The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 7

A n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sing by like a procession.

While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried sh.o.r.e, 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 p.r.o.ne to run, The sire succeeded by the son.

May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have pa.s.sed away, We all may meet on that blessed sh.o.r.e, 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 s.h.i.+nes unsucceeded by night, Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more, And friends never part. On that beautiful sh.o.r.e, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d.

Here knowledge fails and faith appears, And bids us dry the scalding tear, And banish all our anxious fears, Which cl.u.s.ter 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 G.o.d.

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.