Chapter 8

But fancy, as we passed the bowl, Fill'd ev'ry empty chair again. Inform'd the silent air with soul And shaped the shadowy void to men.

The breezy air around us stirr'd With snatches of familiar song, Nor cared we then how fancy err'd Since her delusion made us strong.

But now, I am the only guest, The grave--the grave now covers all Who joined me at the annual feast We kept in this deserted hall.

He paused and then his goblet fill'd, But never touch'd his lips the brim, His arm was stay'd, his pulses still'd, And ah! his glazing eyes grew dim.

The farther objects in the room Have vanish'd from his failing sight; One broad horizon spreads in gloom Around a lessening disc of light.

And then he seem'd like one who kept A vigil with suspended breath-- So kindly to his breast had crept Some gentlest messenger of death.

THE PAST.

Still--still the Earth each primal grace renews, And blooms, or brightens with Creation's hues: Repeats the sun the glories of the sky, Which upward lured the earliest watcher's eye; Yet bids his beams the glowing clouds adorn With all the charms of Earth's initial morn, And duplicates at eve the splendors yet That fixed the glance, that first beheld him set.

LOVED AND LOST.

Love cannot call her back again, But oh! it may presume With ceaseless accents to complain, All wildly near her tomb.

A madd'ning mirage of the mind Still bids her image rise, That form my heart can never find Yet haunts my wearied eyes.

Since Earth received its earliest dead, Man's sorrow has been vain; Though useless were the tears they shed, Still I will weep again.

The breast, that may its pangs conceal, Is not from torture freed, For still the wound, that will not heal, Alas! must inly bleed.

Vain Sophist! ask no reason why The love that cannot save, Will hover with despairing cry Around the dear ones grave.

Mine is not frenzy's sudden gust, The passion of an hour, Which sprinkles o'er beloved dust Its brief though burning shower.

Then bid not me my tears to check, The effort would but fail, The face, I hid at custom's beck, Would weep behind its veil.

The tree its blighted trunk will rear, With sap and verdure gone, And hearts may break, yet many a year All brokenly live on.

Earth has no terror like the tomb Which hides my darling's head, Yet seeking her amid its gloom, I grope among the dead.

And oh! could love restore that form To its recovered grace, How soon would it again grow warm Within my wild embrace.

DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR.

KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR.

Fierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed So proudly that terrific blade. The feeble bosom scarce can give A throb to show he yet doth live, And in his eye the light which glows, Is but the stare, that death bestows. The filmy veins that circling thread The cooling balls are turning red; And every pang that racks him now, Starts the cold sweat up to his brow, But yet his smile not even death Could from his boyish face unwreath, Or in convulsive writhing show The pangs, that wring the brain below.

To the far fight he seeks to gaze, Where battling arms yet madly blaze, And with a gush of manly pride, Weeps as his banner is descried Above the piling smoke-clouds borne, Like the first dubious streaks of morn That o'er the mountains misty height Will kindle in a lovely sight.

"A foreign soil my blood doth stain, And the few drops that yet remain Add but still longer to my pain. Land of my birth! thy hills no more May these fast glazing eyes explore, Yet oh! may not my body rest Beneath that sod my heart loves best? My father--home! Joys most adored Dwell in that simple English word-- Go, comrades! Till your field is won Forget me--father, I die thy son."

Hark the wild cry rolls on his ear! The foe approach who hovered near; Rings the harsh clang of bick'ring steel In blows his arm no more may deal.

"Beside me now no longer be, Ye need not seek to die with me; Go, friends"--his manly bosom swell'd With life the stiff'ning wounds withheld; And struggling to his knees, he shook The sword his hand had not forsook, But to his arm it was denied To slay the foe his heart defied. The faintly wielded steel was left In the slight wound it barely cleft. Borne to the earth by the same thrust, That smote his en'my to the dust, His breast receiv'd their cowardly blows-- The fluttering eye-lids slowly close, Then parting, show the eye beneath White with the searching touch of Death. The last thick drops congeal around The jagged edge of many a wound; See breaking through the marble skin The clammy dews that lurk within, The lip still quivers, but no breath Seeks the unmoving heart beneath.

Thou gallant Clay--thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; For in the brightness of such blaze Even Alexander fame decays, Yes--yes, Columbia's noble son Died! Monarchs could no more have done.

A VALENTINE.

Oh! for a brief poetic mood In which to write a merry line-- A line, which might, could, would or should Do duty as a Valentine. Then to the woods the birds repair In pairs, prepared to woo A mate whose breast shall fondly share This world's huge load of ceaseless care Which grows so light when borne by two. But ah! such language will not suit, I'd better far have still been mute. My mate is dead or else she's flown And I am left to brood alone, To think of joys of vanish'd years And banish thus some present tears; But then our life is but a dream And things are not what they seem.

LINES

SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND.

Like him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish'd most-- So, dearest, do I mourn for thee.

For oh! the future is as dark As is the ocean's barren plain, Whose restless waters wear no mark To guide his eyes, who seeks in vain.

True, reckless Fancy dares invade The realm of time's uncounted hours, As fondly gay, as if she stray'd In safety through a land of flowers.

And still doth hope shine bright and warm-- But oh! the light with which it cheers, My darling one, but glows to form A rainbow o'er a vale of tears.

GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK.

George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858.

He is among the very best classical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest in _The Cecil Democrat_, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill.

In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the Baltimore _Day_, which he edited while that journal existed.

Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank. They are the parents of five children--three of whom survive.

Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published.

STONEWALL JACKSON.

[1863.]

AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH.

Bury the mighty dead-- Long, long to live in story! Bury the mighty dead In his own shroud of glory.

Question not his purpose; Sully not his name, Nor think that adventitious aid Can build or blight his fame, Nor hope, by obloquizing what He strove for, glory's laws Can be gainsaid, or he defiled Who'd honor any cause.

Question not his motives, Ye who have felt his might! Who doubts, that ever saw him strike, He aimed to strike for right? His was no base ambition;-- No angry thirst for blood. Naught could avail to lift his arm, But love of common good. Yet, when he deigned to raise it, Who could resist its power? Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe, E'er to forget that hour?

His life he held as nothing. His country claimed his all. Ah! what shall dry that country's tears Fast falling o'er his fall? His life he held as nothing, As through the flame he trod; To duty gave he all of earth And all beyond to God. The justness of his effort He never lent to doubt. His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd To put the foe to rout. Mistrusting earth's tribunals, Scorning the tyrant's rod, He chose the fittest Arbiter, 'Twixt foe and sword, his God. And doubted not, a moment, That, when the fight was won, Who rules the fate of nations Would bid His own:--Well done! And doubted not, a moment, As fiercest flashed the fire, The bullet's fatal blast would call:-- Glad summons!--Come up higher!

And who would hence recall thee?-- Thy work so nobly done! Enough for mortal brow to wear The crown thy prowess won:-- Grim warrior, grand in battle! Rapt christian, meek in prayer!-- Vain age! that fain would reproduce A character as rare!

The world has owned its heroes;-- Its martyrs, great and good, Who rode the storm of power, Or swam the sea of blood:-- Napoleons, Cæsars, Cromwells, Melancthons, Luthers brave! But, who than Jackson ever yet Has filled a prouder grave?

The cause for which he struggled, May fall before the foe: Stout hearts, devoted to their trust, All moulder, cold and low. The land may prove a charnel-house For millions of the slain, And blood and carnage mark the track Where madmen march amain,-- Fanatic heels may scourge it, Black demons blight the sod; And hell's foul desolation Mock Liberty's fair God.-- The future leave no record, Of mighty struggle there, Save hollowness, and helplessness, And bitter, bald despair.-- Proud cities lose their names e'en; Tall towers fall to earth.-- Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland Forget illustrious birth;-- And yet, upon tradition, Will float the name of him Whose virtues time may tarnish not, Eternity not dim. Whose life on earth was only, So grand, so free, so pure, For brighter realms and sunnier skies, A preparation sure. And whose sweet faith, so child-like, Nor blast, nor surge nor rod, One moment could avert from The bosom of his God.

Bury the mighty dead! Long, long to live in story! Bury the hero dead In his own shroud of glory!

IN MEMORIAM.

FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862.

Frank is dead! The mournful message Comes gushing from the ocean's roar. Frank is dead! His mortal passage Has ended on the heavenly shore. In earthly agony he died To join his Saviour crucified.

Frank is dead! Time's bitter trials Drove him a wanderer from home, To meet life's lot, share its denials, Or gain a rest where cares ne'er come. His frail form sinking, his grand spirit Careered to realms the blest inherit.

Frank is dead! In life's young morning, When heavenly promise lit his day, His smitten spirit, homeward turning, Forsook its tenement of clay. No more to battle here with sin; No more to suffer mid earth's din.

Frank is dead! By fever stricken, How long he suffered, and how deep! With none to feel his hot blood quicken, No loved one near to calm his sleep. No mother's presence him to gladden: Naught, naught to cheer--all, all to sadden.

Frank is dead! His pangs are over. His gentle spirit hence has flown. Strangers, with earth, his body cover, Strangers attend his dying moan. On stranger forms his eyes last close, To meet A FRIEND in their repose.

Frank is dead! Aye! weep, fond mourner! The grand, the beautiful is lost. Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner, On passion's billows tempest-tossed, Has found a source of sweeter bliss In realms that sunder wide from this.

Frank is dead! Yes, dead to sorrow, Dead to sadness, dead to pain. Dead! Dead to all save the tomorrow Whose light eternally shall reign. He's dead to young ambition's vow And the big thought that stamped his brow.

Frank is dead! Dead to the labors He'd staked his life to triumph in:-- To win his friends, his dying neighbors, And fellows all from death and sin. With steady faith he toiled to fit Christ's armor on and honor it.

Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasure Has closed his bright career too soon To realize how rich a treasure The ranks had entered ere high noon. His brilliant promise, dashed in youth, One less is left to fight for truth.

Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortals. No more we'll see his noble brow Or flashing eye; but in the portals Above, by faith I see him now With gladden'd step and fluttering heart, Marching to share the better part.

Frank is dead!! No, never, never! Not dead but only gone before. Back,--back! Thou tear-drop, rising ever; Nor Heaven's fiat now deplore. Wail not the sorrows earth can lend To banish spirits that ascend.

And fare thee well, my noble brother! 'Tis hard to think that thou art not; To realize that never other Footstep like thine shall share my cot, And think of all thy heart endured, By sore besetments often tried. But,--Heaven be thanked,--all now is cured And thou, fair boy, art glorified.

NEW-YEAR ODE.

[1863.]

Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear be shed. The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead. His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends his woes. As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peaceful be its close.

Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear drop fall. The couch of birth is waiting the egress of the pall. Haste! Hasten the obsequies:--the natal hour is nigh. Waste not a moment weeping when expectation's high.

* * * * *

Draw back the veil; the curtain lift. Ho! Thirsting hearts, rejoice! The new-born is no puny gift:-- Time's latest, grandest choice.

Nurseling and giant! Infant grown! Majestic even now! 'Tis well that such a restless throne Descends to such as thou.

* * * * *

Dame nature's travail bore thee; Her pangs a world upheaved. A world now bending o'er thee Awaits those pangs relieved. A world is waiting for thee: And shall it be deceived?

Ah no! Such pangs were never To mother giv'n in vain. Rise, new-born! Rise and sever Tyranny's clanking chain. Rise, Virtue! Rise forever! The New-Year comes amain! O! Give him welcome ever! Can bleeding hearts refrain?

* * * * *

All hail! Oh beautiful New-Year! Full, full of promise fraught with cheer. Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Hail! Great deliverer from wrath, Brave pioneer upon the path That leads to better fate! Joy be to thee thy natal day, As dawns Aurora's earliest ray, While youth is fresh and faith is clear And hope is bright with coming cheer! Thou promisest eventful life As, giant-like, thou leap'st to earth, Robed in full majesty at birth; With power to do and will to dare And arm to shield from threat'ning care, And eye to ken the dead past's strife.

Thy young life's hand knows yet no stain Of blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain. But, know, Oh Friend! thou'rt ushered in To feel the jar and note the din Of war-blast's rude alarms. Thy elder brother, gone before, Has left upon this nether shore A burden for thine arms.

'Tis thine to choose the part thou'lt take, Oh giant mighty! Thine to make An early choice; lose not an hour. 'Tis crime to waste prodigious power. Great, vast, appalling, is the task By fate assigned to thee. No mask Of indecision now is given. The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. The hour is dark:--the danger nigh. The ravens caw: the eagles cry. The breakers dash--the chasm yawns: The skies are lurid:--chaos dawns. Thunder with thunder-peal is riven As if to shake earth's faith in heaven! All, all is wild! No sun! No moon! Earth, air and sky, in dire commune, Demand--what hand shall guide them now?

New-Year, stand forth and bide the call To thee address'd. We stand or fall As thou decree'st. Frown, and we perish. Smile, we rise To joys that savor of the skies. Bid lethargy depart thy brow And strike for right and truth. Young, thou; but hast no youth. No hours are thine for sportive mirth. Minerva-like, mature from birth, Great deeds and valiant thine must be, In wisdom guided, fair and free.-- Deeds that no year hath known before; Fraught not with strife;--drenched not in gore. Free from old taint of fell disease And ancient forms of party strife. Rich in the gentler modes of life With sweeter manners, purer laws, Forerunner of those years of ease That token a sublimer cause!

What say'st thou? Giant, young and strong, What impulse heaves thy throbbing breast? Shall warrior plumes bedeck thy crest? Wilt whisper peace? Or shout for war? Wilt plead for right, or bleed for wrong? Wilt peal the bugle-blast afar And urge the cannon's madd'ning roar? Or wing the note through vale and glen:-- Hail! Peace on earth! Good-will to men! Reason return:--let strife be o'er?

Thou speak'st not, giant, but I feel Hope's roseate flush upon my brow. Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. New aims thy glory will reveal. Thou heed'st the anguished bosom's smart, And thou wilt choose the better part. Thou'lt live on hist'ry's brightest page A monarch mighty, gentle sage: Great, great for what thou wilt have done And blest in all the course thou'lt run:-- Thy crown not carved in brass or wood, To crumble or decay; But be in endless day, Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good. And truth and peace will round thee weave An amaranthyne wreath of love, Its blessed motto ... trust--believe. And thou wilt share the realm above, Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet, Around one common mercy-seat.

All hail, then, beautiful New-Year! Hero of promise, fraught with cheer! Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Thy stainless youth supports our faith That thou wilt break the bonds of death And snap the web of hate.

* * * * *

And thou farewell, grim tyrant old! Who, who would call thee back! Thou cam'st with bloody footstep, bold; Thou leav'st a blood-stained track.

Go! Find a grave in the billowy surge That ne'er can wash thee clean; The wail of millions be thy dirge-- Thy judge--the Great Unseen!

And when the resurrection morn Shall seek thy name to blot, Ho! Heed the voice that asks in scorn,-- Thou liv'dst and reign'dst for what?

Passion unbridled, stubborn pride, Avengers, thine to rue, Of outraged virtue, truth defied, Shall 'balm in blood thy due, Lost eighteen sixty-two.

MY BIRTHDAY.

TO S---- 1864.

The night is strangely, wildly dark; The thunders fiercely roll, And lightnings flash their angry spark; But thou absorb'st my soul. I have no care for storm-king's cloud, How black soe'er it be;-- No truant thought for earth's dark shroud: I'm thinking, love, of thee.

To-night the God of battles views, With deprecating eye, A scene where demons wild infuse A thirst for victory. 'Tis His, not mine to guide the storm; 'Tis His to calm the sea: My spirit hovers 'round thy form. I'm thinking, love, of thee.

Time's cycle once again has wrought Its round:--I'm twenty six. Another mile-stone's gained--sad thought-- Toward deep, silent Styx. I count no laurels I have won; Years bring no joy to me, While yet alone I wander on In timid thought of thee.

Years six and twenty have been mine To journey on alone: Shall I as many more repine, Before I am undone? Or shall the journey henceforth take A brighter phaze for me? Shall I next six-and-twenty make My journey, love, with thee?

If so, good-bye grim doubt and fear: Adieu to arid sand. All Hail! Oh prospect bright and clear! All Hail, oasis grand! Hand joined in hand, heart linked with heart, Come joy, come hope, come glee! United, ne'er on earth to part, I'll always think of thee.

If not, Good-bye! The spirit breaks; The fountain soon must dry. If not, good God! The temple shakes; It totters! What am I? A wreck of hope!--An aimless thing! A helmless ship at sea To whose last spar love still must cling, And sigh:--Alas!--for thee.

MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON.

Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends' Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to _The Cecil Democrat_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Gertrude St. Orme."

A BIRTHDAY GREETING

TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW.

[JULY 4TH, 1886.]

I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He's six years old to-day.

I scarce can think six years have passed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name.

But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You'll find them, every one.

And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie's birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum.

At sunrise on those happy days The cannon's deaf'ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four.

But now those landmarks all are passed, He's getting fast away, The boy's a man, no baby now, He's six years old to-day.

Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy.

And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he's right? Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might.

I know 'tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day.

Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then? For most small boys will imitate What's seen in grown up men.

And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man.

Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he's six to-day, Some other time I'll tell you more, If--Charlie says I may.

MURMURINGS.

Falling, falling--gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain.

Sweeping by the crazy casement, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things.

Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o'er the soul.

But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains.

And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky.