The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 5

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 pa.s.s'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 c.o.o.n.

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 pa.s.s'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...o...b.. of light, Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye, And beautify the dome of night.

The deep blue sea from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 pa.s.s'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 sh.o.r.e.

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.

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.