The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 38

Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain-- "He's falser than human tongue can tell."

September's sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the sh.o.r.e, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law.

Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a n.o.ble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and pa.s.sion warm.

She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;-- "No welcome for the leal and true?

Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I've come to you Faithful as when I went!"

"No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?"

Thou'rt dead! Why have I lived for this?

To gain a life of s.h.i.+pwrecked bliss?

To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again?

A funeral train,--all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when 'twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;-- A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,-- A s.h.i.+p at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday.

THE OLD FAs.h.i.+ON.

"The old, old fas.h.i.+on,--Death! Oh, thank G.o.d, all who see it, for that older fas.h.i.+on yet, of Immortality!"

--d.i.c.kens.

Despite all human pa.s.sion, And all that we can do,-- There is an old, old fas.h.i.+on That comes to me and you.

It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell.

When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best.

And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead.

It came in the wild March weather With bl.u.s.ter of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet.

And then,--G.o.d pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child.

"Give thanks for the old, old fas.h.i.+on,"

No, that can never be.

Where is the Divine compa.s.sion That G.o.d has shown to me?

Fling wide each s.h.i.+ning portal,-- Let me--a sinner through,-- Thank G.o.d for the immortal Is all that I can do.

No prayer of love or pa.s.sion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fas.h.i.+on, 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 publis.h.i.+ng 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 _Sh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sociate 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 h.o.a.ry 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 G.o.d, 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.