_ breath withdrawn, And man becomes a lifeless clod, The soul immortal having gone Into the presence of its God.

Here knowledge fails and faith appears, And bids us dry the scalding tear, And banish all our anxious fears, Which cluster round the loved ones here.

The deep, dark, cold, remorseless grave Has closed o'er lovely Jennie's face, No art, nor skill, nor prayers could save Her from its terrible embrace.

Home now is dark and desolate, And friends and schoolmates are in tears, While strangers wonder at the fate, Which crushed her in her tender years.

Death never won a brighter prize, Nor friends a richer treasure lost, Another star has left our skies, But heaven is richer at our cost.

We mourn but not in hopeless grief, In tears we kiss the chast'ning rod, This sweet reflection brings relief, That all is good that comes from God.

Through and beyond this scene of gloom, Faith points the mourner's downcast eyes, While from the portals of the tomb, They see their lost loved one arise,

In blooming immortality; As she comes forth they hear her sing O! grave, where is thy victory! O! monster death where is thy sting!

WHAT IS MATTER?

DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE JOHNSTON.

How are you, George, my rhyming brother? We should be kinder to each other, For we are kindred souls at least; I don't mean kindred, like the beast,-- Mere blood and bones and flesh and matter,-- But what this last is makes no matter. Philosophers have tried to teach it, But all their learning cannot reach it; 'Tis matter still, "that's what's the matter" With all their philosophic chatter, And Latin, Greek, and Hebrew clatter, Crucibles, retorts, and receivers, Wedges, inclined planes, and levers, Screws, blow pipes, electricity and light, And fifty other notions, quite Too much to either read or write. Just ask the wisest, What is matter? And notice how he will bespatter The subject, in his vain endeavor, With deep philosophy so clever, To prove you what you knew before, That matter's matter, and no more. Well, this much then, we know at least, That matter's substance, and the beast And bird and fish and creeping thing That moves on foot, with fin or wing, Is matter, just like you and me. Are they our kindred? Must it be That all the fools in all creation, And knaves and thieves of every station In life, can call me their relation? But that's not all--the horse I ride, The ox I yoke, the dog I chide, The flesh and fish and fowl we feed on Are kindred, too; is that agreed on? Then kindred blood I quite disown, Though it descended from a throne, For it connects us down, also, With everything that's mean and low-- Insects and reptiles, foul and clean, And men a thousand times more mean. Let's hear no more of noble blood, For noble brains, or actions good, Are only marks of true nobility.

The kindred which I claim with you, Connects us with the just and true, And great in purpose, heart and soul, And makes us parts of that great whole Whose bonds of all embracing love A golden chain will ever prove To bind us to the good above. Then strive to elevate mankind By operating on the mind; The empire of good will extend, A helping hand in trouble lend, Go to thy brother in distress, One kindly word may make it less, A single word, when fitly spoken, May heal a heart with sorrow broken, A smile may overcome your foe, And make his heart with friendship glow, A frown might turn his heart to steel. And all its tendencies congeal, Be it our constant aim to cure The woes our fellow men endure, Teach them to act toward each other As they would act toward a brother. Thus may our circle wider grow, The golden chain still brighter glow; And may our kindred souls, in love United live, here and above, With all the good and wise and pure, While endless ages shall endure.

ANNIVERSARY HYMN.

Written for the anniversary of the Jackson Sabbath School, Aug. 23rd, 1870.

The ever rolling flood of years, Is bearing us, our hopes and fears, With all we are or crave, Into that fathomless abyss-- A world of endless woe or bliss, Beyond the darksome grave.

One year of priceless time has passed, Since we in Sabbath school were class'd, To read and sing and pray; To hear the counsels of the good; Have we improved them as we should? How stands the case to-day?

How have we used this fleeting year? Have we grown wiser? O, I fear, And tremble to reflect, How sadly it has gone to loss, How I have shunn'd my daily cross, Some idol to erect.

To gain some trifling, selfish end, It may be I have wronged a friend, And turned his love to hate; How many idle words I've said; How many broken vows I've made; How shunn'd the narrow gate!

O Lord! forgive our wanderings wide, Our oft departures from thy side, And keep us in thy fold; Be thou our Shepherd and our all; Protect these lambs, lest any fall, And perish in the cold.

On this our Anniversary, Help us to put our trust in Thee, And lean upon Thy arm; Direct us through the coming year; Protect us, for the wolf is near, And shield us from all harm.

Our Superintendent superintend; On him Thy special blessings send, And guide him in the way; Enrich our Treasurer with Thy grace, So that he may adorn the place, He fills so well to-day.

Write on our Secretary's heart Thy perfect law; and O, impart, To our Librarian dear, The volume of thy perfect love Which cometh only from above, And casteth out all fear.

In pastures green, O lead us still! And help us all to do thy will, And all our wants supply; Help us in every grace to grow, And when we quit thy fold below, Receive us all on high.

Then, by life's river broad and bright, Our blissful day will have no night; On that immortal plain May all the Jackson scholars meet, And all their loving teachers greet, And never part again.

THE INTELLECTUAL TELEGRAPH.

ADDRESSED TO MISS C. CASHO.

Dear friend! O, how my blood warms at that word, And thrills and courses through my every vein; My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr'd-- Friend! Friend! repeats it o'er and o'er again.

I'll make a song of that sweet word, and sing It oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours, Till list'ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring, And echo answers, Friend! with all her powers.

'Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubt If any can explain, though all have seen, How kindred spirits find each other out, Though deserts vast or oceans lie between.

Some golden sympathetic cords unseen, Unite their souls as if with bands of steel, So finely strung, so sensitively keen, The slightest touch all in the circle feel.

Their pulses distance electricity, And leave the struggling solar rays behind, The slightest throb pervades immensity, And instant reaches the remotest mind.

'Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me, Which raises me above this earthly clod, To think the cords which bind our souls may be Connected some way with the throne of God.

I sometimes think my wild and strange desires, And longings after something yet unknown, Are currents passing on those hidden wires To lead me on and upward to that throne.

These visions often do I entertain, And, if they are but visions, and the birth Of fancy, still they are not all in vain; They lift the soul above the things of earth.

They teach her how to use her wings though weak, And all unequal to the upward flight-- The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak, Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight.

LINES ON AN INDIAN ARROW-HEAD.

Rude relic of a lost and savage race! Memento of a people proud and cold! Sole lasting monument to mark the place Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled.

Cold is the hand that fashion'd thee, rude dart! Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow! And cold the dust of the heroic heart, Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow.

Unnumbered years have o'er their ashes flown; Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone; All that remains is this rude pointed stone, To tell of nations mighty as our own.

Such is earth's pregnant lesson: through all time Kingdom succeeds to kingdom--empires fall; From out their ashes, others rise and climb, Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall.

ACROSTIC

TO MISS ANNIE ELIZA M'NAMEE.

My much respected, fair young friend In youth's bright sunshine glowing: Some friendly token I would send, Some trifle, worth your knowing.

A lovely bird; the garden's pride; Nurs'd with the utmost care, No flow'r, in all the gardens wide; Incited hopes so rare: Each passing day develops more Each beauty, than the day before.

Lovely in form, in features mild; In thy deportment pure: Zealous for right, e'en from a child, A friend, both true and sure.

May thy maturer years be bright, Cloudless and fair thy skies; No storms to fright, nor frosts to blight, And cause thy fears to rise. May thy last days, in peace go past, Each being better than the last; Eternally thy joys grow brighter-- So prays D. Scott the humble writer.

MINUTES

OF THE JACKSON HALL DEBATING SOCIETY, DEC. 5, 1877.

My muse inspire me, while I tell The weighty matters that befell On Monday night at Jackson Hall December fifth. I'll tell it all, Day and year I'll tell you even, 'Twas eighteen hundred seventy-seven. The Jacksonites were out in force, No common thing was up of course, But something rare and rich and great, 'Twas nothing short of a debate; What was the question? Let me see, Yes; "Can Christians consistently Engage in war against a brother And at the same time love each other?" But first and foremost let me say, My muse has taken me astray, So I'll return to the beginning Digression is my common sinning For which your pardon I implore, If granted, I will sin no more, That is no more till the next time, For when I'm forging out a rhyme, The narrative which I would fix up, I somehow rather oddly mix up.

A president must first be got, So they elected James M. Scott, He said he'd serve; (and that was clever,) A little while, but not forever. A paper called a "constitution," Was read and on some person's motion, Was all adopted, at a word, A thing that seemed to me absurd. Then instantly to work they went, And filled the chair of president, And William Henderson they took, They knew their man just like a book. A scribe was wanted next to keep, A record of their doings deep. On looking round they cast the lot, And so it fell on David Scott. A treasurer was next in order When looking up and down the border, For one to hoard the gold and silver, The mantle fell on Joseph Miller. The executive committee Was now to fill and here we see A piece of work I apprehend, May lead to trouble in the end, For while they only wanted five, Yet six they got, as I'm alive, First they installed Peter Jaquett, Then John Creswell, two men well met, James Law, but they were not enough, And so they added William Tuft. One more was wanted that was plain, That one was found in John McKane, But when the five were call'd to meet There were but four came to the seat; There are but four, said one so racy, So they elected William Gracy. Now you perceive this grave committee Which numbers five both wise and witty, Has got into a pretty fix With but five seats and numbers six. The question for the next debate Was then selected, which I'll state If I have only got the gumption To make some word rhyme with resumption, "Should Congress now repeal the act To pay all debts in gold in fact."