THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES [From the Household Edition of Bayard Taylor's Works, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.\ THE POETS AND POETRY CHESTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA. COLLECTED AND EDITED BY GEORGE JOHNSTON, EDITOR OF "THE POETS AND POETRY OF CECIL COUNTY, MARYLAND; AUTHOR OF "THE HISTORY OF CECIL COUNTY ;" CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE PENNSYLVANIA, DELAWARE, MARYLAND, AND WISCONSIN HISTORICAL SOCIETIES, ETC. Poetry is itself a thing of God ; He made His prophets poets ; and the more We feel of poesie do we become Like God in love and power. BAILEY'S FESTUS. PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 1890. ADVERTISEMENT. THIS book is published and sold by subscription b'y George Johnston, of Elkton, Md., and Francis C. Pyle, of Leonard, Chester County, Pa., who have formed a limited partnership for that purpose, which will ter minate in September, 1891, by the terms of which Mr. Pyle will have control of the canvass, sale, and delivery of the book and all matters pertaining thereto. Price in plain cloth, $1.50; full gilt, $1.85; when ordered by mail, 15 cents additional must be sent for postage. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1889, by GEORGE JOHNSTON, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C. PREFACE. IN presenting this book to the public, the editor wishes to say that he has been actuated by a desire to make it just what its name indicates, and to give every native- and resident poet of Chester County who has written any poetry worthy of preservation a place in its pages, and as comprehensive a biographical sketch as the available data and limited size of the book would permit ; so that it would be of historical as well as of literary value. Great care has been taken in selecting the poems to avoid the use of all sectarian or other objectionable matter, and it is believed there is nothing in it to injure the morals of the young or offend the most conscientious Christian. Because of the excessive modesty of some living writers, and the indifference of the friends of some who are dead, it was impossible in a few cases to obtain selections suit able for publication. In order to remedy this dis crepancy between the title and the contents, the chapter on other poets has been added. Owing to the com prehensiveness of the title, and, in a few cases, to the scarcity of better material, a few poems have been in serted which otherwise would have been excluded. Of the manner in which the work has been done, the reader must judge for himself; the editor can only say that he has striven to make the best and most judicious selec tions from available material, and at the same time to rescue from oblivion the names of the humble, rather than to exalt those of acknowledged ability. For the reasons above stated it is apparent that the reader should not expect to find a brilliant cluster of poetical gems, but rather, if you will pardon the ex pression, a garland of flowers in which the simpier's joy and modest violet have been entwined with the trumpet-flower and fragrant mignonette. G. J. Ei.KTON, MD., February 18, 1890. 759752 CONTENTS. Annie Alexander. Biography . . . , 17 The Haunted House 17 Edwin Atlee Barber. Biography 18 The Guide's Story 18 Contentment 21 Inspiration 22 Mrs. Mary D. R. Boyd. Biography 23 Catharine S. Boyd. Biography 23 How the Family Clock went on " A Strike" 24 Life's Discipline 25 True Greatness 26 The Voice of the Brook 28 A Castle in the Air 29 The Foolish Quarrel 30 The News-Carrier 31 There is Work for All 32 Thomas Ellwood Brinton. Biography 34 Truth 34 The Birds of Passage 35 Debby E. Cope. Biography 36 Caleb S. Cope. Biography 36 Sea of Galilee 37 Under the Shadow 38 Pansies 40 Slighted Counsel 42 To a Flushed Partridge 43 A Short Talk with the Frogs about, Geology 44 7 CONTENTS. PAGE Rebecca Conard. Biography 47 The King's Daughters 47 Elizabeth M. Chandler. Biography 48 The Brandywine 48 Susanna Dance. Biography 51 Angel Whispers 51 The Dew-Drop 53 The Way-side Tree 55 Chandler Darlington. Biography 57 Charles Howard Darlington. Biography 57 Fenelon Darlington. Biography 58 Periodical Weddings 58 The Forties 59 The Dead Hope 61 The Angel of the Tempest 62 An Invocation 63 Lewis Eisenbeis. Biography 64 The Church Fair 64 A Thanksgiving Ode 68 My Mother's Face 69 James Bowen Everhart. Biography 70 The Entertainment at Simon's House 70 Sconnelltown 71 Thomas Ellwood Garrett. Biography 76 Disenthralled 76 Howard Worcester Gilbert. Biography ." 78 To a Skylark 79 To the Trailing Arbutus 80 Hymn at the Grave So Prelude and Liberty Song 81 William S. Graham. Biography 83 Bear On 83 Rejoice 84 CONTENTS. PAGE Rev. Lewis R. Harley. Biography 84 Contemplation 85 Moonlight by the Sea 87 Townsend Haines. Biography 89 William T. Haines. Biography 89 Mary Denny Haines. The Twilight Hour 90 The Mountain Stream 91 Bob Fletcher 92 A Birthday Tribute 93 The Dying Year 94 God's Providence . 95 Isabella P. Huston. Biography 96 The White Althaea Flower 97 My Mother 99 Tea-Roses 100 Truth 101 Helen I. Hodgson. Biography 101 Chester Valley 102 The Dove 103 The Drifting Years 104 Wonderings 105 Rachel Hunt. Biography 106 Humble Confidence , . . 106 John Hickman. Biography 107 The Poor 107 Halliday Jackson. Biography 109 The Stormy Petrel 109 Claytonia Virginica no Laura A. Johnson. Biography in Speak of Jesus 1 12 Henry S. Kent. Biography 113 Esther Kent (Smedley). Biography 113 I O CONTENTS. Anne F. Kent (Bradley). Biography 114 " A Diversity of Gifts, but One Spirit" 114 To my Wife, etc 116 Lines, etc 117 Stanzas, etc 118 My Love and I 120 After the Battle 121 Bring Flowers 123 Alice Gary 124 Contrition 125 Sweet Agnes 127 The Last Morning 128 The Aide's Story 129 Mordecai Larkin. Biography 132 The Works of God 133 John E. Leonard LL.D. Biography 134 Memory and Hope 135 Song 135 Weariness 136 Charlton T. Lewis. Biography 136 Telemachus 137 Susan Lukens. Biography 142 The Painter of Seville 142 Rev. John M. Lyons. Biography 147 The Zephyr 148 Old Ocean 149 Day's Decline 150 Waiting 151 Lizzie M Marshall. Biography 151 My Angel 152 June A Fragment 153 Thanksgiving 154 Isaac Martin. Biography 155 The Wavy Pane 155 Ezra Michener, M.D. Biography 156 CONTENTS. 1 1 PAGE Frances Lavina Michener. Biography 157 The Car of Life 157 May 159 Captain Charles Mcllvaine. Biography 160 Groom an' Bride 161 Spring Fever 163 The Heated Term 163 Apple Blossoms 165 James McClune, LL.D. Biography -. 165 The Battle of Las Navas 166 Parting 167 William McCullough. Biography 168 Life's Milestones . 168 Mary Ann Moore. Biography 170 Who is thy Friend ? 170 Elizabeth Walton Moore. Biography 171 Count Zinzendorf 171 Sara Louisa Oberholtzer. Biography 174 An Interview with the Spring Wind 14 A Burial Ode 175 The Forgotten Birthday 176 Samuel M. Osmond, D.D. Biography 177 Unattainable ' 178 Shelley 178 George W. Pearce. Biography 179 David C. Broderick . 180 Ann B. Phillips. Biography 181 Two Visions . . 181 In Memoriam 183 Issachar Price. Biography 184 The Snow-Bird 184 Eli K. Price. Biography 185 The Good Man's Death Hymn, 186 12 CONTENTS. PAGE Ann Preston, M.D. Biography 187 William B. Preston, M.D. Biography 187 The Ideal is the Real 188 Pennsylvania Hall 189 Now is the Time for the Baby to Wake 190 Isaac R. Pennypacker. Biography 191 Gettysburg* 192 Amelia J. Rowland. Biography 196 Here and There 197 Now 197 Life's Shadows 198 Abraham Rakestraw. Biography 199 Mary Rakestraw (Jones). Biography 199 Eliza Rakestraw (Whitson). Biography 199 Spring 200 Thoughts, etc 201 Sunny Days in Winter 202 Quaker Meeting 203 Thomas Buchanan Read. Biography 205 The Closing Scene 206 The Stranger on the Sill 208 Martha B. Ruth. Biography 209 A Brighter World than This 209 Nature's Music 210 Slater B. Russell. Biography 211 Jasmin* 212 Frank H. StaufTer. Biography 213 Watching the Dawn' 214 To the Stars 214 A Name that was not Mine 215 *Thi* poem is from " Gettysburg nnd Other Poems," by Isaac R. Penny- packer, published by Porter & Coate*, Philadelphia, 1890. CONTENTS. 13 PAGE Mary E. Schofield. Biography 216 Our Bird 216 The Maiden Lover 217 Rev. Matthias Sheeleigh, D.D. Biography 2l8 Luther-Statue Unveiling 219 Whitemarsh Centennial 292 Carving a Name 295 I. Milton Smith. Biography 220 Summer Time 221 Eventide . . . 221 Joel Swayne. Biography 222 Benjamin W. Swayne. Biography 222 William Marshall Swayne. Biography 223 Edward Swayne. Biography 223 The Fall of Missolonghi 223 Address to the Stars 226 Orison . 228 Val Delicia 229 The Octoraro 231 Mary Eloisa Thropp (Cone). Biography 233 Amelia Thropp. Biography 234 Catharine Rose Thropp (Porter). Biography 234 The Wild Flowers of Valley Forge 235 Valley Forge Centennial Poem 236 Heavenward 241 The Dying Drummer-Boy 242 Christian Workizer's Steed 244 Bayard Taylor. Biography 247 Emma Taylor (Lamborn). Biography 248 Bedouin Song 249 The Song of the Camp 250 Hassan to his Mare 252 The Way-side Dream 253 2 14 CONTENTS. Remembrance 255 Cheyenne Mountain 256 Mount Edgecumbe 256 J. Williams Thome. Biography 257 Nature Prompting to Devotion 258 Emmaline Walton. Biography 259 Lines, etc 260 Vacant Places 261 Lillian Weaver. Biography 262 A Villanelle 263 Trailing Arbutus 264 A Ballade 264 A Leaf from Nature 265 William Whitehead. Biography 265 The Sabbath Bell 266 In Memoriam v 268 Brinton W. Woodward. Biography 269 St. Augustine 270 In Boyhood 271 Chester County 272 Lavinia P. Yeatman. Biography 273 Spring 274 Quaker Meeting 275 New-Year's Eve 276 Extract from " Edith" 277 OTHER POETS. . James L. Futhey 279 Mrs. S. A. Taylor 279 Anne J. Christman 279 Mrs. E. W. Cutler 279 CONTENTS. PAGE J. O. K. Robarts 279 Rev. Samuel Pancoast 279 Decoration Poem 280 Marshall Fell 284 Funeral Flowers 284 John Townsend 285 Patrick Henry 285 Roger H. Kirk 286 William S. Brinton 286 John Workizer 287 Lines on the Death of my Wife 287 William E. Baily 288 Mrs. Amanda Pyle Michener 288 John Jackson 288 Morning Meditations 288 George W. Roberts 289 Mrs. Annie M. Darlington 289 Rev. William Newton, D.D. . . 289 Emma Alice Browne 290 Measuring the Baby 291 ANNIE ALEXANDER. THIS lady is the daughter of John H. and Sarah (Woolens) Bye. She was born not far from Oxford in 1836, and educated at the public schools of the neighborhood and at the Mount Jordon Seminary of Evan Pugh, near Oxford. In 1856 she married Ellis Alexander, and has spent all her married life ex cept four years in Chester County. For the last sixteen years she has occasionally contributed poems to the Oxford Press. THE HAUNTED HOUSE. ES, yes, the house is haunted still By ghosts of days of yore ; And silent figures wander there, Through each familiar door. At every turning they appear, As by some magic spell ; In every nook and corner, too, Their presence seems to dwell. Not robed in ghostly garments, Like restless spirits clad, But clothed like living mortals, With features bright and glad. There are dear old wrinkled faces, Sweet with the smiles they wear, Whose loving eyes beam tenderly Beneath their snowy hair. And happy wives, and husbands kind, And children fair and sweet, With parents guiding carefully Their little wayward feet. b 2* 17 1 8 EDWIN A. BARBER. But no stranger ear can hear them, No stranger eye can see Those phantoms of the by-gone times, As they appear to me. Though many changing years have passed Since in the flesh we met, Our mem'ries hold communion there And haunt the old house yet. EDWIN ATLEE BARBER, THIS author is the son of William E. and Ann Eliza (Town- send) Barber. He was born in Baltimore, Md., August 13, 1857, and was educated at Williston Seminary, East Hampton, Mass., and at Lafayette College, Pa. ; was naturalist on the United States Geological and Geographical Survey in charge of Dr. F. V. Hay- den in 1874-5. He has also been Superintendent of the West Phila delphia Post-Office, and Secretary of the United States Civil Ser vice Examining Board for the Philadelphia Post-Office. February 5, 1880, he married Nellie Louisa Parker, of Philadelphia. Mr. Barber commenced to write poetry for the college journals at the age of nineteen, and has contributed many poems to the West Chester and Philadelphia newspapers, and has published many articles in the American Naturalist, American Antiquarian, and other scientific journals. At one time he was associate editor of the American Antiquarian, and is the author of the Genealogical Record of the Atlee Family. THE GUIDE'S STORY. TAWKIN' 'baout fishin' an' huntin' fur deer, The slickest thing 'curred last December two year; (Ye've heerd guides a-blaowin' an' lyin' like fun, But /never dew, as ye' 11 'low 'fore I'm done.) "Wall, I tell ye what happened to Jack Braown an' me : We was huntin' that season on Loon Pond, ye see, EDWIN A. BARBER. 1 9 An' bein' hard pushed fur a rashun o' game, A hankerin' fur it seemed rayther too tame. " I don't 'zactly knaow jest haow long we was gone, But we'd biled the last steak, an' we'd chawed the last bone ; We was campin' alongside an old ranch we struck The winter afore, where I shot the big buck. " Ye knaow up this way in the Adirondacks The lakes all freeze over 'baout Christmas, an' tracks Of deer is quite plain arter light squalls of snaow, An' they lay thick as bees, 'most, wharever ye gao. " Wall, we follered a fresh trail, in hopes of a saddle (Fur'n that time o' year th'ain't no water to paddle), An' daown on the ice, Jack jest scooped aout a sink, An' laid on his stummick to suck up a drink. " The minit his maouth tetched the hole, great Sophiar ! Ef a traout didn't jump fur his nose, I'm a liar; He giv" a side yank an' jerked aout on the snaow A feller es weighed twenty ounces ur sao. "Jack kep' on a-drinkin' an' yankin' them fish Till enough was pulled aout fur to make a good dish. (I ain't giv' to lyin' nur blaowin', I say, So ye needn't keep grinnin' an' winkin' that way.) " We don't hev' much riggin' to bother us here, A-spreadin' the table an' cheers with sich keer, But jest squat right daown an' sail in fur pot luck, All the same ef it's venison, traout, ur a duck. " Wall, of all the tall eatin' es ever ye seen, I guess we did most, ur my name ain't Hank Green ; We made them there traout kinder look mighty sick, Es we stretched aourselves aoutside the hull batch, sao slick. 2O EDWIN A. BARBER. " 'Baout a week arter that, we was campin' below, Me an' Jack an' a sportin' lad, 's name was De Foe; We sot the dogs aout on the track of a deer, An' planted aourselves by the haouse, in the rear. "Purty soon we could hear a dashed saour-daough clatter, An' 'fore we faound aout what the dewse was the matter A deer cum a-past us, a-rippity-smash, An' then she was into the woods with a crash. "But the haounds they kep' arter, old Drive on the lead (An' I hain't seen another could ekal his breed), A-snortin' an' hollerin' 's ef they was mad, An' they run her so close that they tuckered her bad. " We follered the saounds jest es tight es we could, Till arter a bit we got cl'ar o' the wood, An' of all the queer sights that I ever behold, I wouldn't missed that one fur boat-loads of gold. " The dogs was a-jumpin' an' bayin' to bite, But they darsen't run in, fur the critter showed fight; 'Twas a white yearlin' doe, 'baout es near 's we could see, With her head p'inted daown, an' her rump 'gin a tree. " Wall, I never seen nuthin' es did me more good, Fur aour innerds was empty an' clam'rin' for food, An* a good holler stummick won't show much compas sion When thar's suthin' araound in the way of a rashun. "I hev' often heerd say a white doe was bad luck, But a keen appetite '11 give men lots o' pluck, Sao withaout no compunctions we aimed at her flanks, An' shot all aour ca'tridges, mought 's well been blanks ! EDWIN A. BARBER. 21 " S'help me Davy, that deer stood es still es a stun, While we all blazed away till aour bullits was done, An' then, I'll be blowed, ef she didn't turn 'round An' walk slowly off, 'thaout a scratch ur a saound. "Then I sez, sez I, 'Jack, we're euchred, by gum, We mought es well track it a bee-line fur hum, Fur ye can't kill the devil, sao what be the use Of wastin' your powder? That doe's cooked aour goose !' " Wall, I don't knaow es ever I seen her ag'in, But what I hev' told ye is jest true es sin ; Ef ye daon't b'lieve my story, why jest ask Jack Braown, He'll tell ye the same, an' /never let daown." CONTENTMENT. HERE'S a tiny rill in a shady grove That ripples the whole day long, And the whip-poor-will and the turtle-dove Go thither to hear its song. The trees above, in a graceful arch, Bend low their sheltering arms, The kingly oak and the lissome larch Respond to its guileless charms. There came a gentle voice one morn Up from the crystal stream, Or was it an idle fancy, borne On the wings of a fitful dream ? It seemed to say, " In my mossy bed I'm troubled by no sad thought, For many a word were best unsaid, And many a deed unwrought. " I cheerily sing the same glad song, Through forest and o'er the lea, And look not back, as I glide along To my goal, the distant sea." 22 EDWIN A. BARBER. I tarried awhile, but all was still Save the whispering of the trees, And I wondered, " was it the singing rill, Or a voice in the passing breeze !" INSPIRATION. SCULPTOR fashioned a human face Out of a block of stone, And made it a thing of such wondrous grace That he worshiped it, and with a moan He prayed that it might live ; And men by thousands sang his praise And crowned him "master" in their lays, Or kissed the soil his feet did tread, And heaped high honors on his head, With all that fame could give. An artist painted a robin's nest, Alive with its half-fledged brood, And hung the canvas towards the West, Beneath the home-tree, in the wood, All hidden the leaves among ; And the painting was so natural, As the slanting sun shone on .the wall, That the mother, coming home at eve (The picture did so much deceive), Flew to it to feed her young. A poet sang, in words sublime, A song of such perfect love, That his spirit, reaching beyond all time, Was borne from earth to realms above On the wings of his blissful lay ; And a dying soul that heard the strain, Thinking it song of Heavenly train, Did find such joy and trusting peace, That, when from earth it found release, To heaven it took its way. THE BOYDS. 23 THE BOYDS. (MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.) MRS. MARY D. R. BOYD. THE subject of this sketch was born in Philadelphia in 1809. She is the daughter of William McCorkle, for many years editor of the Freeman's Journal of Philadelphia, who was born in Wilmington, Del., on the 4th of July, 1776, and whose an cestors belonged to the clan of the MacTorqhuil Dhu, in the Highlands of Scotland. Mrs. Boyd was fond of books from her earliest recollection, and in childhood became acquainted with the classic authors in her father's library; and thus laid the foundation upon which her successful literary career was estab lished. For awhile she attended the best schools in Wilmington, but the death of her father and the removal of the family to Philadelphia deprived her of this advantage,- and she was obliged to continue her studies without the aid of a teacher, which she did so successfully that she acquired a knowledge of polite litera ture and several ancient and modern languages. She began to write poetry at a very early age, and some of her poems were published when she was only twelve years old. In 1832 she engaged in teaching in the Mantua Female Academy, Chester County, under the direction of the Rev. James Latta, pastor of Upper Octoraro Presbyterian Church, and remained there three years. In 1835 sne married Joseph C. Boyd, a great-grandson of Rev. Adam Boyd, the first pastor of Upper Octoraro Church. During the last twenty years Mrs. Boyd has contributed much to Arthur's Home Magazine, the juvenile papers of the American Sunday-School Union, and those of the Presbyterian Board of Publication, besides writing a large number of books for youthful readers. CATHARINE S. BOYD. CATHARINE S. BOYD, daughter of Joseph C. and Mary D. R. Boyd, was born at the homestead farm, near upper Octoraro Church, which has been in possession of the Boyd family for four genera tions. She had the usual common school education, but had learned to read at home before attending school. Her taste for literature was early developed, being inherited from both parents; her father having also an aptitude for writing poetry. When six years of age she filled a small blank-book with pen-and-ink draw ings, under each of which she gave in printed letters a short descrip tion of the picture. At the age of twelve she wrote creditable poems. Of late years she has been a contributor to the St. Nich olas, Our Monthly, Women's Work for Women, and very largely for the juvenile papers of the Presbyterian Board of Publication. Both mother and daughter, like their ancestors for many genera tions, are members of the Presbyterian Church. 24 MARY D. R. BOYD. MARY D. R. BOYD. HOW THE FAMILY CLOCK WENT ON "A STRIKE." T stood on the stairs in the wide oaken hall, This faithful old family clock ; Had a face and three hands in a case very tall, With a tongue that said only " tic-toe." But once on a time 'twas the dead of the night, When folks were all soundly asleep A discussion arose on a question of right, And they muttered not loudly but deep. Mr. Pendulum said that he really must speak Of his life like a mole underground, Without air or light, only once in the week, When his neighbors, the clock-weights, were wound. He found fault with them, too how contrariwise bent, Those dull pokes hung unsocial all day ; And when gayly swinging across lines he went, They dropped down the opposite way. He thought all must see he had cause for complaint, No one else such a grievance could tell ; "Oh, shut up!" cried the Hammer; "I often feel faint With my efforts to strike that great bell." " If only some one," said poor Pen, " had the skill To count all the beats we must go." Then the pert little Second-Hand spoke up: "I will ; I'm quick at the figures, you know." She counted an hour, day, week, month, and year A lifetime. What dreadful array Of units there were ! The clock cried, " Oh, dear !" And held up her hands in dismay. MARY D. R. BOYD. 2 5 "Let us strike," said they all not the loud, cheery ring That made music throughout the old hall, But such "strikes" as famine and misery bring To those who are slaves to their thrall. So for three tedious hours the clock had a rest, None moved to obey her commands ; But her shame and disgrace she humbly confessed By covering her face with her hands. Yet when the moon shone through the ivy-draped pane, A soft touch on the pendulum laid Set each sluggish part in swift motion again, And a voice full of melody said, "You have only one thing to do at a time, You, too, mortal, bowed down with care ; For One walks beside you (the thought is sublime), Who will help you your burdens to bear." The farmer came down at the peep of the day, His step was elastic and quick ; " What ! three hours behind time !" they all heard him say; " The old clock has been playing a trick." But the mystery is, whose touch broke the spell Of silence and indolence, too ? Whose magical voice such brave lessons could tell ? I never can guess it can you ? LIFE'S DISCIPLINE. SUBTLE fragrance dwells this leaf within ; How may I best its hidden sweetness win ? Crush thou the leaf, and soon the ambient air Shall waft to thee its odors rich and rare. 26 MARY D. R. BOYD. Beneath this rugged stone a jewel lies ; I fain would take for mine the glittering prize. Strike with the hammer ; cut with sharpest steel, Thy labors shall the priceless gem reveal. From smitten rock the crystal fountain flows ; Gold in the furnace tried more brightly glows. The olive must be bruised to yield its oil ; The wheat is ground for food with care and toil. Grapes first are pressed ere flows the ruby wine ; These types portray, oh, friend, thy life and mine. We read between the lines, and see how grief Brings out our graces, like the broken leaf. As gold in crucibles refined, the heart Is purified by pain and bitter smart. God's hammer-blows strike hard, but lo ! a gem Shines in thy crown thy royal diadem. TRUE GREATNESS. WONDER, as I read the classic tales of old, When might made right, and valor was of more esteem than gold, Whether deeds of lofty emprise and hearts of matchless worth, True men and noble women, have passed away from earth ? They tell us of Thermopylae, and its brave three hun dred bound To conquer or to perish on the straitened battle-ground ; With their lion-hearted leader they waged the unequal strife, For home and household treasures that were dearer far than life. MARY D. R. BOYD. But in yonder fireless garret I see a crouching form, Armed with a slender needle to fight life's battle- storm ; Her feeble arm she thrusts Want's open door to bar, And bravely keeps gaunt Famine with all its woes afar. There is a myth that in Rome's forum a gulf once opened wide, Nor closed again, though glutted with gems of kingly pride, Till Curtius on his charger, in knightly courage bold, Leaped fearless in, proclaiming life more precious far than gold. But martyr men and women take up the tasks of life, Giving themselves for hostage, not shrinking from the strife ; In daily meek submission, in patient trust they wait, Bearing their burdens nobly, not rushing on their fate. They may sing of Spartan heroes, of battles fought and won; The vanquished walls of Troy, Salamis, Marathon ; Or the bloody fields of Lodi, Marengo, Austerlitz ; But there are triumphs greater than victories like these. For he who rules his spirit, who curbs his lawless tongue, Though all uncrowned with laurel, by poet's voice unsung, Hath conquered Self, that tyrant, whose giant arms have bound More captives in his fetters than moated keeps sur round. So, whenever I read in the classic tales of old, How might made right, and valor was of more esteem than gold, I know that deeds of emprise and hearts of matchless worth, True men and noble women, still live upon the earth. 28 MARY D. R. BOYD. THE VOICE OF THE BROOK. HAT is that the brook is saying, Dancing merrily along, Through the woods and through the meadows, Full of laughter and of song ? " We twin rivulets together Ventured forth the world to see ; One sought deeds of lofty emprise ; Lowly acts were left to me. "I refreshed the ferns and mosses, Cherished seeds of blossoms sweet, Till they grew and wove a curtain, Sheltering me from summer's heat. "Then, when failed the dew and rain-drops, And my fellow-stream was dry, Tinkling o'er the shiny pebbles, I ran softly singing by. " Came the thrush and gay wood-robin, From my coolest depths to sip ; And the way-worn, weary pilgrim There bathed brow and parched lip. " Then with ringing laughs the children Found me out in my retreat ; Chased the bright-hued water-spiders, Wading in with bare, white feet. " So, though ne'er my sparkling waters Turned a mill-wheel, winged a train, Or joined force with mighty rivers, Speeding ships across the main, "Yet I've filled my humble station, Nor with vain desires am vexed ; Leaving to the world this precept : 'Do THE DUTY THAT COMES NEXT.' " MARY D. R. BOYD. 2Q A CASTLE IN THE AIR. WAS built in a notch of the old apple tree This wonderful castle in air ; Where the humming-bird came, and the wan dering bee, The pink and white blossoms to share. Two pretty brown birdies, their wings flecked with white, Had fashioned this beautiful nest ; They chattered, they sang, and then took a long flight, Of building materials in quest. No hands had these workers, nor ever a tool, Yet built walls, and plastered them well ; ' For bricks they brought twigs, laid exactly by rule, And clay from the brook in the dell. Then, when all was finished, and hollowed out fair, And lined with soft mosses and hay, The birds carolled sweetly the happiest pair To be found in the orchard that day. Four pearly- white eggs, in the tree-cradle laid, Kept madam at home on her nest ; " "Twill be ever so nice after working," she said, " To sit down and have a good rest." Ah ! well the sly rogue knew her brave little knight Would be faithful whatever might come ; He had vowed to keep always his castle in sight, And share with his mate his last crumb. He even proposed, and was proud of it too, When he saw she was wanting a treat, To sit on the nest, while delighted she flew In search of some dainty to eat. Naught troubled the pair ; not a whit did they heed The cares that must come by and by, With four hungry nestlings to watch and to feed, And train their young pinions to fly. 3* 3O CATHARINE S. BOYD. The pink and white blossoms breathed balm on the air ; The earth was in emerald drest ; But the prettiest sight in that orchard fair Was the building of the nest. CATHARINE S. BOYD. THE FOOLISH QUARREL. ITHIN the farm-yard's safe retreat, Through every kind of weather, Two ducks, a rooster, and a hen All lived in peace together; But one sad day a quarrel rose And friends were quickly changed to foes ; Though none could tell just how it came, Somebody, surely, was to blame. The cow looked out as if to see The cause of so much chatter, And seemed to say, in mild surprise, " I wonder what's the matter !" The pigeon, cousin to the dove, Would counsel all to live in love, And paused awhile in airy flight, Dismayed when discord met her sight. And still the war of tongues went on, And all was dire confusion, When, thinking it was almost time To bring it to conclusion, With fiery face and haughty mien The turkey came upon the scene : " I blush with shame," he said, " to see You so disposed to disagree ; " The cause of your dispute must be Important, I've no doubt ; I'd settle it for you, my friends, If I could make it out." CATHARINE S. BOYD. The battle ceased, and in the pause They tried in vain to find its cause ; It really was so very small Not one remembered it at all. THE NEWS-CARRIER. OW do you know?" " Who told you so?' These words you often hear ; And then it often happens, too, This answer meets your ear : "A little bird has told the tale, And far it spreads o'er hill and dale." Now let us see if this can be. How can the birds find out so well, And give the news to all? Or, if they know, why need they tell ? And which among the feathered tribe Must we to keep our secrets bribe? The busy crow ? As all well know He sometimes breaks the laws ; We shall regret it, if we do, For .he will give us cause (caws). Though slyest of the feathered tribe, The crow would scorn to need a bribe. Not robin red ; he holds his head With such an honest air, And whistles bravely at his work, But has no time to spare. " I mind my own concerns," says he ; "They're most important, all may see." Nor birdie blue, so leal and true ; He never heeds the weather, But in the latest winter-days His fellows flock together ; And then, indeed, glad news they bring Of early buds and blossoming. 32 CATHARINE S. BOYD. Might not each one beneath the sun Of all the race reply, If questioned who should wear the cap, "Oh, no! it is not I?" For there are none who, every day, Are busier at work than they. They chatter, too, as others do ; But what it is about The wisest sage in all the earth Might puzzle to make out. But I'm as sure as I can be They never talk of you or me. We hear " They say," oh, every day, Are they the birds, I wonder, That have such power with words to part The dearest friends asunder ? Or must we search the wide world through To bring the culprits full in view ? The birds, we see, though wild and free, Have something else to do ; And, reader, don't you think the same Might well be said of you? It really seems to be a shame That they should always bear the blame. THERE IS WORK FOR ALL. |AS it a dream? I seemed to see a field of bending grain, That ripe, in yellow splendor rolled like bil lows o'er the plain ; And when the morning sunlight threw its beams of glory there, Forth came the laborers, each in place, the harvest work to share. First were the reapers, then by some the golden sheaves were bound, And other hands soon gathered these ; none idle could be found, CATHARINE S. BOYD. 33 For there was nothing lost that day of all that bounte ous store Because of sloth, or that some tired before the task was o'er. But all, with cheerful spirit, gave their utmost strength and skill, Or where these lacked, their place was filled by patient, earnest will ; Some, to refresh the weary ones, brought food and water too ; The service in itself was small, yet all that they could do. There even children had a place, and in the Master's sight, Not trifling was the work they wrought, with hands of slender might That gleaned the scattered blades of grain through all the sunny hours, Though one, a tiny, prattling one, had gathered only flowers. And when the evening sunlight threw long shadows on the sward, Each who had borne a part that day received a fit reward ; While all alike rejoiced, because all shared the labor done, The welcome night brought rest at last, sweet rest for every one. And then I thought, if it were thus in God's broad harvest-field, How full the gathering there might be, the rich abun dant yield ; For over all the hills and vales, unfolding to the view, A glorious fruitage ripens fast, and "laborers are few." 'Tis true that some go forth at morn, nor cease when night is near, But where the numbers that should haste the fainting hearts to cheer? 34 THOMAS E. BRINTON. Shall servants of a mighty King be laggards to the last, Until the grain is garnered, and the harvest time is past? Or any say, with careless speech, " I have no work to do?" Oh, thoughtless ones, the world is wide, there is a place for you, And in our Master's field to-day some work for every one Work for the willing hands to do, and rest when toil is done. THOMAS ELLWOOD BRINTON. THOMAS ELLWOOD BRINTON, son of Joseph and Susan Brinton, was born in Birmingham Township, August II, 1832, and died July 9, 1883. His early education was obtained at Birmingham Public School, where he made rapid progress and developed a strong passion for literature. He learned the trade of bricklaying, serving part of his apprenticeship with Jacob Harvey, afterwards noted as a teacher and superintendent of public schools of Chester County, and became an efficient and skilful workman. Mr. Brinton in early life married Rachel Williams, of Westtown Township, who with their eight children survived him. He showed great aptness and ability for writing and sketching in early life, and was the author of many fine poems, being a fre quent contributor to the Village Record, American Republican, and Oxford Press t the latter being edited by his brother, H. L. Brinton. TRUTH. |REAT truths gain entrance as by intuition. The lightning's fiery bolt of vivid ray, Quickly to rend, falls not with more pre cision Rives the strong mountain oak, or rends away The builded rampart as a thing of clay. They enter to the mind and fill their mission For nobler efforts, the while the soul will sway; And lo ! 'twill seem. like stately tower to rise, Strength at the base and beauty in the skies. THOMAS E. BRINTON. 35 THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. HEY have spread their wings for the sunny clime, They are passing away in the autumn time. They have called their tribes for the distant flight ; And away from the land of frost and blight They go, while the silent breath of flowers Is passing away from this land of ours. Now faintly comes back their parting strain ; They are fleeing afar with the autumn train, The gentle winds, and sparkling showers, And the golden tints of the drooping flowers. They are leaving the nests in the mountain trees ; They are cradled no more by the mountain breeze. By the brooklet's side their notes are still; They sing no more by the murm'ring rill. From the quiet brake, from the wild woodside, Up, up to the fields of air they glide. The fledgling young are cradled no more In the swinging nest by the wave-washed shore ; They are sailing on wings of the lightest feather, Far o'er the bleak hills and woods together. Their silent abode in the shadowy vale Is filled with the comfortless snow and hail, And the nest that hangs from the leafless bough Is swinging deserted and tenantless now. Thro' the dreary months we may call in vain For the echoing notes of the woodland train ; The blackbird's song, and the robin's trill, Are heard no more on the northern hill. 'Til the cheerless hours of autumn are told, And winter away in the north is roll'd ; 'Til spring comes out from the sunny land, We may call in vain for the minstrel band ; They have spread their wings for the distant shore, And their songs of gladness are heard no more. They have hied them away to the flow'ry isles Where the light of summer forever smiles ; And singing, they fly the bleak hills over, Away from the fields of fading clover. 36 THE COPES. THE COPES. DEBBY EVANS COPE and Caleb S. Cope are cousins ; for that reason their biographical sketches have been placed under their family name. DEBBY E. COPE. DEBBY EVANS COPE, daughter of David and Deby (Phillips) Cope, was born in East Whiteland Township, in the heart of the beautiful Chester Valley, March 14, 1833. For several years she has been an approved minister of the Society of Orthodox Friends. She received most of her education at schools taught by Friends and finished her studies at Westtown Boarding-School in 1850. Her early life, except a few years devoted to teaching school, was spent with her parents, but for the last nineteen years she has lived with her uncle, Morris Cope, in West Marlborough Township. She wrote poetry at eight or nine years of age; one of her first poems being " A Love Offering to Mother." Her poems are generally of a personal character, the exercise of her gift being mostly confined to occasions wherein her family and friends are concerned ; though some of her poems have been published in The Friend and other periodicals. CALEB S. COPE. CALEB SWAYNE COPE, son of Benjamin and Rest (Swayne) Cope, was born in East Bradford Township, November 27, 1818. He received his education at Westtown School and at John Bul lock's Seminary in Wilmington, Del. Early in life he married Lydia, daughter of Joseph and Abigail Eldridge. of East Goshen Township, and engaged in farming upon the patrimonial inheri tance which his ancestors acquired when it was covered with the primeval forest, and upon which he now resides. Much of his leisure time in early life was spent in the study of chemistry and geology, in the pursuit of which he met with so many Latin terms that at the age of thirty-seven he began the study of the Latin language. He was elected a member of the West Chester Philo sophical Society in 1880, and since that time has taken an active part in its proceedings. He began to write poetry early in life, and is the author of a large number of poems, many of which have been published during the last thirty years. DEBBY E. COPE. DEBBY E. COPE. SEA OF GALILEE. H, placid sea of Galilee, How wondrous is thy story ! They walked beside thy changing tide, Who knew the Lord of glory. A sacred barque, o'er waves so dark, Its precious freight was bearing ; 'Mid calm repose the storm arose, His marvellous power declaring. Life's lesson taught, when Peter sought (Who was a man of favor) To walk the wave, with spirit brave, To meet his Lord and Saviour. When waves were high, there rose the cry From soul of faith-tried mortal ; No hands of men can aid him then To reach the ship's safe portal. In sinking fear his voice rose clear, " Save, Master, or I perish !" Outstretched the arm to keep from harm The soul He joyed to cherish. Our barque afloat, each tiny boat Is in the Master's keeping ; His hand can save, 'mid boisterous wave, Although we deem Him sleeping. And " Peace be still" is yet His will To souls on troubled ocean ; Doubt not his power in danger's hour, But prove the soul's devotion. Be brave and true life's journey thro', Resounds from shore to shore, " Our Father's" hand, on sea and land, Can safely guide us o'er. 4 38 DEBBY E. COPE. UNDER THE SHADOW. OFT the moonlight shadow resteth Over all, Stealing where the early twilight Wraps its pall, And from out the deep'ning stillness Voices call. Gentle, low, and full of music, Now they rise From the grave of buried treasures To the skies, Where the sound of sacred anthem Never dies. Memory bears a precious burden ; Rich and clear Fall the songs of by-gone pleasure On the ear ; Loving words from gentle spirits Linger near. These have passed, and darkness falleth On the scene ! Change and death with leaden footstep Come between. Joys have vanished, hopes have perished, As a dream. To a quiet little graveyard Am I led, Where in deep, unbroken slumber Rest the dead, Heeding not the lonely orphan's Silent tread. Father, mother, tender guardians, Good and true, Know you not your sorrowing children Mourn for you, Craving still the prayers and blessings Once they knew? DEBBY E. COPE. 39 Ye have passed from earthly trial, Earthly care, Silent grief and dark temptation, Chill despair ; Murmuring hearts and restless spirits Are not there. Sick and suffering, faint and weary, Now we come, Poor in spirit pressing forward Thro' the gloom, Yearning for a gleam of sunshine From your home. Well we know the hand of mercy, Opened wide, Drops on earth its blight and blessing Side by side ; In the furnace of affliction Souls are tried. If thou prove us, Heavenly Father, Truest friend, May we trust in every sorrow Thou dost send ; Only grant us strength and patience To the end. Having, in life's weary conflict, Prayed to die, Longing for the changeless glory Found on high, Angel hands seemed outstretched to us From the sky. Now in hours of calmer sorrow, Deep and still, Strive we most for resignation To thy will, Waiting for thy voice to whisper, "Peace be still!" 4O DEBBY E. COPE. Were it sin, O Heavenly Father, Thus to shrink From the cup of bitter sorrow We must drink, When we feel the life-chain broken Link by link, Wilt thou not in tender mercy All forgive? Teach us how to bear our sorrows, How to live? That to Thee this earnest warfare Glory give. Let thy greatest benediction Patience be ; Bear it to thy earth-bound children, Even me, That we wait the time appointed To be free. Ask me not the needful portion Thou wilt spare Of the purifying trials, Pain or care ; Only give us what Thou knowest We can bear. PANSIES. STOOD beside a bed of bloom In spring-time's early morn ; The song of bird, and breath of flower, On balmy air was borne ; While " face of earth," again renewed, Told not of cold and storm. My thoughtful gaze met smiling eyes, Of varied shade and hue ; They took me back to early days, To pleasant paths and true ; And faces lifted to the skies Woke joys and Sorrows too. DEBBY E. COPE. 4! Oh, beauteous flower, whose language tells More than the pen can say, What depth of thought thy presence sheds To cheer life's toilsome way ! Though weak of heart, we still shall know Strength needful for the day. Some lovely faces, drooping low, Are raised with careful touch ; They sweetly, humbly say to me, That, when we feel so much, The head is bowed in silent prayer ; " Our Father" heareth such. Dear eyes of loving gratitude, So tender, true, and deep, Your constancy will help the heart Its earthly faith to keep; Fro'm us you never are estranged, And death is only sleep. And while you live you "sing His praise" Whose glory shines for aye ; "The Lord rejoices in His works," That praise him day by day. Oh, happy hearts, who yield Him all, And with the Psalmist say, " My meditation shall be sweet, I will be glad in Thee ; The Heavens are Thine, the earth is Thine, Thy way is in the sea. Bless, oh, my soul, the Lord of life, Praise Him continually !" He holds within His sovereign hand The blessing and the blight; And close upon the shadows fall The beams of Heavenly light, Some messenger of mercy sent To make our pathway bright. 42 CALEB S. COPE. To Him all aching hearts may come, 'Mid trial, grief, and care; And when life's choicest gifts are ours, He hears the grateful prayer That rises to His throne, to find, Celestial Heart's-ease there. CALEB S. COPE. SLIGHTED COUNSEL. T was a pleasant summer morn, The clover blooming sweetly ; From scorching heat the dews of night Had cooled the air completely. A lively gale amongst the trees The western winds were blowing, And o'er the rolling grassy leas The dappled waves were flowing. The golden crops of ripening grain, A checkered scene before me, The thrush's and the robin's strain, Love's wavelets rippling o'er me. The nimble squirrels hide-and-seek Were playing in the hedge-row, The darting swallows catch-and-take Across the dewy meadow. A cautious rabbit crossed the brook, And stopped awhile to view me, And gave a sly inquiring look As if he thought he knew me. The next I met a thievish crow His neighbors' seed-corn digging, Who scarce could stay to say good-day, Out poaching for a living. But last of all, a thoughtless toad, Parental care evading, Who on the dusty public road Was out a promenading. " Accept," I cried, " most noble youth, This caution of a stranger, CALEB S. COPE. 43 For I assure you of a truth You're in no common danger. The crow on ample wings may sail, The rabbit find the bushes, But such as you the passing wheel And heavy wain oft crushes." With haughty step he struck the ground, In proud saltatory jerking, Nor ever stopped to look around For hidden dangers lurking. When as I shortly journeyed back, The bold monsieur was lying Along the rut-indented track, All crippled, bruised, and dying ; And in his suffering, seemed to say, " I now am realizing The fate of those whose foolish way Good counsel is despising." TO A FLUSHED PARTRIDGE. HOU lovely bird of lowly wing, Thou hast perchance thy sorrow, But not like me, these harrowing Forebodings of to-morrow. Thy present want is all thy care, Thy crop thy only store ; With that well filled, here ends thy fear, No longing look for more. No danger near to urge thy flight, I leave thee as I found thee, Until the sweeping cradle swathes The heavy harvest round thee. When passed the slowly moving wain, That ends the reaper's trouble, Thou then may chatter, hide, or glean Securely in the stubble. The one that stills the raven brood, And marks the falling sparrow, 44 CALEB S. COPE. Sends with each day thy daily food, But sends thee no to-morrow. No dark anticipated care, Thy weary breast to cumber, No fell forebodings of despair, To break thy peaceful slumber. But if no fear of future ill Can cloud thy narrow vision, No joys of hope thy bosom swell, No hopes of joys elysian, Then, fare thee well, thou happy bird, We are distinct by nature, And I'll forego nor think it hard The present for the future. A SHORT TALK WITH THE FROGS ABOUT GEOLOGY. H ! ye strange amphibious creatures, Joined in chorus loud and long, Since the birth of vocal music Have your fathers sang this song ? Was there then this fertile valley, Watered by these flowing rills, Or was strong Plutonic action Heaving up these heavy hills? Did the mighty Dinotherium Slumber in his ancient cave, Or the welden Cetiosaurus, Plough the ocean's tepid wave? Do the Argilaceous strata Or the broad Tertiary's data Show the hieroglyphic data Of your genealogy? What wild Alga's waving streamer Fring'd your cryptogamic homes, That in unknown Eons flourished, Round their kindred Diatoms? CALEB S. COPE. 45 Through the old Silurian period, Through the deep Devonian sea, Mingling with extinct crustacia, In this vast menagerie, What strange scenes have passed before them, What strange beings met their view, Listened to their morning matin, As I listen now to you ! In the laminated structure Of the carboniferous bed, Are they ever represented With the fossil, fern, and reed? Were they microscopic creatures, Sheltered on a spiky blade, Or some great extinct Batrachian In the stony structure laid ? Did they shun the slender nippers Of some insectiverous bird, Or contest the right pf passage With a mighty Saurian lord? Some fortuitous production, Part of Evolution's plan, One of her first damaged patterns Off the wheel when shaping man ? Were they those that worried Pharaoh, From the muddy banks of Nile? Did their song the infant hero In asphaltum boat beguile? Most of these no doubt existed, Many of them passed away, But you were the same created As you now appear to-day. Since the earliest dawn of instinct There has never yet been found One remote or living instance Where a species passed its bound. They may dwarf to merest pigmies, Or colossal may expand ; Still within their separate classes Must each separate species stand. In continuous gradation, Closely joined, yet strictly free, Organized so near of kindred, Still no mingling e'er can be. 46 CALEB S. COPE. One complete concatenation, Link by link, and span by span, From the lowest scale of being, Through each genus up to man. The great Author of existence, When creation's plan was laid, Ordered all things in his wisdom, Nor remodelled what was made. By the schedule of creation, All who wish can plainly see, These were planned for short duration, These for all eternity. We must take annihilation As the platform of our plan, Or admit all things immortal, From the zoophite up to man ; Or explain by evolution, As progressive stages roll, Slowly from the bru^e evolving, When God's image found a soul. Show me first that soul is mortal, Ere you tell me that I sprang From the low and base chimpanzee, Monkey, or orang-outang. REBECCA CONARD. REBECCA CONARD. REBECCA CONARD, a member of the Conard family of West Grove and vicinity, and the daughter of Paul and Sarah (Roberts) Conard, was born January 27, 1800, and died in West Chester, January 5, 1875. Most of her life was spent in Chester County, and part of it in teaching in Westtown School. She spent much of her time and means in ministering to the comforts tff the poor and distressed. Her poems were collected after her death by her friends, and published in a small volume entitled " Poems by a Friend." Her poems are chaste and beautiful, and mostly of a religious character. THE KING'S DAUGHTERS. The King's daughter is all glorious within. PSALM xlv. 13. O outward plumes or paltry show Adorn Jerusalem's fair ; Nor yet with mincing steps they go, Or braiding of the hair. Their ornaments are all within ; All glorious are they, too ; Untarnished by polluting sin, Unsaddened by- its woe. Their hearts, the temples of their God, Made clean and purified By the atoning, precious blood Of Jesus crucified. 'Tis here His holiness and grace, His honor loves to come ; To enter, yea, and sup with such, And claim them as his own. The sheep of his peculiar care, The lambs of Zion's fold ; No prowling wolves can enter there, For Jesus guards the hold, And carries them as in his arms, And leads them by the hand, Protecting from inclement storms The weak ones of his band. 48 ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER, daughter of Dr. Thomas and Margaret .(Evans) Chandler, was born in the old Chandler man sion, near the State line, in that part of Birmingham Township in Chester County which is bounded by the Brandywine Creek, and the circular line which forms the boundary between Pennsylvania and Delaware, December 24, 1807. Her parents were of Eng lish origin, and were exemplary members of the Society of Friends. She lost her mother in infancy, shortly after which her father re moved to Philadelphia, where she received a good education in Friends' schools. She commenced to write poetry when nine years of age, and when about thirteen quit school, and at sixteen began to write for the press, and soon attained distinction as a poetess. Very early in her literary career she allied herself with the Abolitionists, who were then beginning to make themselves felt in the politics of the country, and continued to give them her hearty and active support while she lived. She was the first female author who made the emancipation of the colored people the principal theme of her active exertions ; and to her efforts, more than to those of any other woman, are to be traced the formation of the sentiments and principles which led to the organization of the Abolition party. She resided in Philadelphia until 1830, when she, in company with an aunt and brother, removed to the terri tory of Michigan, and settled near the village of Tecumseh, in Lenawee County, where she died, November 2, 1834. Her poems and essays were collected and published, together with a sketch of her life, by Benjamin Lundy, in 1836. THE BRANDYWINE. |Y foot has climb'd the rocky summit's height, And in mute rapture, from its lofty brow, Mine eye is gazing round me with delight On all of beautiful, above, below : The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow, The silvery waves half hid with bowering green, That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow, Or onward dash in foam and sparkling sheen, While rocks and forest-boughs hide half the distant scene. ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 49 In sooth, from this bright wilderness 'tis sweet To look through loop-holes form'd by forest boughs, And view the landscape far beneath the feet, Where cultivation all its aid bestows, And o'er the scene an added beauty throws : The busy harvest group, the distant mill, The quiet cattle stretch'd in calm repose, The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill, All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill. The very air that breathes around my cheek, The summer fragrance of my native hills, Seems with the voice of other times to speak, And, while it each unquiet feeling stills, My pensive soul with hallow'd memories fills : My fathers' hall is there ; their feet have press'd The flower-gemm'd margin of these gushing rills, When lightly on the water's dimpled breast, Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would rest. The rock was once your dwelling-place, my sires ! Or cavern scoop'd within the green hill's side; The prowling wolf fled far your beacon fires, And the kind Indian half your wants supplied ; While round your necks the wampum belt he tied, He bade you on his lands in peace abide, Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand, Or aught of broken faith to loose the peace-belt's band. Oh ! if there is in beautiful and fair A potency to charm, a power to bless ; If bright blue skies and music-breathing air, And nature in her every varied dress Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness, Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray, Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away Some cherish'd thought of thee for many a coming day. But yet not utterly obscure thy banks, Nor all unknown to history's page thy name ; For there wild war hath pour'd his battle ranks, And stamped in characters of blood and flame Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. 5