The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 12

Oh musty creeds in mouldy books!

Blind teachers of the blind are ye-- A plainer wisdom talks with me In G.o.d's full psalmody of brooks.

The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course.

The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul, Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour.

Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips-- G.o.d's all-sublime Apocalypse-- His awful poem writ in stars!

Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light!

To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming.

And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay-- Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers, Against the blus.h.i.+ng face of May--

A pa.s.sion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills!

MEMORIES.

While the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, And along the dreary moorlands, s.h.i.+ne the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart.

And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words.

Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul.

Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest.

All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro.

Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave.

Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears.

Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms-- Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies-- Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blus.h.i.+ng And my heavy heart to woe.

Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith?

Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path?

No reply!--the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding sorrow Still my aching bosom fills.

Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night.

Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb.

Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity-- In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me!

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

I remember the dear little cabin That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of suns.h.i.+ne That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow--smooth shorn,-- How the dew-drops lay flas.h.i.+ng and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn.

How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland, Like a red-cloud of sunset afar, And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond Like the pale silver rim of a star; How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus, With the birds that sang high in the trees; And how the bright shadows of sunset Trailed goldenly down on the breeze.

I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman's strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain.

For he dwelt in a lordly castle That towered half-way up the hill, And we in a poor little cabin In the shade of the weather-brown mill, Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer Came down with his knightly train, And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees That shadowed his golden grain.

Ah! wearily sighed our mother, When the mistletoe boughs lay shed; But never the curse of the orphan Was breathed on the rich man's head; And when again the gentle summer Had gladdened the earth once more, No branches of gnarled oaks olden Made shadows across the floor.

GURTHA.

The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss Among the dwarfish bushes, And with deep sighing sadly kiss The wild brook's border rushes; The woods are dark, save here and there The glow-worm s.h.i.+neth faintly, And o'er the hills one lonely star That trembles white and saintly.

Ah! well I know this mournful eve So like an evening olden; With many a goodly harvest sheaf The upland fields were golden; The lily moon in bridal white Leaned o'er the sea, her lover, And stars with beauty filled the Night-- The wind sang in the clover.

The halls were bright with revelry, The beakers red with wa.s.sail; And music's grandest symphony Rung thro' the ancient castle; And she, the brightest of the throng, With wedding-veil and roses, Seemed like the beauty of a song Between the organ's pauses.

My memory paints her sweetly meek, With her long sunny tresses, And how the blushes on her cheek Kissed back their warm caresses; But like an angry cloud that cleaves Down thro' the mists of glory, I see the flowers a pale hand weaves Around a forehead gory.

The road was lone that lay between His, and her father's castle, And many a stirrup-cup, I ween, Quaffed he of generous wa.s.sail.

My soul drank in a larger draught From the burning well of hate, The hand that sped the murderous shaft Was guided by my fate.

Red shadows lay upon the sward That night, instead of golden-- And long the bride's maids wait the lord In the bridal-chamber olden; Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers That bound the milk-white forehead-- The star has sunk, the red moon glowers Down slopes of blackness horrid.

IN MEMORIAM.

JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS.

He giveth His beloved sleep.

--Psalms 127:2

From heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise--

I see--with flas.h.i.+ng sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand-- The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp--the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly s.h.i.+ning bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden s.h.i.+ps away--

The fair-sailed s.h.i.+ps, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone-- My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest;