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<D ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 
 
 The wave that ripples on, so calm and still, 
 
 Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud acclaim ; 
 The cannon's voice hath roll'd from hill to hill, 
 And 'midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded 
 shrill. 
 
 My country's standard waved on yonder height, 
 Her red-cross banner England there display'd, 
 
 And there the German, who, for foreign fight, 
 Had left his own domestic hearth, and made 
 War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade, 
 
 Amidst the battle stood ; and all the day, 
 The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade, 
 
 The bugle's martial notes, the musket's play, 
 
 In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away. 
 
 Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright 
 sky, 
 
 And hung above them like a funeral pall, 
 Shrouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie 
 
 Like brethren slumbering in one father's hall. 
 
 The work of death went on, and when the fall 
 Of night came onward silently, and shed 
 
 A dreary hush, where late was uproar all, 
 How many a brother's heart in anguish bled 
 O'er chfcrish'd ones, who there lay resting with the 
 dead. 
 
 Unshrouded and uncoffin'd they were laid 
 
 Within the soldier's grave, e'en where they fell; 
 
 At noon they proudly trod the field ; the spade 
 At night dug out their resting-place, and well 
 And calmly did they slumber, though no bell 
 
 Peal'd over them its solemn music slow ; 
 
 The night-winds sung their only dirge, their knell 
 
 Was but the owlet's boding cry of woe, 
 
 The flap of night-hawk's wing and murmuring waters' 
 flow. 
 
 But it is over now, the plough hath rased 
 
 All trace of where war's wasting hand hath been : 
 
 No vestige of the battle may be traced, 
 
 Save where the share, in passing o'er the scene, 
 Turns up some rusted ball ; the maize is green
 
 SUSANNA DANCE. 5 I 
 
 On what was once the death-bed of the brave ; 
 The waters have resumed their wonted sheen, 
 The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave, 
 And naught remains to show the sleeping soldier's 
 grave. 
 
 A pebble-stone that on the war-field lay, 
 
 And a wild-rose that blossom'd brightly there, 
 
 Were all the relics that I bore away, 
 
 To tell that I had trod the scene of war, 
 When I had turn'd my footsteps homeward far. 
 
 These may seem childish things to some ; to me 
 They shall be treasured ones ; and, like the star 
 
 That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea, 
 
 They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandywine, 
 to thee. 
 
 SUSANNA DANCE. 
 
 THIS author is the daughter of John and Ann (Wilson) Dance, 
 and was born in New London Township, in 1821. She was 
 educated at the Hebron Public School, and at the select school of 
 Thomas Conard in London Grove Township. Much of her life 
 after reaching maturity was spent in teaching in the public and 
 private schools of the neighborhood and in Samuel Martin's Sem 
 inary in Kennet Square. She was a kind-hearted, exemplary 
 member of the Society of Friends, and was greatly beloved by 
 her pupils. She wrote poetry when about twenty years of age, 
 and was a frequent contributor to the Chester County journals 
 under the noms de plume of Giovanna and Estelle. She died 
 October 16, 1854, beloved and regretted by all who knew her. 
 Her poems exhibit a high degree of excellence, and entitle her 
 to rank with the best writers her native county has produced. 
 
 ANGEL WHISPERS. 
 
 N infant slept, and o'er its face 
 
 A smile of beauty stole ; 
 Its guardian angel came to trace 
 
 A line on heaven's scroll. 
 We saw no record, not a word 
 
 Fell on the list'ning ear; 
 The child alone the whisper heard, 
 
 " Thy name is entered here."
 
 52 SUSANNA DANCE. 
 
 A bright-eyed boy with sunny curls 
 
 Had thrown his toys aside ; 
 His angel whispered, " Here are pearls 
 
 Worth all the world beside. 
 Thy life is young, but not too young 
 
 To own these priceless gems, 
 That I may place thy crown among 
 
 The angel's diadems." 
 
 A youth with fierce and burning eye 
 
 Stood on the battle plain ; 
 He saw the brave around him die, 
 
 With none to soothe their pain. 
 A voice, an angel's voice, he hears, 
 
 " A laurel wreath, oh, see ! 
 'Tis not bedewed with orphans' tears, 
 
 Come, I will give it thee." 
 
 A famished orphan begged for bread, 
 
 And many an insult bore, 
 Until in grief she bowed her head, 
 
 To ask for alms no more. 
 "Within my father's house of rest 
 
 Are many mansions found," 
 Her angel spake ; "be not distressed, 
 
 In one thou shalt be crowned." 
 
 A widowed mother, poor and lone, 
 
 Knelt down in earnest prayer ; 
 The angel whispered, " God will own 
 
 Thy Lazarus spirit there. 
 Thy little flock shall meet his eyes 
 
 When thou to earth art dead, 
 For He who heeds the raven's cry 
 
 Will surely give them bread." 
 
 An aged man, alone and sad, 
 
 Sat musing o'er the past, 
 For hours that made his spirit glad 
 
 Were all too bright to last ; 
 The world deals harshly with him now, 
 
 He longs for life's release, 
 But see, a smile lights up his brow, 
 
 His angel whispers, " Peace."
 
 SUSANNA DANCE. . 53 
 
 A felon in yon prison-cell 
 
 Awaits his final doom ; 
 Weary of life, he still must dwell 
 
 Amid that fearful gloom; 
 Yet not alone, the angel comes 
 
 That bears the record scroll, 
 And whispers, " Here are holy crumbs, 
 
 To feed thy famished soul." 
 
 The wayworn pilgrim, sandal-shod, 
 
 Sighs for his childhood's home, 
 When lo ! he hears the voice of God, 
 
 " I love thee ! welcome home !" 
 And when amid the coral isles 
 
 The gallant ship is tossed, 
 A whisper comes, the sailor smiles, 
 
 " Thy barque shall not be lost." 
 
 Thus every conscious child of earth 
 
 Must know a faithful friend ; 
 For angels guard us from our birth, 
 
 And all our steps attend; 
 When pleasure lures, with winning tones, 
 
 They check our wayward will, 
 And when the angry tempest moans, 
 
 They whisper, " Peace, be still." 
 
 THE DEW-DROP. 
 
 N the crown of royalty 
 
 Diamonds may brightly shine, 
 But there's more of loyalty 
 In the dew-drop's ray benign. 
 
 Softly and unseen it cometh, 
 As the twilight shadows fall, 
 
 When the bee no longer hummeth, 
 And repose encircles all. 
 
 5*
 
 54 SUSANNA DANCE. 
 
 When the merry voice of childhood 
 On the lea is heard no more, 
 
 But the tones of age and manhood 
 Greet us from the cottage door ; 
 
 When the little flowers are sleeping, 
 With their petals folded up, 
 
 Then the angel, vigils keeping, 
 Puts a dew-drop in their cup ; 
 
 Stoops to place a crystal jewel 
 On each tender blade of green, 
 
 Thankful of this kind renewal 
 Of the morrow's silver sheen. 
 
 Busy at the grape-vine trellis, 
 All unseen by mortal eye, 
 
 Beaded fringes quickly tell us 
 Dew-drop angel passes by. 
 
 Forest leaves, though proud and lofty, 
 Rocked by every breeze at will, 
 
 Hear the footstep fall as softly 
 As the leaflet by the rill. 
 
 Walk abroad at early morning, 
 
 When the slanting sunbeams shine, 
 
 Myriad rainbows are adorning, 
 With a beauty half divine. 
 
 Every net-work fabric glistens 
 
 With the night's refreshing tears, 
 And the ear unbidden listens 
 
 For the " Music of the Spheres." 
 
 And at day's serene declining, 
 Hear the whisper ever true, 
 
 Only when the stars are shining, 
 Comes the angel of the dew.
 
 SUSANNA DANCE. 55 
 
 THE WAY-SIDE TREE. 
 
 JPON a pleasant hill-side, 
 Near by a gentle rill, 
 A way-side tree is standing, 
 I seem to see it still, 
 
 As in the pleasant springtime 
 Its clustering curls were hung 
 
 Among the bright green leaflets, 
 When merry spring birds sung, 
 
 And built their nests inwoven 
 
 With silky texture neat, 
 To rear the tiny nestlings 
 
 That made their joy complete. 
 
 And when the golden harvest 
 Spread beauty o'er the glade, 
 
 The reapers oft at noon-tide 
 Have rested in its shade. 
 
 And oft the weary trav'ler, 
 
 Whose little all on earth 
 Was pilgrim-staff and knapsack, 
 
 Has known its precious worth. 
 
 The panting sheep and cattle 
 Have ofttimes gathered there, 
 
 At noonday and at evening, 
 To claim an humble share. 
 
 And when the stealthy frost-king 
 Touch'd forest, hill, and dell, 
 
 And timid, slanting sunbeams 
 On fading foliage fell, 
 
 The gusty winds of autumn 
 Passed by with hollow sound, 
 
 And bright brown nuts came falling 
 Like rain-drops to the ground.
 
 56 SUSANNA DANCE. 
 
 Then in the morning twilight, 
 With spirits light and free, 
 
 We gathered up the treasures 
 Of this old way-side tree. 
 
 And when the chilly winter 
 Spread snow-flakes all around, 
 
 And with an icy fetter 
 
 The gentle streamlets bound, 
 
 Instead of spring-time ringlets, 
 Half hidden from the sight, 
 
 He hung the crystal fringes, 
 To glitter in the light ; 
 
 But in the genial sunbeams 
 They wept themselves away, 
 
 To shine out in the rainbow, 
 Upon a summer day. 
 
 So many thoughts come crowding 
 Of this old way-side tree, 
 
 It seems as if life's spring-time 
 Had all come back to me. 
 
 The sad days and the pleasant 
 Have each a record there ; 
 
 But one, a fair, bright morning, 
 An angel's trace doth bear. 
 
 The sad, but kind reprovings 
 
 A loving parent gave, 
 The gentle, timely warning, 
 
 From folly's path to save. 
 
 Yea, long in memory's casket 
 Those hallowed words shall live ; 
 
 They came with heavenly healing, 
 And taught me how to live. 
 
 Then spare this tree, kind woodman, 
 
 I would not with it part ; 
 'Tis as a vine, whose tendrils 
 
 Are clinging round my heart.
 
 THE DARLINGTON FAMILY. 
 
 Still let it guard the homestead, 
 As in the days of yore, 
 
 The sunny days of childhood, 
 That will return no more. 
 
 THE DARLINGTON FAMILY. 
 
 THE Darlingtons are among the oldest families of Chester 
 County, and are the descendants of a common ancestor, who came 
 from England and settled in East Bradford Township, a few miles 
 southwest of West Chester, early in the history of the county. 
 
 CHANDLER DARLINGTON. 
 
 CHANDLER DARLINGTON, son of Abram and Susanna Dar 
 lington, was born in Thornbury Township, within the limits of 
 Brandywine battle-ground, in 1800. The following brief sketch 
 is from the pen of one who knew him well. Chandler was 
 
 " Formed on the good old plan, 
 A true and brave and downright honest man." 
 
 He was educated in the common schools ; was a birthright member 
 of the Society of Friends ; an agriculturist by occupation, and 
 worked with his own hands ; sang Robert Burns's songs when at 
 the plough ; loved his home, and wrote verses for his own and his 
 friends' amusement, and peacefully passed from life in 1879. 
 
 CHARLES HOWARD DARLINGTON. 
 
 THIS writer is the son of Howard Darlington and Anna M., 
 daughter of Judge Townsend Haines. He was born in West 
 Chester in 1848. He was educated at private schools in Iowa 
 and Pennsylvania, and graduated at Haverford College in his 
 nineteenth year. After spending a short time clerking in a dry- 
 goods house in Philadelphia, he engaged in teaching school, and 
 taught in West Chester, Chappaqua, and East Hamburg. For 
 some years he has been editor of the Tennessee Pilot, published 
 in Morristown, East Tennessee. He wrote poetry in his youth. 
 His grandfather, Judge Haines, and his grand-uncle, Chandler 
 Darlington, were poets of no mean ability. His poems published 
 in this book were written in youth and early manhood.
 
 58 CHANDLER DARLINGTON. 
 
 FENELON DARLINGTON. 
 
 FENELON DARLINGTON was the son of Stephen and Ann Dar 
 lington. He was born in Pocopson Township, March 27, 1827, 
 and died March 4, 1883. His father was a first cousin of Chandler 
 Darlington. He was educated at the common schools and at 
 Strode's boarding-school, near West Chester. In 1853 he published 
 a small volume of poems entitled " A Token of Esteem and Re 
 membrance for my Young Friends at School." The book bears 
 evidence that the young friends referred to had been under his 
 tuition. 
 
 CHANDLER DARLINGTON. 
 PERIODICAL WEDDINGS. 
 
 LONG time ago, and not very long, either, 
 When young folks got a notion of living 
 
 together, 
 They simply got married and left the old 
 
 hives, 
 
 And that was expected to last them their lives. 
 They sometimes came together without scrip or purse, 
 Just taking each other for better or worse ; 
 If any one doubted their taking such caper, 
 They at once were referred to the old marriage paper ; 
 They jogged on together through hot and through 
 
 cold, 
 
 And knew nothing of weddings of silver or gold ; 
 And as for the world, without going 'round it, 
 Were contented to leave it as good as they found it. 
 Thus they quietly passed to the end of their time, 
 Without being recorded in prose or in rhyme. 
 
 But now, if a couple get married and go 
 Five years without parting, the people must know, 
 And assemble, to see if the bond is still good, 
 And if not, make it stronger with braces of wood. 
 When other five years they have journeyed along, 
 Tho' the bond may appear to be perfectly strong, 
 'Tis examined, and e'en if no flaw comes to view, 
 Tin-hooped and soldered, they are started anew.
 
 CHANDLER DARLINGTON. 59 
 
 When other five years of their sands have been run, 
 
 To see if the two have been working as one, 
 
 A glass is presented reflecting their life j 
 
 If that shows a dutiful husband and wife, 
 
 Ten years they're permitted to travel along, 
 
 Should they wander alone or in midst of the throng ; 
 
 But coming up right at the twenty-fifth year, 
 
 Entertaining their friends with the best of good cheer, 
 
 From that silver portal they again may set out, 
 
 And a fourth of a century wander about ; 
 
 And if they should live to their fiftieth year, 
 
 And again show their goodness by furnishing cheer, 
 
 And make an acceptable final report 
 
 To this self-approved periodical court, 
 
 Henceforth they may wander unwatched and unheeded, 
 
 Believing that no further care will be needed, 
 
 Except just to hint, for it scarce need be told, 
 
 They'll accept a few presents, provided they're gold. 
 
 THE FORTIES. 
 
 (INSCRIBED TO A FRIEND ON HER FORTY-FIRST 
 BIRTHDAY.) 
 
 ORTY days and forty nights 
 
 The rain in deluge poured, 
 To manifest to wicked men 
 The anger of the Lord. 
 
 The rainbow spread its gorgeous hues 
 Athwart the heavens above, 
 
 To show that judgment, tho' severe, 
 Is tempered still with love. 
 
 Forty years full ten times told, 
 
 Beneath a tyrant's sway, 
 The people chosen of the Lord 
 
 In cruel bondage lay.
 
 6O CHANDLER DARLINGTON. 
 
 Forty years had Moses lived, 
 
 Ere God did him require 
 To execute the word that came 
 
 From out the bush of fire. 
 
 The Israelites, on manna fed, 
 
 For forty years did roam, 
 Ere yet permitted to possess 
 
 Their promised future home. 
 
 Obedient to their leader's word 
 
 Went forth the tribal band, 
 Who after forty days returned 
 
 From spying out the land. . 
 
 Forty years was David king, 
 
 Forty his son did reign ; 
 But ere another forty passed 
 
 The realm was rent in twain. 
 
 In later times the Ninevites 
 
 Were granted forty days 
 To heed the warning Jonah gave, 
 
 And quit their wicked ways. 
 
 Forty days the Saviour went 
 
 Through tempting scenes, to prove 
 
 That man, if not forever lost, 
 Must be redeemed by love. 
 
 Forty days his spirit stayed, 
 
 Appearing now and then, 
 To banish doubt and unbelief 
 
 That haunted faithless men. 
 
 Forty years hast thou, my friend, 
 
 Matured to noble ends ; 
 Thy loving heart and kindly deeds 
 
 Endear thee to thy friends. 
 
 May forty years or more to come 
 
 Still be enjoyed by thee, 
 Till time shall close, and, with "Well done,'' 
 
 Shall set thy spirit free.
 
 CHARLES H. DARLINGTON. 6 1 
 
 CHARLES H. DARLINGTON. 
 
 THE DEAD HOPE. 
 
 EAD ! my beautiful, my hope ! 
 Oh, how should'st thou be dead? 
 
 Thou wert so fair, so very, very fair, 
 And didst in all nobilties rejoice 
 Health, strength, and comeliness, and now thy voice 
 
 Cometh no longer on the happy air, 
 And thou, alas ! art dead, 
 My beautiful, my hope dead. 
 
 Hope, why liest thou so still, 
 So silent, when I call ; 
 
 So cold and pale, and oh, so beautiful? 
 Dead ? Who shall dare to tell me thou art dead ? 
 The curse of his own words be on his head. 
 
 Thou call'st on sleep, and sleep, the dutiful, 
 Hath hastened to thy call ; 
 Why liest thou so still, hope ? 
 
 Dead ! And I am left alone. 
 Yes, dead ; for if 'twere sleep, 
 
 My voice would break thy slumber's golden chain, 
 Call back the sunny smiles into thy face, 
 Waken thy voice with all its silver grace, 
 
 And give me back my darling hope again. 
 But, no ! thou dost not sleep ; 
 And I am left alone, dead. 
 
 Deep I'll bury thee in my heart 
 I'll bury thee alone, 
 
 And plant sweet thoughts about thy precious grave. 
 Oh ! Death, thou makest cruel, cruel dearth ; 
 Why sparest not my one thing loved of earth ? 
 
 May love from thee the loved one never save ? 
 I'll lay thee, hope, alone ; 
 I'll bury thee in my heart alone.
 
 62 CHARLES H. DARLINGTON. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF THE TEMPEST. 
 
 |N the dim of early morning came a vision royal 
 
 fair, 
 Of a graceful, stately woman, with a sweep of 
 
 raven hair. 
 
 On her brow pink corruscations played with never- 
 ceasing glow ; 
 
 'Twas the angel of the tempest, bearing gifts to men 
 below. 
 
 Not as heathen Athens painted, a warrior in mail, 
 Whose brow was dark and sullen, and whose footsteps 
 
 clicked with hail ; 
 Not a wild, hot-headed rider of the wind, as some 
 
 portray, 
 But the fairest of fair women in the light of early day. 
 
 From her left hand, drooping downward, spreading from 
 
 its finger-tips, 
 Streamed the blessed rains of heaven to a million 
 
 thirsty lips ; 
 And her right hand, pointing forward as she sped, 
 
 trailed o'er her form 
 Thick rich folds of billowy vesture, the garments of 
 
 the storm. 
 
 On her way she passed with blessings, and the drops 
 
 upon her wear 
 Glittered in the following sunlight, like a wealth of 
 
 jewels rare ; 
 And her scarf, flung o'er her shoulder, barred with 
 
 lines of brightest dye, 
 Shone, betokening her kindly, athwart the happy sky.
 
 FENELON DARLINGTON. 63 
 
 FENELON DARLINGTON. 
 
 AN INVOCATION. 
 
 HOU, who hang'st out your curtains blue 
 On high, to our enraptur'd view, 
 Extendeth round a sov' reign care 
 To planet worlds revolving there ; 
 By whom the moon its sceptre sways, 
 And Sol sheds forth his cheering rays, 
 Illume, with thy inshining ray, 
 The pilgrim 'long his onward way. 
 
 When wrathful passions rise within, 
 And urge him thoughtless on to sin, 
 Pour in his mind that soothing balm, 
 Which will the storm and whirlwind calm j 
 When from without the shafts of wrong 
 Assail, from envy's busy throng, 
 Through thy unbounded goodness free, 
 Grant him sustaining faith in Thee. 
 
 When clouds of darkness gather round, 
 Or curtains fall of night profound ; 
 When anguish here and torture there 
 Disclose the pits of deep despair ; 
 When, having drunk affliction's draught, 
 And e'en its bitter dregs all quaffed ; 
 When dwelling low, Thy love to gain, 
 May he not seek Thy face in vain, 
 
 But find in truth that Thou art near, 
 To keep his soul in holy fear; 
 To lead him in the path of peace, 
 Where sorrow will from troubling cease ; 
 Sustain him with an arm of power 
 Throughout each dark and gloomy hour; 
 Unslumb'ringly, from day to-day, 
 To guide his steps in wisdom's way. 
 
 'Tis then he sees the narrow scan 
 Of frail, weak, dependent man ;
 
 64 LOUIS EISENBEIS. 
 
 He learns that if he would be free, 
 Himself must truly humble be ; 
 He feels that woes of earthly kind 
 Have all his inner man refin'd ; 
 And, from the bonds of error free, 
 Finds life, and light, and joy in Thee. 
 
 LEWIS EISENBEIS. 
 
 LEWIS EISENBEIS was born in Saarbruck, West Prussia, in 1835, 
 and came to this country with his parents when he was about two 
 years old. The family settled in West Chester, where most of his 
 life has been spent. The loss of his father at twelve years of age 
 threw him upon his own resources, since which time he has carved 
 his way to something better and more enduring than affluence. 
 Mr. Eisenbeis began his literary career when an apprentice to the 
 shoemaking business, when he would frequently entertain the men 
 in the shop by his poetical effusions, so that long before reaching 
 manhood he had gained much notoriety as a poet. He was edu 
 cated in the West Chester public school, and spent several years 
 in teaching in the public schools of Chester County, never, how 
 ever, allowing his poetical genius to slumber. His poems were 
 always gladly received by the newspapers of the county, and many 
 of them were copied by other journalists. Several of his poems 
 have elicited extended notices of commendation as compositions 
 of unusual merit, ranking with the poetry of the more celebrated 
 poets of the day. Much of his best poetry has not been published. 
 Mr. Eisenbeis. was married, in 1878, to Miss Elizabeth Fell, of 
 Southern Chester County, and resides in West Chester. 
 
 THE CHURCH FAIR. 
 
 JHERE ! I knowed it would be so, spite of all 
 
 my word and prayer, 
 They've resolved to jine together, for to hold 
 
 a fancy fair : 
 When I told them my objections, though my words 
 
 were few an' mild, 
 
 They just turned to one another, and they looked so 
 queer an' smiled.
 
 LOUIS EISENBEIS. 65 
 
 Now, I've mingled with them sisters for a score of years 
 
 or more, 
 And there's none that has worked harder; but I wept 
 
 my eyelids sore 
 When I saw them smile and giggle, in the solemn place 
 
 of prayer, 
 Just because I spoke an' voted 'gin the holding of a 
 
 fair. 
 
 But they 'pinted their committees, and arranged the 
 
 plaguey thing, 
 Just to suit their crazy notions, for the money it would 
 
 bring ; 
 As they said, " They needed carpet, and new cushions 
 
 in the pews, 
 
 For the church was out of fashion ; nothing in it fit 
 . to use. 
 
 "And the choir wants an organ, and the church a 
 
 chandelier, 
 And the pulpit must be altered, for it looked so odd 
 
 an' queer; 
 They had tried to raise the money by collections in 
 
 the pew, 
 But they couldn't git no dollars, and of pennies but a 
 
 few." 
 
 Sermons didn't seem to reach 'em, but they loved to 
 
 drink and eat, 
 So, to save the dyin' people, they must give them 
 
 fleshly meat ; 
 If their souls were worth the savin', they must have the 
 
 sweetened cup, 
 Gospel meat was too insipid for to keep the meetin's up. 
 
 There was sisters Jane and Sary, and a score of others, 
 
 too, 
 Met together every evenin' for to put the matter 
 
 through ; 
 They would move and reconsider, then resolve and 
 
 move ag'in, 
 Till it seemed as if the business never would be voted 
 
 in. 
 e 6*
 
 66 LOUIS EISENBEIS. 
 
 Some thought the waiting-maidens should be of the 
 
 " upper ten," 
 'Cause they said their charms would dazzle, an' draw 
 
 in the younger men. 
 They must have a pond for fishin', with some tender 
 
 little baits, 
 Where the boys could catch a trifle, and the girls could 
 
 fish for mates. 
 
 They must have a postal office, and a guessin' stand, 
 
 they sayed, 
 
 And Rebecca at the well, a-dispensin' lemonade ; 
 They must vote a handsome dolly to the prettiest miss 
 
 in town, 
 And the spryest-lookin* bachelor gits the gaudy dressin' 
 
 gown. 
 
 
 
 The sweetest maiden gets the ring, lodged within the 
 
 massive cake, 
 And for very little money you can learn your future 
 
 fate. 
 Little maidens, dressed like fairies, must go bobbin* 
 
 here and there, 
 Sellin' little buds and roses, for the girls and boys to 
 
 wear. 
 
 So they plan, invent, and settle, for to help the thing 
 
 along, 
 Just as if the Lord had blundered, and had fixed the 
 
 matter wrong ; 
 Just as if the souls of people could be fed on such a 
 
 hash, 
 And the church was built a purpose for to git the 
 
 people's cash. 
 
 Then they read it in the meetin' when the thing was 
 comin' off, 
 
 And although it seemed irreverent, I jist gave a scorn 
 ful cough ; 
 
 For I wanted them to know it, even though the thing 
 might win, 
 
 I vas down upon sich nonsense, so they needn't count 
 me in.
 
 LOUIS EISENBEIS. 67 
 
 So when everything was ready for the openin' of the 
 
 show, 
 With their trinkets and their gewgaws and I tell you 
 
 'twasn't slow 
 There were vases, sewing-baskets, needle-work, and 
 
 rubber toys, 
 Fancy hoods and gingham aprons velvet slippers for 
 
 the boys. 
 
 There were fancy smellin' bottles, collars, handker 
 chiefs, and sich, 
 
 Stacks and stacks of shinin' nothin', which they said 
 was very rich ; 
 
 There were heaps of little trifles, hardly worth a grain 
 of dust ; 
 
 Stacks and stacks of empty bubbles, which they said 
 would never bust. 
 
 Then they had a lively raffle for a lot of showy 
 
 stuff, 
 Which they said was for the winner, if he got but votes 
 
 enough. 
 
 All they had to do to git it was to pay a little fee ; 
 As it went to help the meetin', there was not a better 
 
 plea. 
 
 So the thing was kept a-movin', crowds went pourin' 
 
 in and out, 
 Till the meetin' folks and others said 'twas grand 
 
 without a doubt ; 
 They had bought their pockets empty, and had filled 
 
 their stomicks full, 
 Till the sisters fairly shouted, they had made so good 
 
 a pull. 
 
 " Now," they said, " we've got the money, not in vain 
 
 our toil an' search ; 
 We'll put in the latest fashions, we will have a stylish 
 
 church ; 
 We will show these fossil fogies churches can't be run 
 
 on air ; 
 Churches fatten more on dollars than they do on faith 
 
 and prayer."
 
 68 LOUIS EISENBEIS. 
 
 I have been a faithful sister ever since my youthful 
 
 days ; 
 I have loved the courts of Zion ; I have prized her 
 
 simple ways ; 
 I have read my Bible over ; I have read it through in 
 
 prayer ; 
 But I've never seen a passage that enjined a fancy 
 
 fair. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING ODE. 
 
 HE autumn winds go whistling by, 
 Amongst the leafless trees they sigh ; 
 The eddying leaves join in the fray, 
 And whirl and dance in merry play ; 
 O'er shrub and hedge, o'er field and wood, 
 November pours a golden flood. 
 
 The smiling heaps of yellow corn 
 The stubbled fields with wealth adorn, 
 And autumn sings her glad refrain 
 In luscious fruits and gathered grain ; 
 The old press in the orchard groans, 
 And swells the song with gleeful tones. 
 
 In sluggish groups, the lowing kine 
 Behind the sheltering shocks recline ; 
 While fields, of summer verdure shorn, 
 Are whitened by the frosty morn. 
 The murmuring brook runs low and still, 
 And shrinks to feel the wintry chill. 
 
 Upon the farmer's blazing hearth 
 The winter log now glows with mirth ; 
 The merry laugh and childish play 
 Attest a glad Thanksgiving Day, 
 And loved ones, long apart, once more 
 Are met as in the days of yore. 
 
 Thus home and heart, and field and wood, 
 Are radiant with abundant good ; 
 And bursting barns and harvest toil 
 Bespeak God's blessing on the soil ;
 
 LOUIS EISENBEIS. 69 
 
 With reverent hearts let us adore 
 The giver of the fruitful store. 
 
 By kindly deeds let us secure 
 Like blessings to the humbled poor ; 
 To lonely home and saddened heart 
 The sunshine of a smile impart ; 
 So shall we by our deeds convey 
 The import of Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 Let each seek out another's need, 
 
 For this is thankfulness indeed. 
 
 The cheerful giver thus shall prove 
 
 The true omnipotence of love ; 
 
 He spreads the fragrant breath of May- 
 
 His life is one Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S FACE. 
 
 FT in the busy whirl of life's relentless beat, 
 
 When weary nature seeks a longing rest, 
 I pause to gaze upon a face, divinely sweet, 
 That decks the gallery of my throbbing breast. 
 
 When earth-born shadows o'er my spirit roll, 
 And love's responsive chord I vainly trace, 
 
 A glance at this is sunshine to my soul, 
 The picture of my mother's saintly face. 
 
 There it hangs ! a picture pure as truth, 
 Brightening as the busy years go by, 
 
 Fresh with the lineaments of a fadeless youth ; 
 Though all things perish, this shall never die. 
 
 That tender face still speaks without ; within, 
 A mother's love, a mother's wooing skill ; 
 
 And now, when age comes on and eyes grow dim, 
 I see that charming face more plainly still. 
 
 My mother's face ! no nobler gift I prize ; 
 
 Radiant and calm in its mirrored trust ; 
 When other faces fade, and weary nature dies, 
 
 That saintly face survives my crumbling dust.
 
 7O JAMES B. EVERHART. 
 
 JAMES BOWEN EVERHART. 
 
 JAMES BOWEN EVERHART, son of William and Hannah (Mat- 
 lack) Everhart, was born in West Whiteland Township, July 26, 
 1821, and died at West Chester, August 23, 1888. His grand 
 father, James Everhart, was a soldier in the American army in the 
 Revolutionary War. His father was for many years a justice of 
 the peace, and also a successful merchant in West Chester, and 
 served with distinction as a member of the Thirty-third Congress, 
 to which he was elected in 1852. 
 
 James B. Everhart was educated at Bolmar's Academy in West 
 Chester, and at Princeton College, where he was graduated with 
 honor in 1842. He studied law in the office of the Hon. Joseph 
 J. Lewis, in the Harvard Law School, and in the office of the Hon. 
 William M. Meredith, and was admitted to practise in the courts 
 of Chester County and of Philadelphia, in 1845. He subse 
 quently visited Europe and spent several months in the University 
 of Berlin. 
 
 Though eminently successful as a lawyer, Mr. Everhart was 
 equally so as a man of letters. His first publication was entitled 
 " Miscellanies." It was published in 1862, and contained about 
 three hundred pages of prose writings. It was followed in 1868 
 by a volume of poems, and in 1875 ky a small illustrated volume 
 of poetry, entitled " The Fox-Chase." In 1888 he published a 
 volume containing selections from his most notable speeches, 
 which is filled with eloquence and poetry. 
 
 Like his ancestors, Mr. Everhart was eminently patriotic, and 
 during the War of the Rebellion raised two companies of volun 
 teers, of each of which he was elected captain, and served in 
 Maryland and on the southern border of Pennsylvania in the 
 campaigns of 1863-64. He was elected to the State Senate in 
 1876, and continued to be a member of that body until he resigned 
 to take his seat in Congress in 1883. He was twice elected to Con 
 gress, and served with ability and distinction. For many years 
 he was an exemplary member of the Presbyterian Church, and 
 lived beloved and died regretted by all who knew him. As a poet, 
 Mr. Everhart had few equals, and still fewer, if any, superiors, 
 among the poets of his native county. 
 
 THE ENTERTAINMENT AT SIMON'S HOUSE. 
 LUKE vii. 36-50. 
 
 IDST those who had taken their places 
 
 To sup at the Pharisee's board, 
 There entered a woman, with ointment, 
 Who stooped at the couch of the Lord.
 
 JAMES B. EVERHART. 
 
 Her tresses hung loose o'er her shoulders, 
 And her eyes were cast to the floor ; 
 
 She seemed an unwelcome intruder, 
 Desolate, degraded, and poor. 
 
 Her tears bathed the feet of the Master, 
 
 She wiped them with folds of her hair, 
 Bedewed them with kisses and ointment, 
 
 And silently worshipped Him there. 
 The host, as a bigot, regarded 
 
 Her beautiful deed with disdain, 
 And deemed, if his guest were a prophet, 
 
 He'd know that her touch was a stain. 
 
 The Lord, in His wisdom, divining 
 
 What passed in the Pharisee's heart, 
 Declared how his faith is deficient 
 
 Who yields of his love but a part ; 
 For Simon but formally tendered 
 
 The debt that to strangers he owed, 
 Denying the tribute of homage 
 
 The woman so fondly bestowed. 
 
 Though many her sins, He forgave her ; 
 
 Then marvelled the guests at the board : 
 "Who's this, that he pardons transgression? 
 
 The woman alone knew the Lord. 
 Their cavils He checked by repeating 
 
 Salvation again in her ears, 
 Who'd shown her belief and devotion 
 
 By lowliness, sorrow, and tears. 
 
 SCONNELLTOWN. 
 
 Sconnelltown, which exists no longer, was in the last century 
 a flourishing village, some two miles from the Turk's Head Tav 
 ern, about the only building then standing where is now the 
 borough of West Chester. 
 
 HO ever heard of Sconnelltown? 
 
 A village long ago, 
 That on the heights of Bradford stood, 
 
 With Brandvwine below.
 
 72 JAMES B. EVERHART. 
 
 They say it was a thriving place 
 
 When, in its day of palm, 
 Cornwallis lunched his army there, 
 
 Marching to Birmingham. 
 
 It was there the Quakers, driven 
 
 By battle's loud refrain 
 From their ancient house of worship, 
 
 Came near the foe again ; 
 And devoted to their service 
 
 Within their lowly walls, 
 They silently awaited him, 
 
 As Romans did the Gauls. 
 
 'Twas there the weaver Sconnell lived, 
 
 Who chose this lofty site, 
 Perhaps as classic founders did, 
 
 From birds' auspicious flight ; 
 And there ploughed the circling furrow, 
 
 To fix the metes and bounds, 
 And lured the venturous emigrants 
 
 To settle on his grounds. 
 
 And for several leagues, at least, 
 
 There was no greater town, 
 For the borough had not risen, 
 
 And Upland tended down. 
 The avenues perchance were few, 
 
 Nor garnished by the arts, 
 Nor thronged with curious tourists then, 
 
 Or trade with foreign parts. 
 
 The people were not wealthy then, 
 
 And made a small display, 
 But doubtless had the passions, too, 
 
 That we have got to-day ; 
 And if their sphere was circumscribed, 
 
 Perhaps their pride was great, 
 And what to us would humble seem, 
 
 Might seem to them like state. 
 
 And they likely had their classes 
 
 And arbitrary ways ; 
 The rich, who ever idle were, 
 
 The poor on holidays ;
 
 JAMES B. EVERHART. 73 
 
 And there were certain crafts in vogue, 
 
 That shared the various toil ; 
 Some plied their cunning handiwork, 
 
 And some delved in the soil. 
 
 But politics and fancy stocks 
 
 Did ne'er disturb their ease, 
 And they rarely heard of lawyers, 
 
 Or courts of common pleas. 
 The grandeur of our cities, 
 
 The magic power of steam, 
 The lightning flash of telegraphs 
 
 Ne'er entered in their dream. 
 
 But where's the pleasant village now, 
 
 Its business and its fetes, 
 And its denizens and dwellings, 
 
 And animated streets? 
 For near these rugged rocks it stood, 
 
 Where Elecainpane blooms ; 
 Yet scarce a vestige can be found 
 
 Of tenements or tombs. 
 
 No garden here with weeds o'ergrown, 
 
 No loose and scattered rails, 
 No broken roof or tumbling joist 
 
 The curious eye bewails. 
 The wrecked and mossy timbers gone, 
 
 And sunk the basement walls ; 
 No tott'ring ivied chimney-stack 
 
 A ruined hearth recalls. 
 
 A mound and ditch, not far apart, 
 
 Round which the harvest grows, 
 Are all the landmarks of the place 
 
 The antiquary knows. 
 Near these the wheelwright had his bench, 
 
 Or cobbler had his room, 
 Or the blacksmith swung his hammer, 
 
 Or weaver shook his loom. 
 
 Or there the well of water was 
 
 Which women went to draw, 
 Like her who in Samaria 
 
 The blessed Saviour saw ; 
 
 7
 
 74 JAMES B. EVERHART. 
 
 Or there the awful pedagogue 
 Enforced his learned facts, 
 
 The mystery dark of figures, 
 The canons of syntax. 
 
 But eager search can't tell us now 
 
 On what specific spot 
 The gayest mansion had its seat, 
 
 Or where the meanest cot ; 
 Or what resorts were chosen once 
 
 For sport and revelry, 
 Or where the moonlight lovers strolled 
 
 Unto the trysting-tree. 
 
 Or where the pious shepherd poured 
 
 'Gainst sin his earnest wrath, 
 And taught his little flock to find 
 
 The straight and narrow path ; 
 Or where, at eve, the old man sat, 
 
 And daily toil discussed ; 
 Or whither went the mourning train, 
 
 When dust was borne to dust. 
 
 Or where the post-boy's winding horn 
 
 And horse's clanking shoes 
 Brought out the gaping crowd to hear 
 
 The latest monthly news ; 
 Or where the boist'rous men were kept, 
 
 If any there were known, 
 Who in the rites of Bacchus oft 
 
 Thrust reason from her throne. 
 
 And where are now the populace? 
 
 How did they disappear ? 
 Did they slowly pass and perish, 
 
 As does the fading year ? 
 Or, like the aborigines, 
 
 Who once the soil possessed, 
 Scatter as the autumnal leaves, 
 
 Or vanish in the West? 
 
 Or did some grievous pest or fire 
 Destroy them in a breath ? 
 
 Or some ruthless, grim invader 
 Pursue them to the death ?
 
 JAMES B. EVERHART. 75 
 
 Or did they make their exodus 
 
 As captives from the land, 
 To weep, beneath their silent harps, 
 
 Upon a foreign strand ? 
 
 For tradition ne'er related 
 
 What finished their career ; 
 We only know they flourished once, 
 
 And are no longer here. 
 And many winter storms have burst 
 
 Upon this stony mount, 
 And many generations passed 
 
 To meet their great account ; 
 
 And many summer birds have built 
 
 Amidst the bushy thorn, 
 And many precious crops have waved 
 
 Where ripens yonder corn ; 
 And many flowers have graced the hill, 
 
 Whose species died away, 
 And many strides the world has made 
 
 Since that forgotten day. 
 
 The ploughman old, who turns the glebe, 
 
 Would deem you asked in jest, 
 If e'er he saw a hamlet stand 
 
 Upon this lonely crest. 
 His fathers, who are in their graves, 
 
 Its thrift remembered well, 
 But when, or how, it ceased to be, 
 
 They never seemed to tell. 
 
 Around a modern school-house now 
 
 The boys are shooting game, 
 Whose vacant walls are on its site, 
 
 And keep alive its name; 
 And some locust- and some oak-trees 
 
 There stretch their verdant limbs, 
 And as the evening breezes blow, 
 
 Sound sad as fun'ral hymns. 
 
 As if nature had a spirit 
 
 Which mourns for human woes, 
 And that her solitude prevails 
 
 Where village murmurs rose.
 
 THOMAS E. GARRETT. 
 
 And you, who wander 'cross the seas, 
 
 In search of cities old, 
 That in their pride were swept away, 
 
 With half their story told ; 
 
 And that once of wealth and splendor 
 
 Had spread o'er earth their fame, 
 Yet scarcely left a wreck behind, 
 
 Or more than empty name, 
 You here may learn how t shadows thin 
 
 Mere mortal hopes will crown ; 
 How cities, like our lives, may have 
 
 The fate of Sconnelltown. 
 
 THOMAS ELLWOOD GARRETT. 
 
 THOMAS ELLWOOD GARRETT, son of David and Ann (Taylor) 
 Garrett, was born in Willistown Township, March 1 6, 1828, being 
 descended from a long line of Quaker ancestors. In 1841 his 
 father removed to Birmingham Township, close by Birmingham 
 Meeting- House, where he continued to reside until his death, in 
 1868. Soon after attaining his majority, Thomas determined to 
 try his fortune in the Great West, and, locating in St. Louis, he 
 became identified with the press of that city, and for many years 
 was on the editorial staff of the Republican, In 1885 he pub 
 lished " The Masque of the Muses," a collection of his poetry and 
 prose writings. His poetry is of a high order, and ranks with 
 that of the best authors. 
 
 DISENTHRALLED. 
 
 WANDER forth on the damp, cold ground, 
 
 By the shore of a frozen river : 
 The earth and waters are winter-bound, 
 
 I feel their rough breath and shiver 
 As I draw my cloak of fur around, 
 And look on the lifeless river.
 
 THOMAS E. .GARRETT. 
 
 My soul is bound as the fettered stream, 
 And more than the sky 'tis dreary ; 
 
 A pall is over my life's young dream, 
 And my fancy's wings are weary. 
 
 Where are the visions which used to teem 
 When the voice of hope was cheery ? 
 
 I sit me down on the cushioned ground, 
 
 Beside a shimmering river ; 
 Spring comes with a merry and lightsome bound, 
 
 And the leaves and grasses quiver, 
 And daisies and buttercups flutter around 
 
 On the marge of the rippling river. 
 
 The rustling hosts, with banners of green, 
 
 Sly over the hills are glancing ; 
 While marching down the valleys are seen 
 
 The timid pickets advancing 
 In armor bright, with velvety sheen, 
 
 On breezy coursers prancing. 
 
 They gallop to bolted doors and knock : 
 " Awake ! Awake from your dreaming !" 
 
 They shout to the weird wind-beaten stalk, 
 With olden memories teeming : 
 
 The spirit within revives with the shock, 
 And opens its windows gleaming. 
 
 And all abroad, over valley and hill, 
 
 With touch and tone awaking 
 From icy grasp and passionless chill, 
 
 And tattered garments flaking, 
 The elfin army bounds with a thrill, 
 
 Its winter bondage breaking. 
 
 The troopers surround my lone retreat, 
 
 And my prisoned soul deliver ; 
 They waltz with zephyrs about my feet, 
 
 With graceful curve and quiver ; 
 With garlands they twine my grassy seat, 
 
 Beside the shimmering river. 
 
 7*
 
 78 HOWARD WORCESTER GILBERT. 
 
 The air is choked by the harmonies 
 That pour with the sunshine's gushing ; 
 
 And gala flags are hung in the trees, 
 With blood of the spring-time flushing, 
 
 And singing and humming, birds and bees 
 The frolicsome winds are hushing. 
 
 The fairies knock at my spirit's door, 
 Locked close with pain and sadness ; 
 
 I rise, renewed on the beautiful shore, 
 Redeemed from thrall of madness ; 
 
 The demons of darkness follow no more 
 My soul, which walks in gladness. 
 
 I sit me down by the river of thought, 
 
 In calm and sweet devotion ; 
 With life and vigor the spring has wrought 
 
 In the pulse of dead emotion ; 
 By the dance of the rippling waves I'm taught 
 
 The boundless roll of the ocean. 
 
 HCJWARD WORCESTER GILBERT. 
 
 THIS author is a descendant of John and Florence Gilbert, the 
 former 'of whom was imprisoned in Launceston Castle, Corn 
 wall, England, in 1663, for frequenting Quaker conventicles. 
 John Gilbert, after his release, emigrated to Pennsylvania, and 
 settled at Byberry, Philadelphia, where the old family mansion is 
 still occupied by descendants of his. 
 
 Our author is the son of Amos and Sarah (Kirk) Gilbert, 
 and was born in York, Pa., from which town, however, his 
 parents removed while he was very young. He has visited 
 Europe twice, passing, in all, three years in the Old World. Much 
 of his life has been spent in Chester County, where many of his 
 poems were written. He is at present a resident of Philadelphia. 
 
 In 1872 he published " Aldornere, a Pennsylvania!! Idyl," 
 which, in 1885, was republished, with the addition of two more 
 idyls, forming with it a sort of trilogy, together with a selection 
 from his minor poems.
 
 HOWARD WORCESTER GILBERT. 79 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Written on seeing one restlessly endeavoring to force its way 
 through the bars of its cage, at a bird fancier's in Philadelphia. 
 
 I GAINST thy prison-bars still fiercely beating, 
 With restless wings, striving to find thy way 
 Out from thy gloomy cell, and give thy greet 
 ing, 
 
 Triumphant, to the broad and glorious day, 
 In vain endeavor thus thy short, and fleeting, 
 And cheerless life thou here wilt wear away. 
 
 Poor alien, can it be that thou art haunted 
 With visions such as the sad exile sees 
 
 Of some deep, amethystine gulf enchanted, 
 Far in the bosom of the Pyrenees, 
 
 Where, by no hand of mortal ever planted, 
 Wild blooms are reddening for the golden bees ? 
 
 Or maddening dreams of some blue lakelet, lying 
 'Mid the white Alps, mirroring but the sun, 
 
 A star, or warbling skylark o'er it flying 
 
 To meet the morn, or, when the day was done, 
 
 Sinking unto his mate, and sweetly trying 
 His vespers o'er his nest so nearly won ? 
 
 Or yet of England's hills and of the auroral 
 And crimson beams flushing the orient through, 
 
 Upon her highland-moors the rose-tints floral 
 Deepening on heath-bells wet with sweetest dew, 
 
 Longing, with longing vain, to join the choral 
 And exquisite chant far in those skies of blue ? 
 
 Thy alien fellow-captives never greeting, 
 Gathered in this dim cell, from many lands, 
 
 Thou vvearest out thy little life, and fleeting, 
 Striving all vainly with thy prison-bands, 
 
 Beating against them with a restless beating, 
 
 To gain that temple grand not made with hands !
 
 8O HOWARD WORCESTER GILBERT. 
 
 TO THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 HE mellow sunshine floweth softly down, 
 
 Golden and wide, over these billowy swells, 
 And on their bare and quiet woods of brown ; 
 
 And over all, and in the distant dells, 
 The blue haze broods in silence. Wandering here 
 In the deep stillness of this April day, 
 
 Sweet flower, once more 
 I find thee, trailing all thy rosy bells 
 Among the pale-brown leaves of the last year. 
 
 Yet once again, now, in this genial time, 
 
 I feel the warm air play 
 Over my brow as it was wont of yore ; 
 It lingers for thy gift of fragrance near, 
 
 Then glides away, 
 
 Seeming a truant of some sunnier clime 
 That on us wide hath oped its golden door. 
 
 Of all thy sisters of the meadows far 
 Widening out under the vernal sun, 
 
 Or in the woods and fields that dwellers are, 
 There is not one 
 
 Not e'en the low and downy wind-flower blue 
 That overjoys the heart with beauty more, 
 
 Or sends a sweeter thrill the spirit through, 
 Than thou. Thy name doth ever unto me 
 Bring thoughts of early beauty silently, 
 
 Of the sweet spring-time when, the winter past, 
 
 The flowers unfold at last. 
 
 HYMN AT THE GRAVE. 
 
 HE angel mild, who ruleth all, 
 
 Came with his cooling draught divine, 
 
 And bearing in his hand the pall, 
 Gave of release the final sign. 
 
 Oh, gentle Angel, named of Death, 
 He whom thy hand hath once caressed 
 
 Yields gladly in thine arms his breath, 
 Thenceforth is numbered with the blest.
 
 HOWARD WORCESTER GILBERT. 8 1 
 
 To our beloved thou didst say, 
 "Behold I come to bring release, 
 
 O sorrowing mortal of a day, 
 And lead into eternal peace !" 
 
 And whether, with thy brother Sleep, 
 Thou borest then his spirit bland 
 
 In soothing slumber, sweet and deep, 
 Into a distant native land, 
 
 We know not. But his form we now 
 Lay in its kindred earth to rest, 
 
 A changeless calm upon his brow, 
 And endless peace within his breast. 
 
 And farther than the shadowy bourne 
 No mortal of his fate may tell,- 
 
 With them that neither joy nor mourn, 
 Or in the meads of asphodel. 
 
 But yet we deem 'tis well with him, 
 Or on the fair Elysian plain, 
 
 Or 'mid Lethean shadows dim, 
 No more, for aye, to wake again. 
 
 PRELUDE AND LIBERTY SONG. 
 
 FROM "WYNDHAM, A PENNSYLVANIAN IDYL." 
 
 ES, 'twas the spring, and the gray willow now 
 And the red - flowering maple bloomed 
 again, 
 
 The alder hung its tassels o'er the brook, 
 Freed from its thrall. The sunshine's subtle gold 
 Melted into my veins ; the April air 
 Wrought in my veins once more its wonted thrill. 
 The great rose-window of the glowing east 
 Shone gloriously with its auroral hues, 
 A grand and splendid oriel, fitting well 
 For the great temple of the universe ! 
 On such a morn I sang this joyous song 
 This joyous song of life and liberty :
 
 82 HOWARD WORCESTER GILBERT. 
 
 I am the dauntless spirit brave 
 
 That never yet the gyve has worn ; 
 
 I rend the bonds that bind the slave, 
 But never yet his chain have borne. 
 
 I burst the iron prison-bars, 
 
 The threefold walls I raze amain ; 
 
 I greet the sky, the sun, the stars, 
 Exult again and yet again. 
 
 Who tread the mount with footstep sure, 
 With them I dwell in clearer light ; 
 
 I haunt the heathery mountain-moor 
 And mountain-mere by day and night ; 
 
 But dwell not less with them who flee, 
 O'erpowered, from enslaved lands, 
 
 And find a refuge by the sea, 
 
 'Mid billows, mists, and shifting sands,- 
 
 Whose pulses rhyme with chainless flow 
 Of mountain winds with breezy swell, 
 
 With the wild waves that come and go, 
 With these, with these, I gladly dwell. 
 
 My forehead fair no crown beseems 
 But crown of amaranth or stars, 
 
 No light but dawn or noonday beams ; 
 No twilight dim my beauty mars 
 
 For I am of the glorious morn 
 The herald that foretells the day ; 
 
 My youth no time has ever worn 
 I go before, I lead the way. 
 
 My spirit free they strive in vain 
 To fetter with the bond or gyve ; 
 
 I smile with high and calm disdain 
 On all who with that striving strive. 
 
 For my eternal freedom still 
 
 With deathless love the nations long ; 
 For my unconquerable will, 
 
 My matchless beauty, fair and strong.
 
 WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 83 
 
 My voice has led, on every shore, 
 
 The battles of the mighty past, 
 And now again is heard once more 
 
 In this defiant bugle-blast. 
 
 WILLIAM S. GRAHAM. 
 
 WILLIAM SLOAN GRAHAM, son of Rev. Robert and Ann (Ross) 
 Graham, was born near New London, April 23, 1818, and died 
 at Harrisburg, Pa., October 3, 1847. His father was for many 
 years pastor of the Presbyterian Church at New London, and was 
 eminent for his piety and the zeal he manifested in his Master's 
 cause, much of which seems to have been inherited by his son. 
 W. S. Graham was educated at New London Academy, of which 
 his father was principal, and at Delaware College, where he grad 
 uated in 1836. Nearly all his life subsequent to his graduation 
 was spent in teaching, in which he was very successful. He 
 wrote poetry at an early age, and soon gave evidence of great 
 poetic ability, though he only wrote for his own amusement and 
 the gratification of his friends. After his death his poems were 
 collected by his wife, and, in connection with a sketch of his life, 
 edited by Professor George Allen, were published in Philadelphia 
 in 1849. 
 
 BEAR ON. 
 
 (iND nature hath a sympathizing tone 
 
 For every mood of sympathizing joy or 
 
 pain. 
 
 Sad hearts from humblest flower may cour 
 age gain, 
 
 Daring the storm with smiling brow alone. 
 The brave old oak, around whose head have blown 
 A hundred winters, still maintains his place ; 
 The hoary cliff uprears his storm-scarred face, 
 Though round his base the wrecks of time are strown j 
 The stars shine on as at their birth they shone ; 
 
 The glorious sun runs his immortal race. 
 Faint spirit, fyowed 'neath. life's o'erburdening ills, 
 
 Lift up thine eye to heaven's eternal scope ! 
 Look out upon the everlasting hills, 
 
 And see a firm foundation still for hope !
 
 84 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY. 
 
 REJOICE. 
 
 I HE world is full of joy. The sweet rose flings 
 Her fragrance out to invite the zephyr's kiss ; 
 The morning lark, in wantonness of bliss, 
 To meet the sun with song of welcome springs ; 
 The little brook to her own motion sings ; 
 The storm peals out ; down comes the dancing rain ; 
 The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plain, 
 And with high glee the echoing valley rings ; 
 The wild wind whistles in his desert caves ; 
 
 The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky ; 
 The old green wood his lusty branches waves ; 
 Huge ocean shakes his foamy crest on high ; 
 Earth springs exulting in her fadeless prime, 
 And the glad sun rolls on his course sublime. 
 
 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY. 
 
 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY, son of Harrison and Sue Harley, 
 was born in North Coventry Township, August 16, 1864. His 
 ancestors on his father's side were descendants of John Edward 
 and Richard Harley, who figured prominently in British poli 
 tics during the reign of Queen Anne. Mr. Harley received his 
 education at the Hill Collegiate Institute, Pottstown, and the West 
 Chester Normal School. When seventeen years old he com 
 menced teaching school in Chester County, and continued teach 
 ing during the ensuing four years, when he entered the ministry 
 of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and was stationed at Howell- 
 ville, Delaware County, in 1886, where he remained two years, 
 when he severed his connection with the conference in order to 
 engage in literary work. He is a fine classical scholar, an earnest 
 and eloquent preacher, and a popular lecturer. His poetical pro 
 clivities manifested themselves in childhood, and were no doubt 
 augmented by the picturesque scenery of the romantic valley of 
 the Schuylkill in which he was reared. When eleven years of 
 age he became a regular contributor to the Pottstown Ledger, and 
 has ever since been noted as a ready and fluent writer. He was 
 married to Miss Ravilla Yarnall, of Edgemont, Delaware County, 
 in March, 1888.
 
 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY. 85 
 
 CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 STAND to-night amidst the hallowed scenes 
 
 That,time has rendered sacred with its years, 
 And ponder over joys that spring and flow, 
 
 And sorrows that are bathed in bitter tears ; 
 And in my mind sweet holy thoughts loom up 
 
 That thrill my soul as nectar did of old, 
 And Reverie, that gentle muse, now leads 
 Me to the gates of pure eternal gold. 
 
 I tire of earthly things and long to tread 
 
 The glowing paths of never-fading truth, 
 Where blossoms fill the air with sweet perfumes, 
 
 And all is happy in unchanging youth; 
 Where barks of pleasure, on the silver streams, 
 
 Sail in their voyage on the crested tide, 
 And move upon the bosom of the deep, 
 
 Like airy vessels on the ocean wide. 
 
 The gems of earth have lost their charm for me, 
 
 Their transient beauty all has fled away, 
 And left me in a dark and dismal void, 
 
 Longing to see the everlasting day. 
 The wonders of old Egypt's mighty power, 
 
 And Babylon, where pride and grandeur flowed, 
 And Zion, with her daughters sweet and fail, 
 
 And all her temples that with lustre glowed. 
 
 Parnassus, with its haunted, cooling rills, 
 
 Where gods abode and oracles were read ; 
 Thermopylae, where ancient glory clings 
 
 Above the tombs where sleep her soldier dead ; 
 .Old Cretan's shores and Ceylon's sunny strands, 
 
 Where balmy zephyrs fan the cheek of care, 
 And fruits and spices from the southern climes 
 
 Adorn the breezes with a fragrance rare. 
 
 Great Rome, enthroned upon her seven hills, 
 And making tremble all the earth with fear, 
 
 Now crumbled with the fallen fanes of time, 
 And lying dead upon the ghastly bier ;
 
 86 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY. 
 
 The castled Rhine, where legends found their source, 
 And o'er the mountains grim the Saxon trod ; 
 
 The monasteries, where men secluded lived, 
 To seek in reverence Almighty God. 
 
 The thrones, where kings in power and glory sit ; 
 
 The palaces, where joys like rivers stream ; 
 The pageantry that decks the high estate, 
 
 Where beauty dazzles with a happy gleam ; 
 The welcome bowers, where man and maiden meet, 
 
 And love's first touch with rapture fills the breast ; 
 The cooling shade, where age in silence creeps, 
 
 Upon the couch of earth to sweetly rest. 
 
 All these are but as vague and empty dreams, 
 
 When contemplation fills the willing mind, 
 And like a siren leads us to her realm, 
 
 Our senses there in fetters strong to bind. 
 We yield obedience to her soothing voice, 
 
 And then her treasures, long in gloom concealed, 
 She opens to our wondering, yearning gaze, 
 
 And priceless gems and jewels are revealed. 
 
 I ask, What means the mystery of life, 
 
 Its joys and sorrows and its groaning pains, 
 Its clouds and sunshine and its tempests strong, 
 
 Its poverty, its losses and its gains ? 
 Go to the muses and implore their aid, 
 
 Go to Dodona's holy, secret shrine, 
 And Delphi's deities in faith implore, 
 
 Go to the perfect light of truth divine. 
 
 In all, the mystery of life is found ; 
 
 We fathom, but the depth we cannot reach ; 
 We look aloft beyond the friendly stars ; 
 
 Its awful height no human mind can teach. 
 Beyond the narrow gulf of fleeting time 
 
 We read this lesson on the shining scroll : 
 Faith builds its bridge across the dark abyss, 
 
 And finds a refuge for the parting soul. 
 
 The sands of time are flowing by the hour. 
 
 With us what is the mystery of life ? 
 Is it a couch of ease where we recline, 
 
 Or is it toil and angry battle-strife?
 
 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY. S/ 
 
 Each age has had its share, each race its part, 
 Each generation played upon the stage, 
 
 In childhood, manhood, age, and solemn death, 
 In life's great book we all must add a page. 
 
 The future years will move with solemn march, 
 
 And on our brow will fall the frosts of time ; 
 The melodies of earth will lose their charms, 
 
 And we will long for music more sublime. 
 We near the narrow tomb with feeble step ; 
 
 Its chambers dim we tread with reverent fear ; 
 It is a dark, a lonely, dreamy realm, 
 
 But strong and holy angels linger near. 
 
 We shall not ever sleep, but by and by 
 
 The waking hour will bid us all to rise, 
 And we will change the garments of the grave, 
 
 And mount to mansions far beyond the skies. 
 Kind spring will touch the winter of the tomb, 
 
 Its icy chains will melt at last away ; 
 The fragrant blossoms from the bud will break, 
 
 Enkindled with the warm, celestial ray. 
 
 Why then, oh, fragile man, wilt thou content 
 
 To live for fading earthly good alone, 
 When heaven's blissful strains .are calling thee 
 
 With warmest rapture and celestial tone? 
 This changing realm is not thine endless home; 
 
 It will at last grow old in numbered years, 
 And thou, in disappointed hopes, will shed 
 
 Upon its gloomy bier sad, bitter tears. 
 
 MOONLIGHT BY THE SEA. 
 
 HEN evening's twilight curtains fell, 
 
 Along the surging sea, 
 And shadows dark in silence crept 
 
 Across the rolling lea, . 
 I stood beside the ocean strand, 
 
 While night her glories spread, 
 To view the moonlight on the sea, 
 
 In all its lustre shed.
 
 88 REV. LEWIS R. HARLEY. 
 
 The friendly orb her glowing rays 
 
 Diffused the scene around, 
 And lit the darkest aisles of earth 
 
 With rapture so profound ; 
 Her silver beams like rivers flowed 
 
 In streams of pure delight, 
 That filled my soul with ecstasy 
 
 And broke the gloom of night. 
 
 The boundless skies were beautiful; 
 
 No clouds were seen in view ; 
 The watchful stars, like sentinels, 
 
 Were shining forth so true ; 
 The sleeping earth in peace reposed 
 
 Upon the couch of rest, 
 And slumbered in forgetfulness 
 
 On nature's loving breast. 
 
 Kind Luna poured upon the sea 
 
 Her gems and jewels rare ; 
 The waves were decked with diamonds 
 
 That glowed so rich and fair ; 
 The crests were crowned with coronets 
 
 Of rubies and of gold ; 
 The breakers flung upon the shores 
 
 The secret wealth of old. 
 
 The waves were tuned to melodies 
 
 Of happy by-gone days ; 
 Their music rose in anthems sweet. 
 
 Like vesper songs of praise, 
 Like some huge organ, wafting forth 
 
 Its harmonies of song, 
 And swelling in its symphonies, 
 
 To charm the living throng. 
 
 Oh, holy night along the sea ! 
 
 Oh, soul-inspiring hour ! 
 More beautiful than happy day, 
 
 Or any shaded bower ; 
 A blest retreat of solitude, 
 
 To visit in our woe, 
 And meditate in reverie, 
 
 While surges ebb and flow.
 
 THE RAINES FAMILY. 89 
 
 Oh, silver orb, shed forth thy rays 
 
 Upon the restless waves ! 
 Oh, music sweet, upon the deep, 
 
 Fill all the darkest caves ! 
 Oh, strains sublime, beside the sea, 
 
 Lead me to scenes above, 
 Where seas no more shall ever surge, 
 
 And all is peace and love. 
 
 THE HAINES FAMILY. 
 
 TOWNSEND HAINES. 
 
 JUDGE TOWNSEND HAINES was born in West Chester, July 7, 
 1792. He was educated at the common schools and at the school 
 of Enoch Lewis. He studied law in the office of Judge Isaac 
 Darlington, and was admitted to the bar in 1818. He took an 
 active part in politics, and was elected to the Legislature in 1826, 
 and re-elected for the following term. He was a Whig in politics, 
 and in 1838 edited a political journal which was conducted in the 
 interest of that party. He took an active part in the Presidential 
 campaign of 1844, and in 1848 was appointed Secretary of State 
 by Governor Johnston, but continued to practise in the Chester 
 County courts. He was appointed Register of the United States 
 Treasury by President Taylor in 1850, and served for eighteen 
 months, and until he was elected judge of the courts of Chester 
 County. In the twenty seventh year of his age he married Anna 
 Maria Derrick, who died about four years after the expiration of 
 his term as judge. He died in West Chester in October, 1865. 
 
 His poems were written for recreation, and were published with 
 out revision. They are characterized by simplicity and kindly 
 feeling, and are well set with gems of beautiful imagery. 
 
 WILLIAM T. HAINES. 
 
 WILLIAM TILGHMAN HAINES, son of Judge Haines, was born 
 in West Chester, May 8, 1833. He studied law with Hon. Wil 
 liam Darlington and Joseph Hemphill, Esq., and was admitted to 
 the West Chester bar, where he continued to practise until 1868, 
 when he removed to Pittsburg and formed a partnership with 
 Madison Stoner, Esq., a lawyer of that city. Shortly after re 
 moving to Pittsburg he assumed the editorship of the Pittsburg 
 
 8*
 
 9O MARY D. HAINES. 
 
 Gazette, and took a leading part in the campaign of 1 868. He 
 was appointed by President Grant United States Commissioner of 
 Customs for the District of Columbia, and held the office three 
 years, when he returned to West Chester and resumed the prac 
 tice of the law, which he continued until the time of his death, 
 February 2, 1884. Early in the War of the Rebellion he was ap 
 pointed quartermaster of the One Hundred and Twenty-fourth 
 Regiment of Infantry, but the effects of a sunstroke soon obliged 
 him to resign. In 1860 he compiled the Township and Local Laws 
 of the State of Pennsylvania, which is a work of great value re 
 garding the duties of justices of the peace and other township 
 officers. He was an expert and skilful botanist, and made a 
 specialty of the study of the native fungi of this country, upon 
 which he was regarded as an authority. October 3, 1860, he mar 
 ried Miss Mary E. Denny, daughter of the late John L. Denny, 
 a distinguished lawyer of West Chester, who still survives. 
 
 Mr. Haines possessed much poetical ability, which, had he cul 
 tivated it, would have enabled him to have taken rank with the 
 most illustrious poets of this country. He inherited his poetical 
 talents from his father, and seems to have transmitted them to his 
 daughter Mary, who, though only thirteen years old, has written 
 a number of fine poems, of which we subjoin the following. 
 
 MARY DENNY HAINES. 
 
 THE TWILIGHT HOUR. 
 
 WHAT is more lovely than the twilight hour, 
 The hour of beauty, peace, and quiet rest, 
 
 The witching hour, when all the world is still, 
 And all our thoughts are of the very best ? 
 
 When e'en the little bird has hushed its song, 
 Awed into silence at the beauty grand, 
 
 When sunset piles its glorious clouds on high, 
 
 And shows the wonders made by God's own hand. 
 
 When half the sky is of a golden glow, 
 
 The other half shows coming night, 
 While the young moon is shyly peeping forth, 
 
 Bringing her sweet beauty into sight. 
 
 When nature rests content and all is hushed, 
 And the bright stars come peeping one by one, 
 
 And lower, lower still, till it is gone, 
 
 Fades the bright glory of the setting sun. 
 
 And all this beauty is a gift 
 
 To us poor mortals from God's dear hand, 
 The moon, the coming night, the setting sun, 
 
 Touching with ruby red the awed and silent land.
 
 TOWNSEND HAINES. 9! 
 
 For this great gift we thank Thee, Lord of all, 
 And pray that some day, when our life is done, 
 
 We'll stand beside Thee and will see 
 
 A glory far more brilliant than the setting sun. 
 
 TOWNSEND HAINES. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 HARP of the hills, whose strings untiring play, 
 Endless of song, in numbers all thine own, 
 As onward still thy murmuring waters stray, 
 Leaping with childish sport from stone to 
 
 stone, 
 There, smooth and calm as infant's sleeping hour, 
 
 Here, ruffled like the furrowed brow of care, 
 And hurrying onward still, by shrub and flower, 
 Nor years nor age thy melody impair. 
 
 Dear are thy haunts, sweet solitary stream ; 
 
 Harp of the teeming wood and tangled vine, 
 As memory waketh from their mystic dream 
 
 Pageants of by-gone years ; a shadowy line, 
 Passing in voiceless silence ; there to scan, 
 
 In the dim vision, dusky warriors rise, 
 Nameless, yet proud, the fearless, untamed man, 
 
 Enjoying nature's tranquil paradise ; 
 
 Safe from the footprints of the Saxon horde ; 
 
 Safofrom that baneful neighborhood, his crime ; 
 There, threatened with no conquest-reeking sword, 
 
 On thy green banks, o'er thy wild hills to climb. 
 Ah, why should man, delusion's witless clown, 
 
 Ne'er learn the changeful nature of his fate? 
 Now loved, despised, exalted, now cast down 
 
 So low that fiends might satiate with hate. 
 
 Peace reigns, but hark ! the clash of steel the strife, 
 A struggle pools of blood th' expiring cry, 
 
 Speak words of terror. Gambling life for life, 
 Christian and savage, priest and pagan die ;
 
 92 TOWNSEND HAINES. 
 
 Harp of the hill, a stranger treads thy shore ; 
 
 A nation's lost. Yet thou, unchangeable, 
 Lonely thy song yet tells, while mine is o'er. 
 
 Lyre of the untiring string, farewell, farewell. 
 
 BOB FLETCHER. 
 
 ONCE knew a ploughman, Bob Fletcher his 
 
 name, 
 Who was old, and was ugly, and so was his 
 
 dame ; 
 
 Yet they lived quite contented, and free from all strife, 
 Bob Fletcher, the ploughman, and Judy, his wife. 
 
 As the morn streak'd the east, and the night fled away, 
 They would rise up to labor, refreshed for the day; 
 The song of the lark, as it rose on the gale, 
 Found Bob at the plough and his wife at the pail. 
 
 A neat little cottage, in front of a grove, 
 
 Where in youth they first gave their young hearts up 
 
 to love, 
 
 Was the solace of age, and to them doubly dear, 
 As it called up the past with a smile or a tear. 
 
 Each tree had its thought, and the vow could impart 
 That mingled in youth the warm wish of the heart ; 
 The thorn was still there, and the blossoms it bore, 
 And the song from its top seemed the same as before. 
 
 When the curtain of night over nature was spread, 
 And Bob had returned from his plough to his shed, 
 Like the dove on her nest he reposed from all care, 
 If his wife and his youngsters, contented, were there. 
 
 I have passed by his door when the evening was gray, 
 And the hill and the landscape were fading away, 
 And have heard from the cottage, with grateful surprise, 
 The voice of thanksgiving, like incense, arise. 
 
 And I thought on the proud, who would look down 
 
 with scorn 
 
 On the neat little cottage, the grove, and the thorn, 
 And felt that the riches and follies of life 
 Were dross to contentment, with Bob and his wife.
 
 WILLIAM T. HAINES. 93 
 
 WILLIAM T. HAINES. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 
 
 VER the past let a veil be spread ; 
 
 Its joys and sorrows alike have fled. 
 
 Its countless steps, as I've plodded along, 
 
 Give back no echo. Childhood's song 
 Is a nursery myth. Friends now seem 
 Figments shadowy, seen in a dream, 
 And I scarce believe it, would you, pray, 
 That sixty-two years have passed away? 
 
 Can it be true I am growing old ? 
 Not a line in my face has the secret told ; 
 Not a pulse-throb beats with a slower bound, 
 Not a joy of my heart that is less profound ; 
 Not a gem of the forest, earth, or sea, 
 But grants in its beauty a joy to me 
 As bright as when in my life there grew 
 No dream of its autumn of sixty-two. 
 
 Good-by, old past ! I turn away, 
 Half glad, half sad, to my life to-day. 
 For a woman's heart there is plenty to do, 
 If it beats with an impulse kind and true ; 
 Work that carries a cross, we're told, 
 That finds return of an hundred-fold ; 
 And just such work as none can do 
 Save a woman like me, of sixty-two. 
 
 Not for the world would I wander back 
 Along life's stream. Though every track 
 Of my childhood's feet, on its soft green sod, 
 Shows plainly the path that I have trod ; 
 Though every step that I journeyed on 
 Was a promise of health and beauty won, 
 I'd feel in my heart 'twas a loss, not a gain, 
 To start at the spring-time of life again ; 
 For if I did wish it, and could it come true, 
 I would soon be again as I am sixty-two.
 
 94 WILLIAM T. HAINES. 
 
 THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 'ER the old year, gently dying, 
 The wintry winds are sighing 
 
 Soft and low ; 
 
 While the noise of busy feet 
 Comes muffled from the street 
 
 By the snow. 
 
 Trees in icy mail arrayed, 
 Stretching out in lengthened shade, 
 
 Huge and tall, 
 
 Stand like sentinels on guard, 
 Keeping grim and silent ward 
 
 Over all ; 
 
 While through the crisp, cold air, 
 Ever ringing everywhere 
 
 With ceaseless tongue, 
 The silver chime of bells 
 To his dying ear foretells 
 
 His requiem rung ; 
 
 And o'er his memory dim 
 There comes a dream to him 
 
 Of other days, 
 
 When he was young and strong, 
 Feted in toast and song, 
 
 And words of praise ; 
 
 When the crown that he has worn 
 Was from another torn, 
 
 Another dead ; 
 
 While songs of praise were sung, 
 And merry chimes were rung, 
 
 Placed on his head. 
 
 But now, when old and weak, 
 Some comfort he would seek 
 
 From days of yore, 
 He learns that restless life, 
 Earnest in battle strife, 
 
 Looks before.
 
 WILLIAM T. HAINES. 95 
 
 And as the music swells 
 From the great and little bells 
 
 O'er the town, 
 He knows, while lying there, 
 Of his death none think or care 
 
 Of all around. 
 
 And now the sunset gleams, 
 With its slanting, yellow beams, 
 
 Over all ; 
 
 And night, with silent tread, 
 Weaves its covering for the dead, 
 
 A sable pall. 
 
 And in the morning light 
 
 A young heart, fresh and bright 
 
 As the day, 
 
 Will start a new career, 
 Writing o'er the dead old year, 
 
 " Passed away." 
 
 GOD'S PROVIDENCE. 
 
 EN live for something ; 
 Ere their birth, God knows the record. 
 Pressed in the mother's arms, the babe 
 Lies slumbering on the loving breast, 
 Peaceful and happy. But the life 
 That lies before it, the long road 
 It yet must journey, has been marked. 
 Not a flower blooms on the pathway 
 But from seed sown long ere its cry 
 Rose weak and feeble. 
 Not a thorn to wound and torture, 
 But the very spot along the way 
 Is singled out, just where the flesh 
 Shall quiver and the heart shall ache. 
 There is no chance in nature. The 
 Warm kisses of a mother's love,
 
 ISABELLA P. HUSTON. 
 
 Her prayers, her hopes, her tears, 
 
 Her faith strong in maternity, 
 
 Nothing that she may say or do, 
 
 Will set aside the edict. 
 
 No fatalism this, where sin 
 
 Lies covered with the will of God ; 
 
 He doeth best in everything. 
 
 The way is known, the path marked out, 
 
 The flowers and thorns along the road, 
 
 The birth, the life, the death, the end, 
 
 All, were known from the beginning, 
 
 And the life is just as certain 
 
 As that the end is death. 
 
 ISABELLA P. HUSTON. 
 
 ISABELLA PENNOCK HUSTON, daughter of Dr. Charles and Re 
 becca W. Lukens, was born at Brandy wine Mansion, belonging to the 
 iron-works of that name, November 30, 1822. The first boiler 
 plate made in the United States was rolled at this mill. It was 
 situated in the township then known as East Cain, now called 
 Valley. The name of the mill has been changed to Lukens Iron- 
 Works, in compliment to her mother, who was a successful iron 
 merchant for many years after her husband's death. Mrs. Lukens 
 was a woman of superior intellect, and conducted the iron busi 
 ness with marked ability and success, and amid many discourage 
 ments made a fortune for herself and family. She was possessed 
 of fine literary taste, and stimulated the literary tendencies of her 
 daughter by encouraging her to copy her compositions into a 
 blank-book, which she gave her for that purpose when she was 
 quite young. Isabella was educated at Price's School, West 
 Chester, and at Friend's Select School in Philadelphia. She was 
 married, April 27, 1848, to Dr. Charles Huston, of Philadelphia, 
 in which city they resided the first year of their married life ; 
 afterwards they removed to her native place, near which they have 
 since resided. Mrs. Huston wrote poetry at an early age. Some 
 of her poems were published in the Chester County journals, but 
 most of her poetical effusions are of a private and personal nature, 
 and have not been published. A volume of this character was 
 printed in 1873 for circulation among her friends. She also pub 
 lished a small volume descriptive of a tour in Europe, a year or 
 two before her death. She died at New Lenox, Mass., August 
 5, 1889.
 
 ISABELLA P. HUSTON. 97 
 
 THE WHITE ALTHAEA FLOWER. 
 
 " Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, 
 the same is greatest in the kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 T has not much to charm the eye, 
 
 This simple, rustic flower, 
 Nor rose nor jasmine's sweet perfume, 
 
 Nor modest violet's dower. 
 
 I little thought to weave a lay, 
 
 Or choose it for my rhyme, 
 But now it has a treasure's place 
 
 Among the things of time. 
 
 And as I part its petals five, 
 
 And note the crimson heart 
 That glows amid the snowy leaves, 
 
 The tears unbidden start. 
 
 It 'minds me of a burial-robe 
 
 Above a silent breast, 
 Of little waxen fingers laid 
 
 Upon a heart at rest. 
 
 It has some faint similitude 
 
 To linen vesture placed, 
 The gift of our dear risen Lord 
 
 On those His love has graced ; 
 
 To one whom He has borne away, 
 
 The young and undefiled, 
 Blessing, with His own holy hand, 
 
 The future of my child. 
 
 It has its own peculiar tale, 
 
 To others all unknown ; 
 A tale of meek, submissive love 
 
 This simple flower has shown. 
 
 A mother never can forget 
 
 Until her dying hour, 
 And nevermore her glance can fall 
 
 With coldness on this flower.
 
 98 ISABELLA P. HUSTON. 
 
 A little child, amid his friends, 
 So full of sport and play, 
 
 The golden hours unheeded passed, 
 One sultry summer day. 
 
 His mother called ; he answered her, 
 But could not break away ; 
 
 She called again, he lingered still; 
 Perhaps they urged his stay. 
 
 At last the mother sought her child, 
 She took his little hand; 
 
 Unwillingly she punished him, 
 Remembering the command. 
 
 And when his troubled face was calm, 
 His flowing tears were dried, 
 
 He brought a white althaea flower, 
 And laid it at her side. 
 
 He brought it with averted eyes, 
 An offering of his choice, 
 
 A meek, submissive deed, that won 
 The mother's heart at once. 
 
 Oh, did some holy angel write, 
 With the recording pen, 
 
 His entrance to the gates of bliss, 
 His life of glory then ? 
 
 I think so. In a few more days 
 Our anxious watch begun, 
 
 And in one little week we wept 
 Above our lifeless son. 
 
 He has gone home, a blessed home, 
 The fair home of the free, 
 
 The holy land of liberty, 
 Where harm can never be. 
 
 Although his place is vacant here, 
 
 A mother's heart. is sad, 
 Amid the shining ranks of God 
 
 Our darling child is glad.
 
 ISABELLA P. HUSTON. 99 
 
 Glad with a most exceeding joy, 
 
 Crowned with a saintly grace, 
 The lineaments of glory set 
 
 Upon his angel face. 
 
 So I will value to my death 
 
 The white althaea flower, 
 The simple thing that told its tale 
 
 With such resistless power. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 HOU resteth in the silent earth, my mother ! 
 
 The wintry winds are sighing o'er thy head ; 
 Thou sleepest well ; no sorrow can awake thee ; 
 No tears recall the treasured, honored dead. 
 
 The dear old home, so cherished by thee living, 
 Where thy loved presence gladdened all of yore, 
 
 Lies a forsaken and deserted dwelling; 
 
 The haunts that knew thee once know thee no more. 
 
 Not many months have passed since on thy bosom 
 I laid my head in confidence and trust, 
 
 Moments so dear, when heart to heart responded, 
 Thy noble heart, now mouldering in the dust. 
 
 Not many months have passed since that dread morning, 
 When thy white face the awful summons told, 
 
 But much of solemn thought and deep reflection 
 Between me and that anguish hour have rolled. 
 
 And can it be that all those strong affections, 
 Those mighty ties of nature and of blood, 
 
 Yearnings so tender, love so pure and constant, 
 Are swept into eternity's vast flood ? 
 
 Too well I know that never to my longings 
 Will the clear heart commune again with me; 
 
 The love-light of those eyes is quenched forever, 
 Thy soul hath pierced the hidden mystery.
 
 IOO ISABELLA P. HUSTON. 
 
 Thy soul hath risen from its toils and perils, 
 From its deep conflicts and its earthly snares ; 
 
 From the poor frame where long it lay in thraldom, 
 Bowed, yet not buried, 'neath its weight of cares. 
 
 And at the bidding of its beckoning Saviour, 
 Joying to find its freedom, the immortal, 
 
 Ransomed, redeemed, in its white robes glorious, 
 With wide-spread wing, soared on through heaven's 
 portal. 
 
 My mother ! not for me to paint those glories 
 Eye hath not seen, nor mortal presence known ; 
 
 Dying at peace with God and man, thou livest, 
 I humbly trust, in light before the throne. 
 
 But it is mine to tread life's solemn pathway, 
 
 And mine its daily duties to fulfil, 
 To feel my fainting heart oft weak and powerless, 
 
 Only supported by God's mercy still. 
 
 But with the armor of His faith upon me, 
 
 My father's love, when kindred ties are riven, 
 
 May it be mine, when death shall bring my summons, 
 To meet thy spirit in the courts of heaven ! 
 
 TEA-ROSES. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THE LOVELY AND BELOVED. 
 
 N her dear hands, that lay so white and still, 
 Never to lift them to the tasks of life, 
 Never to smooth the brow of childhood fair, 
 Never to minister to those she loved, 
 Never to close again in friendship's clasp, 
 Never to do those thousand gentle things 
 That sprang so truly from her loyal heart, 
 Was placed a spray of fragrant roses rare ; 
 A mother's simple offering to her dead, 
 She bore them with her to the silent tomb. 
 Oh, beautiful, pale flowers ! ye could but show
 
 HELEN I. HODGSON. IOI 
 
 How frailer than your blossoming the life 
 That human love and skill had failed to keep ; 
 But in your fragrance, that survives the bloom, 
 The essences of heaven ye typify, 
 The sweetness of that fair, immortal flower, 
 That the dear Lord has gathered to Himself ! 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY DAUGHTER'S ALBUM. 
 
 OVE then the truth, my child ; 
 
 Let no evasive, guileful spirit steal 
 
 The open candor from thy brow of youth. 
 
 The truth is beautiful, and habits formed 
 To rise above ignoble, paltry aims, 
 That pamper self and ease and pride of life, 
 But rather to be gentle, noble, just, 
 Preferring others to one's self, if need, 
 These things belong to truth and sweeten life. 
 So, when the holy, everlasting truth, 
 That lived, and loved, and suffered here below, 
 Dawns on thy wakened soul, thou may'st arise, 
 Shaking the dust from thy earth-trailing robes, 
 Sell all thou hast below, and buy that pearl ! 
 
 HELEN I. HODGSON. 
 
 HELEN IRWIN HODGSON, daughter of Alexander and Mercy 
 (Kirk) Johnston, was born at Penn Hill, Lancaster County, Pa., Oc 
 tober 24, 1845. Her father's family were Presbyterians, and her 
 mother was an approved minister of the Society of Friends. 
 When she was two years old her parents removed to Philadelphia, 
 where she remained until she was eighteen, when she visited rel 
 atives in Monmouth, 111. She was educated in Philadelphia 
 and at the college in Monmouth. She was married to Alexander 
 Hodgson, in Philadelphia, April 24, 1866. With the exception 
 of a few years spent in Virginia, Mr. and Mrs. Hodgson's married 
 life has been spent near Cochranville, Chester County. 
 
 Mrs. Hodgson began to write poetry when about sixteen years 
 of age, and has published many fine poems in the Chester County
 
 IO2 HELEN I. HODGSON. 
 
 journals, Presbyterian yournal, Sunday Republic, New York 
 Weekly, The Sunny South, and other periodicals. Her writings 
 are much admired for their sweetness and beauty and the smooth 
 ness of their versification. 
 
 CHESTER VALLEY. 
 
 WEET vale of beauty, as we fly 
 
 Along thy paths on wings of steam, 
 Entrancing fair unto the eye 
 
 Thy radiant loveliness doth beam ; 
 How brightly glows each verdant spot ! 
 
 How soft thy balmly breezes swell ! 
 Tranquil and happy seems the lot 
 Of those who in thy places dwell. 
 
 Oft have we watched the prairie lines 
 
 Grow dim beneath a Western sky, 
 And seen the fragrant Southern pines 
 
 Uplift their dusky heads on high; 
 But brightly still wilt thou compare 
 
 With each and every beauteous scene, 
 For thou, sweet vale, art passing fair, 
 
 And lovely as a poet's dream. 
 
 And yet we know there hovers near, 
 
 Like evil-omen'd birds of prey, 
 Temptation, malice, hatred, fear, 
 
 With all the ills of sordid clay ; 
 For never was there spot so fair, 
 
 Since man did first in Eden fall, 
 But still the serpent will be there, 
 
 And his dark trail lie over all. 
 
 Ah, well, some happy day we'll rise 
 
 To fields of everlasting green ; 
 In that pure land beyond the skies 
 
 No sinful form is ever seen ; 
 And there, with eager, longing mind, 
 
 Life's puzzling problems we shall "know, 
 And in the sweet solution find 
 
 All that our souls have missed below.
 
 HELEN I. HODGSON. IO3 
 
 THE DOVE. 
 
 HE tired dove of ancient days, 
 
 With anxious eye and troubled breast, 
 Sought far across the stormy way 
 
 Some spot where her small foot might rest, 
 But could not find it ; dark and drear 
 The sullen waters still were spread ; 
 There was no place of refuge near, 
 No shelter for her weary head. 
 
 Where were the bending branches fair, 
 
 On which she used to build her nest? 
 And where the soft and ambient air 
 
 That lullabied her nightly rest ? 
 Alas ! each object loved was gone, 
 
 And quenched was every human breath ; 
 There was one hand, and only one, 
 
 Could save her from a watery death. 
 
 Then, with unerring instinct, turned 
 
 The bird unto her former home, 
 Where brightly still the beacon burned, 
 
 Until a fairer day should come. 
 No cavilling nor doubting thought 
 
 Obscured the calmness of her breast ; 
 She straight the ark of safety sought, 
 
 And there found welcome, life, and rest. 
 
 So, like the dove, with anxious mind, 
 
 Along this earthly way we rove, 
 Seeking in vain some spot to find 
 
 On which to anchor all our love ; 
 But one by one our friends have gone, 
 
 And soon our brightest hopes have fled ; 
 We stand on life's bleak shore alone 
 
 Alone among the silent dead. 
 
 The crested waves of sin and fear 
 
 Are rising upward to our feet ; 
 Is there no place of shelter near, 
 
 No happy haven, tried and sweet ?
 
 104 
 
 HELEN I. HODGSON. 
 
 Ah, yes ! our shipwrecked souls may turn, 
 With dove-like trusting faith, above, 
 
 To where the lights of safety burn, 
 And there find refuge in His love. 
 
 THE DRIFTING YEARS. 
 
 H, drifting years, sad drifting years, 
 
 As swiftly on ye glide, 
 How freighted with fond hopes and fears 
 
 Has been your rushing tide ; 
 Love, faithful once, and friendships true, 
 
 Lie in your buried past ; 
 They vanished like the morning dew, 
 Too beautiful to last. 
 
 Oh, drifting years, what will ye bring 
 
 To these sad hearts of ours, 
 For all the wasted seed of spring, 
 
 That never bloomed in flowers? 
 For all the unrequited toil, 
 
 The labor spent in vain, 
 In working on a barren soil 
 
 That would not yield us grain ? 
 
 Oh, drifting years, could ye unfold 
 
 No page save this of earth, 
 The poor dwarfed life we mortals hold 
 
 Were not a farthing's worth ; 
 Were there no torch to guide us here, 
 
 No ray to pierce the gloom, 
 Faith would be crucified by fear, 
 
 And hope desert the tomb. 
 
 There'll come, for every pang we feel, 
 
 A recompense some day ; 
 God's tender hand each wound will heal, 
 
 And wipe our tears away. 
 Look up, dear friends ! from yon fair clime 
 
 A golden light appears : 
 Into that radiance divine 
 
 Shall flow our drifting years.
 
 HELEN I. HODGSON. IO5 
 
 WONDERINGS. 
 
 WONDER if some golden day, 
 
 When we have reached the heavenly home, 
 We shall look back along the way 
 
 By which our weary feet have come, 
 And think 'twas well that care and pain 
 
 Upon our pathway used to wait ? 
 They were the steps by which we came 
 Upward, unto the pearly gate. 
 
 1 wonder if, when we shall meet 
 
 The dear loved friends now from us gone, 
 The recognition glad and sweet 
 
 Of that blest hour can atone 
 For each dark day and dreary night, 
 
 Each longing so intense and sad, 
 To see once more those smiles so bright 
 
 That in the past have made us glad ? 
 
 I wonder if the hearts estranged, 
 
 Once filled with tenderness and love, 
 But now so deeply, sadly changed, 
 
 Will in the shining courts above 
 Come forth to welcome us with songs, 
 
 Forgetful of the bitter past ; 
 Or will the memory of some wrongs 
 
 Even the change of death outlast ? 
 
 I wonder if aspiring thought, 
 
 By earth's strong power unwilling chained, 
 Will to perfection there be brought, 
 
 The mind's ideal be attained ? 
 It must be so ! and death's dark storms 
 
 Do bear the bravest souls away, 
 That they may carve celestial forms, 
 
 Which here they could but " mould in clay." 
 
 Wonder no longer, then, but know 
 The crown to which we all aspire 
 
 Is only gained by those who go, 
 
 With willing footsteps, through the fire ;
 
 IO6 RACHEL HUNT. 
 
 And when, though wounded in the strife, 
 Victory is ours, how sweet to find 
 
 The flame has burned the dross of life, 
 And left for Heaven the gold refined ! 
 
 RACHEL HUNT. 
 
 RACHEL HUNT, daughter of Joseph and Hannah Gibbons, was 
 born in Westtown Township, in 1761. Married John Hunt, Oc 
 tober 29, 1777. Died February 15, 1845. She was a member of 
 the Society of Friends, and the author of a small volume of prose 
 and poetry, called " Fruits and Flowers," published in Philadel 
 phia in 1843. 
 
 HUMBLE CONFIDENCE. 
 
 OODNESS and mercy reign above, 
 Diffusing truth and peace and love, 
 And lighting, like the mystic dove, 
 
 Upon the pure in heart ; 
 May all his chosen ones draw near 
 In faith unfeigned and holy fear, 
 Wait 'till his blessed presence cheer, 
 
 And thus enjoy their part. 
 
 But why will bold, presumptuous man, 
 Whose days on earth are but a span, 
 Still thwart Jehovah's gracious plan, 
 
 And substitute his own ? 
 How poor, how weak his vain pretence, 
 His learned logic, crafty sense, 
 Compared with truth, the sure defence, 
 
 When power supreme is known ! 
 
 The soul immortal, which thou gave, 
 Is thine, and thine the power to save, 
 Thro' our probations to the grave, 
 
 Preserve us in thy fear ; 
 Oh, cast us not out of thy sight, 
 But let us in thy law delight, 
 And watchful pass the mental night, 
 
 Until the day appear !
 
 JOHN HICKMAN. 
 
 lO/ 
 
 JOHN HICKMAN. 
 
 JOHN HICKMAN was born in what was then West Bradford 
 Township, but is now Pocopson, September II, 1810. His father 
 was a farmer, and he was educated in his father's house, his teacher 
 being a graduate of the University of Edinburgh. He studied 
 medicine for a while, but discontinued that study on account of ill 
 health, and studied law in the office of Judge Townsend Haines, 
 and was admitted to the bar in 1832. He was a candidate for 
 Congress in 1844 on the Democratic ticket, but was defeated. 
 He was subsequently appointed Attorney-General of the State, 
 and after serving a few terms resigned. In 1854 he was elected 
 to Congress, and continued to represent the district until 1862, 
 when he declined a re-election. During the stormy times which 
 followed the repeal of the Missouri Compromise, and the quarrel 
 between the North and the South in regard to the admission of the 
 State of Kansas, though elected as a Democrat, he was on the side 
 of the North, and won a national reputation as an untiring oppo 
 nent of the slave power. He died March 23, 1875. Though not 
 so brilliant a poet as an orator, he possessed poetical talents of a 
 high order, as shown by the following poem. 
 
 THE POOR. 
 
 " For ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye 
 will ye may do them good." MARK xiv. 7. 
 
 ONDER cot upon the common, 
 Rudely built, decayed, and old, 
 
 In the twilight, haunted seeming, 
 Gloomy, fearful, solemn, cold, 
 
 Half concealing, is revealing 
 Scenes of sadness seldom told. 
 
 Shivering forms in hoar mid-winter 
 
 Nestle on its creaking floor, 
 Gazing on a vacant fire-place 
 
 And the crannies in the door, 
 Sorrow's traces on their faces, 
 
 Wearing badges of the poor. 
 
 'Tis not cold, it is not hunger, 
 
 Tho' they've wrestled with them long, 
 
 As the stripling with the giant, 
 As the weak against the strong,
 
 IO8 JOHN HICKMAN. 
 
 Failing ever, hoping never, 
 
 Wondering why they suffer wrong. 
 
 There the father, there the children, 
 Nursed in anguish and in love, 
 
 Mingling sighs and sobs together, 
 
 Which the pride of each might move ; 
 
 Faint and weary, lone and dreary, 
 Having but a friend above. 
 
 She, the partner and the mother, 
 
 She has fallen in the strife, 
 Wasted to the very spirit, 
 
 Cheated out of very life ; 
 She has left them, and bereft them 
 
 Of a parent and a wife. 
 
 In the dark and quiet watches 
 Of the wild and stormy night, 
 
 On the ridgy floor they laid her 
 In her robe of tatter'd white ; 
 
 God has taken the forsaken 
 Out of darkness into light. 
 
 How she struggled on in anguish 
 Ere she totter'd to the blow ! 
 
 Not for self, but all for others, 
 For the lowest of the low, 
 
 Yet sustaining, uncomplaining, 
 Pangs the world may never know. 
 
 Whilst the snow is falling thickly 
 O'er the rough and frozen ground 
 
 Whilst the wind against the forest 
 Wakes a dull funereal sound 
 
 Bending lowly, moving slowly, 
 Treasure bear they to the mound. 
 
 Yes, the patient, fond, confiding, 
 Borne in silence by her own, 
 
 They have laid in earthly chamber, 
 Made and closed by them alone ; 
 
 Unbefriended, unattended, 
 
 Without name, or line, or stone.
 
 HALLIDAY JACKSON. I(X) 
 
 Thus they live, and thus they perish, 
 
 Whilst the garner runneth o'er, 
 And the fire is blazing brightly 
 
 Near, within the rich man's door ; 
 Arms are aching, hearts are breaking ! 
 
 Who, alas! protects the poor? 
 
 Know we not ? or are we careless, 
 That " the poor we always have," 
 
 Want's pale children, needing little 
 To restore them strong and brave ? 
 
 Nature teaching, Christ beseeching 
 Us to save them, we should save. 
 
 HALLIDAY JACKSON. 
 
 HALLIDAY JACKSON, son of Halliday and Jane (Hough) 
 Jackson, was born near Darby, Delaware County, Pa., De 
 cember 27, 1817, and died at his home in West Chester, August 
 6, 1887. He was a prominent member of the Society of Friends, 
 and a descendant of Isaac Jackson, who came from England and 
 settled in London Grove Township, not far from West Grove, 
 early in the last century. He was educated in Wilmington, 
 Del., and Alexandria, Va. At the age of nineteen he commenced 
 teaching school, and in 1849 was chosen principal of Friends 
 Institute in the city of New York, and filled that position for 
 five years. In 1863, his health being impaired, he purchased a 
 farm near West Chester, upon which he resided until 1881, when 
 he removed to West Chester. In 1846 he married Caroline 
 Hoopes, daughter of Thomas and Eliza Hoopes, of West Goshen, 
 who died June 28, 1851. In 1854 he married Emily Hoopes, his 
 first wife's sister, who survived him. He was one of the com 
 mittee appointed at the sesqui-centennial reunion to prepare a 
 record of the Jackson family, which with the aid of the others he 
 did in a very acceptable manner. He was the author of a number 
 of poems, which were collected by his family, and published in a 
 small volume of 176 pages by the Friends' Book Association in 
 1888. 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 EAUTIFUL bird ! I love to watch thee 
 
 Gliding along o'er the billowy crest, 
 Daily and nightly hovering round us 
 Where, oh where, is thy place of rest ?
 
 IIO HALLIDAY JACKSON. 
 
 They call thee petrel, because thou walkest 
 
 Upon the wave of the rolling deep ; 
 Dost thou for the lonely mariner, nightly, 
 
 To cheer him onward, thy vigils keep? 
 
 The flowers may bloom on earth's green border, 
 But not for thee is their sweet perfume ; 
 
 Thine are the varied sea-weeds floating, 
 And 'tis thine to carol 'mid ocean's gloom. 
 
 I hail thee, bird of the briny ocean ! 
 
 Thy gentle trilling notes to hear; 
 And thy music low, with the sea-moan mingled, 
 
 Falls, softly falls, on the listening ear. 
 
 When the shades of even gather around us, 
 
 And the stars in their wonted brightness appear, 
 
 And the moonbeams play on the crested billow, 
 Thou art nigh, little wanderer, still to cheer. 
 
 Though ofttimes the darkness of night o'erspread thee, 
 
 Careering alone in thy devious way, 
 Yet the power that ruleth the tempest and billow 
 
 Directeth by night as well as by day. 
 
 To this I must look on life's perilous ocean, 
 Where billows like these are never at rest ; 
 
 To this as my guide to the haven of Promise, 
 Land of the peaceful and home of the blest. 
 
 CLAYTONIA VIRGINICA. 
 
 SPRING BEAUTY. 
 
 PRING BEAUTY" we call thee 'tis well, 
 
 For we look to the bright floral train, 
 By way-side, in woodland and dell, 
 For thy rival, but seek we in vain. 
 
 Thy petals the soft touch of light 
 
 Hath streaked with the sun's roseate ray, 
 
 And thy bloom in profusion, how bright 
 In the smiles of the sunshine of May.
 
 LAURA A. JOHNSON. Ill 
 
 Meek flower ! that lovest to keep 
 
 Unharmed from the noon's piercing beam, 
 
 Or the loitering chill winds that sweep 
 Over wood-top, and valley, and stream. 
 
 In thy meekness a symbol appears 
 
 Of that meekness our lives should put on 
 
 As a crown for the fulness of years, 
 As well as at life's early dawn. 
 
 The lesson thou teachest this while, 
 
 Engraved may it be on my heart, 
 So that, free from dissembling and guile, 
 
 My summer of years may depart. 
 
 And when the bright summer is past, 
 
 And the fruits unto ripeness perfect, 
 There is, that will gather at last, 
 
 A hand to preserve and protect. 
 
 There is that will point to a clime 
 
 Where are flowers fanned by heaven's pure breath, 
 Beyond all the changes of time, 
 
 And beyond the cold valley of death. 
 
 LAURA A. JOHNSON. 
 
 LAURA ANNA JOHNSON, daughter of William A. and Sarah 
 (Benson) Harlan, was born in Fallston, Harford County, Md., 
 and is the youngest of a large family. When she was about three 
 years of age her father removed to Michigan, leaving her with her 
 uncle, Joseph Harlan, with whom and his two sisters she resided 
 until her marriage to Joseph H. Johnson, December 28, 1869. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson was educated at private schools in the neighbor 
 hood in which she resided, and began to write poetry when fifteen 
 years old. Though not written for the press, some of her poems 
 have been published in the Harford and Chester County news 
 papers, and by the American Tract Society.
 
 112 LAURA A. JOHNSON. 
 
 SPEAK OF JESUS. 
 
 PEAK to the child of Jesus, 
 
 Oh, tell it, friend, how He 
 Has said, in accents sweet and mild, 
 " Come, little ones, to me." 
 
 Oh, tell the young how Jesus 
 Stands knocking at the gate ; 
 
 Tell them to let the Saviour in 
 Before it is too late. 
 
 He'll safely guide their youthful feet 
 
 Along life's slipp'ry way, 
 And comfort them when sorrows come, 
 
 And gild declining day. 
 
 Speak to the careworn of the Lord, 
 
 Oh, tell them of His love ! 
 Oh, point them to the "easy yoke" 
 
 And endless rest above. 
 
 Speak to the sinning one of Him 
 Who stilled the troubled wave ; 
 
 Who came from His bright home above, 
 A sinful world to save. 
 
 Speak to the homeless here below 
 Of mansions bright and fair ; 
 
 Jesus prepares the happy home 
 That all with Him may share. 
 
 Go to the sick and comfort them, 
 
 Tell them of Jesus' love ; 
 Tell them in Heaven no sickness comes, 
 
 That all is peace above. 
 
 Go tell the sad that Jesus lives 
 
 To comfort hearts forlorn ; 
 Tell them the lost in joy they'll meet, 
 
 And bid them cease to mourn.
 
 THE KENT FAMILY. 
 
 Speak to the humble of their Lord, 
 
 Who lowly was and meek ; 
 His strength, His might, His power to save, 
 
 Unto the feeble speak. 
 
 Speak to all men of Jesus Christ, 
 Our Shepherd, Kinsman, Friend, 
 
 Our Saviour and our blessed Lord, 
 Who loves us to the end. 
 
 THE KENT FAMILY. 
 
 HENRY SIMMONS KENT, Esther Kent (Smedley), and Anne 
 F. Kent (Bradley), are the descendants of Daniel Kent, a native 
 of Ireland, who settled in Chester County in the latter part of the 
 last century, and are the children of Benjamin Kent and Hannah 
 Simmons Kent. 
 
 HENRY S. KENT. 
 
 HENRY S. KENT was born in Penn Township, March 3, 1833. 
 His boyhood was spent on his father's farm, and his education ob 
 tained at the public schools, except one term at the Faggs Manor 
 Presbyterian Academy, where he fitted himself for the duties of a 
 teacher. When about eighteen years old he took charge of a 
 public school, and continued to teach for nineteen years. At 
 the age of twenty-six he married Patience Webster. For some 
 years they have residefl at Hockessin, Del. Mr. Kent began to 
 write poetry when quite young, and has contributed much to 
 Scattered Seeds and the Children's Friend. Though not a con 
 tributor to the local press, many of his poems, owing to the 
 partiality of his friends to whom they were addressed, have been 
 published in the Chester County journals. 
 
 ESTHER KENT (SMEDLEY). 
 
 ESTHER KENT was born at Andrews Bridge, in Lancaster 
 County, October 10, 1835. Her education, except one term 1 at a 
 Seminary, was obtained at the public schools, where she fitted 
 herself to engage in teaching, which she practised with much 
 success for a short time. At the age of twenty-six she married 
 h 10*
 
 114 HENRY S. KENT. 
 
 Dr. Robert C. Smedley. A year afterwards they settled in West 
 Chester. In the spring of 1866 she commenced the publication 
 of the Children's Friend, an illustrated magazine for the young, 
 which was designed to meet a want long felt in the Society of 
 Friends, of which she was a member. She commenced to write 
 poetry for the county newspapers some time before her marriage, 
 and was a frequent contributor to their columns for some years. 
 She was a chaste and pleasant writer, and her poems are much 
 admired. She died May 13, 1873. 
 
 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 ANNE F. KLNT was born at Andrews Bridge, Lancaster 
 County, August 19, 1838. Her education, except that she at 
 tended a young ladies' seminary for one term, was obtained at 
 the public schools of Chester County, the family having removed 
 to near West Grove when she was quite young. Being fond of 
 learning, she engaged in teaching in the public schools, and 
 while so occupied studied the higher mathematics and the Latin 
 language, and rose to the principalship of one of the best high- 
 schools in the county. In the twenty-seventh year of her age she 
 married Caleb H. Bradley. She began to write poetry when about 
 sixteen years old. Many of her poems were published in the 
 Chester County journals, The Aldine of New York, and the 
 Lady's Friend of Philadelphia. After the failure of the health 
 of her sister she became editor of the Children's Friend, and 
 continued to fill the place with much credit until near the close 
 of her life. 
 
 She was the most voluminous and brilliant writer of the family, 
 and received the approbation and encouragement of John G. 
 Whittier and J. G. Holland. She died July 26, 1879. 
 
 HENRY S. KENT. 
 A DIVERSITY OF GIFTS, BUT ONE SPIRIT.' 
 
 EADS may differ, hearts agree ; 
 
 This is sweetest song to me ; 
 
 In this world of jar and strife, 
 
 Who shall reach the perfect life ? 
 Shall I ever feign to know 
 Just the way for all to go ? 
 If for me a faith be true, 
 Is it surely so to you?
 
 HENR.Y S. KENT. 1 1 5 
 
 If my " manna" tasteth good, 
 
 Is it everybody's food ? 
 
 Is it clear that all must see 
 
 Through the glasses suiting me ? 
 
 If all thoughts with mine would chime, 
 
 Would we have a better time ? 
 
 Heads may part, while hearts agree, 
 
 Is a wiser thought to me. * 
 
 Brother, cast thine eye abroad 
 O'er this wondrous field of God : 
 See design so clearly shown 
 That a fool may read and run ; 
 Not an object, new or old, 
 Fashioned in another's mould ; 
 Every feathered songster's tone 
 Makes a music all its own ; 
 Every leaf and flower and tree, 
 Every thing we hear and see, 
 In the air or on the sod, 
 Through the endless realm of God, 
 Plainly shows what all may see, 
 Beauty in diversity. 
 Then, my brother, sing with me, 
 Heads must differ, hearts agree. 
 
 Oh, how silly is our strife, 
 
 Warring with the law of life ; 
 
 Making discord, where should be 
 
 The sublimest melody ; 
 
 Calling evil what is good 
 
 In the sacred brotherhood. 
 
 Man, in nature's mighty soul, 
 
 Is but parcel of the whole ; 
 
 Crowned with power of thought and will, 
 
 Finest touch of heavenly skill ; 
 
 But that thought and will impressed 
 
 By the law that framed the rest. 
 
 Then, my brother, fall in line 
 
 With creation's grand design, 
 
 And, rejoicing, sing with me, 
 
 Heads may differ, hearts agree.
 
 Il6 HENRY S. KENT. 
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 
 ON HER FORTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY, 2 MO. 23, 1884. 
 
 H me ! how swiftly years do glide away; 
 I have a memory fresh as yesterday, 
 Although a quarter century intervenes, 
 Of a bright, blushing maiden in her teens, 
 Her eyes full of love's lustre, and her heart 
 Woven with mine by Cupid's mystic art ; 
 And I remember with what fervor then 
 I sought my chamber and my limping pen, 
 To write her birthday verses ; sure was I 
 That she would scan them with a. partial eye. 
 
 I vowed I loved thee, and I vow to-day 
 
 Although the years have stolen some charms away, 
 
 Some roses from thy cheek and from thine eye, 
 
 Some sparkle that with youth must always die 
 
 That now I love thee with intenser zeal 
 
 Than in my youth my untutored heart could feel. 
 
 Though time has pilfered, he has given thee more : 
 
 For the uncertain impulse, steadfast power ; 
 
 For love's electric flash, a constant ray 
 
 Of mellow light that turns the night to day ; 
 
 That makes thy home the dearest place to be, 
 For husband, children, all who come to thee. 
 And for each petty charm thy soul has lost, 
 Some new rich beauty has o'erpaid the cost. 
 'Tis spirit growth alone that gives true grace 
 And beauty to the human form and face ; 
 And I can mark such lines of beauty now 
 That were not traced upon thy maiden brow. 
 The purer purpose and the riper thought, 
 The clearer views of life the years have brought, 
 Have made thee to my eyes exceeding fair, 
 Despite the marks of weariness and wear. 
 
 Dear wife, fond mother, friend to all the good, 
 Thy spirit with the love of right imbued, 
 How can I less than sing unstinted praise 
 For thy dear, loving help through all these days ?
 
 HENRY S. KENT. I I/ 
 
 Without thee life had been a thorny way, 
 But with thee as a brief and blissful day ; 
 And as the hurrying years still come and go, 
 Stronger I trust my love for thee shall grow. 
 Whate'er betide us be it sun or shade, 
 The passion of the lover shall not fade. 
 
 LINES : 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A CAUTION NOT TO SPEAK THAT TRUTH 
 WHICH TENDS TO DESTROY OTHER PEOPLE'S FAITH. 
 
 ROM lips of mine no words shall come 
 To shake another's faith in good, 
 But I would wish it understood 
 'Tis not my mission to be dumb. 
 
 I will not speak in underbreath, 
 Nor put my lighted candle out, 
 Lest some poor moth should flit about, 
 
 And hapless burn itself to death. 
 
 If men build houses on the sand, 
 And the floods come and wash away 
 Their weak foundations in a day, 
 
 And the winds sweep them from the land, 
 
 Shall they then in their grief and shame 
 Reprove the elemental force, 
 Nor see the folly of their course, 
 
 But hold the wind and wave to blame? 
 
 Truth's surging tides will not be stilled, 
 And reason's sifting winds will blow, 
 And it is best that men should know 
 
 Upon what kind of ground to build. 
 
 'Tis wise to plant our walls of faith 
 So firm on reason's granite rock, 
 That scarce a moral earthquake's shock 
 
 Shall shake their pillars underneath.
 
 n8 
 
 HENRY S. KENT. 
 
 Get to your houses, ye who quail 
 Before the summer solstice' glow, 
 Or shrink from winter's breath of snow, 
 
 For God's great forces must prevail. 
 
 And never since the world began 
 Has been evolved a natural force 
 More ceaseless in its onward course 
 
 Than duty in the soul of man. 
 
 The truth I have is only mine 
 
 To use, and lend, and give away ; 
 I have no moral right to stay 
 
 The progress of that law divine, 
 
 That, like a germ beneath the sod, 
 Makes truth within the soul to swell 
 Until it bursts its narrow cell, 
 
 And blossoms in the light of God. 
 
 Then let us keep our purpose pure, 
 And fetterless our tongue and pen, 
 And let the little creeds of men 
 
 Go down, if they will not endure. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO CALLS ALL FICTION FALSEHOOD. 
 
 ND must our fancies all be slain 
 Beneath the heavy heel of fact, 
 Or, turning on their joysome track, 
 
 Retreat like vagrants from the brain ? 
 
 Brand we all fiction as pretence, 
 As poison seasoned to the taste? 
 Is there no realm of truth not placed 
 
 In contact with our outward sense?
 
 HENRY S. KENT. 
 
 True, we do know what we have seen, 
 Of what we handle we are sure ; 
 But is there nothing else secure, 
 
 No other real world within ? 
 
 Are true ideals less of fact, 
 
 While in the primal stage of thought, 
 Than when to 'general notice brought 
 
 By virtue of the outward act ? 
 
 The wondrous things our arts produce 
 What are they but ideals wrought 
 And crystalized from human thought 
 
 To forms of beauty and of use ? 
 
 Why, e'er this teeming earth was trod, 
 Before the morning stars were glad, 
 Creation its existence had 
 
 Within the mighty thought of God. 
 
 The life we live, all things that be, 
 Each act we do was first a thought, 
 And never yet a deed was wrought 
 
 That was not first an imagery. 
 
 The craft that ploughs the watery main 
 Leaves less of furrow in its wake 
 Than the same embryo ship did make 
 
 Upon the poor mechanic's brain. 
 
 The ideal world is peopled, too : 
 
 Call them but phantoms if you will, 
 Or fictions if you choose, but still 
 
 They may be real things, and true. 
 
 Our minds with beauteous forms are filled ; 
 
 As in a mirror do we see 
 
 The images of things to be, 
 The models after which we build. 
 
 Then honor give where honor's due, 
 My friend ; without thee or within 
 There are some facts as false as sin, 
 
 Some fictions that are grandly true.
 
 I2O ESTHER KENT (SMEDLEY). 
 
 ESTHER KENT (SMEDLEY). 
 
 MY LOVE AND I. 
 
 O dazzling light on the wearisome night 
 
 Is my chosen one to me; 
 But her love is a star that lights afar 
 
 On the dark and troubled sea. 
 
 When the shadows of night go flitting by, 
 
 And the sun sinks down in the western sky, 
 
 We walk together, we talk together, 
 
 My love and I. 
 
 My neighbor, they say, just over the way, 
 Has a wife worth a dozen of mine : 
 
 A beautiful thing, she can dance and sing, 
 And while away her time. 
 
 Haughty in spirit, purse-proud and high, 
 
 Her fretted steeds go dashing by. 
 
 We walk together, we talk together, 
 My love and I. 
 
 She is not fair, no ringlets of hair 
 
 Fall bewitchingly over her brow, 
 But this do I know, that wherever I go 
 
 She is more than my life to me now. 
 She paints the blue of our household sky. 
 As the hours of toil go merrily by ; 
 We walk together, we talk together, 
 My love and I. 
 
 She brought no wealth save the boon of health, 
 
 And a cheek of rosy hue, 
 A spirit kind, and a wealth of mind, 
 
 That is given to the few ; 
 
 There's a summer warmth in the blue of her eye, 
 That tells that a twinkle of mirth is nigh. 
 We walk together, we talk together, 
 Mv love and I.
 
 ESTHER KENT (SMEDLEY). 
 
 121 
 
 A household joy is our petted boy, 
 
 A beautiful link in our band ; 
 A rainbow of light on the sky of night, 
 
 A dream of a happier land. 
 In evening rambles he frolicks by, 
 With a world of joy in his laughing eye. 
 We walk together, we talk together, 
 My love and I. 
 
 But shadows will come in the brightest home, 
 
 And troubles gather around, 
 And eyes so bright, and forms of light, 
 
 Lie silent within the ground. 
 
 But oh, I trust in the world on high, 
 On the shore of the river drawing nigh, 
 To walk together, to talk together, 
 My love and I. 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 ATHER them up, the dying and the dead, 
 Let no one be forgotten, no not one : 
 
 That face you passed, so worn and battle-red, 
 If not my boy, he is some mother's son, 
 Her tried, her trusted one. 
 
 Ah, how he bleeds ! quick, stanch that dreadful 
 
 wound, 
 
 Put back those matted ringlets of soft hair ; 
 How pale he grows ! list to the lingering sound, 
 He murmurs " mother" in his dying prayer. 
 How soft his brow and fair ! 
 
 There, press a kiss upon his pale young face ; 
 
 There are no stripes upon his army blue ; 
 But then, I ween, he never knew disgrace, 
 
 But fought his battle as a hero true, 
 One of the faithful few.
 
 122 ESTHER KENT (SMEDLEY). 
 
 And let us on, the roll is scarce begun ; 
 
 Oh, see the bloody piles of fallen slain ! 
 He must be here, alas ! my darling son, 
 
 And shall I never hear thy voice again, 
 Or list thee breathe my name ? 
 
 Here was his corps, and there he bravely stood 
 Upon that knoll that overlooks the mine, 
 
 And charged the foe through human seas of blood 
 And ghastly corpses on that fatal line, 
 Christ, these are martyrs thine ! 
 
 Quiclc ! chaplain, here, come raise this auburn head. 
 
 My dear, brave boy, and was it thus with thee ? 
 He breathes not, not a murmur he is dead. 
 
 Oh, Percy, such a sleep were sweet to me 
 Beside this troubled sea ! 
 
 Was it for this I bore thee to my breast, 
 The fond fulfilment of maternal prayer, 
 
 And sang my lullabies above thy rest, 
 
 And smoothed thy brow, to me divinely fair, 
 These golden locks of hair ? 
 
 Was it for this I taught thy little feet 
 
 To tread alone the brambled walks among? 
 
 Was it for this mine ear had learned to greet 
 The first sweet lispings of thine infant tongue, 
 To sing the songs I sung ? 
 
 Oh, question not, be still, my throbbing heart ! 
 
 God's great intent no human eye can see ; 
 Enough to know, dear Percy, we must part ; 
 
 Life's better portion is bequeathed to thee. 
 Watch thou, my child, for me ! 
 
 Oh, I had hoped in the long years gone by, 
 When thou didst frolic on the verdant lawn, 
 
 That these fair hands might close in death mine eye. 
 Now is it left for me alone to mourn 
 My Percy, dead and gone !
 
 ESTHER KENT (SMEDLEY). 123 
 
 Wilt thou not speak but one sweet word to-night ? 
 
 Call me but mother in the olden tone. 
 One look of love from thy blue eyes of light, 
 
 One fond caress, thine arms about me thrown, 
 Would ease my heart's deep moan ! 
 
 Ah, nevermore ! he stirs not, not a breath ; 
 
 Beloved, rest ! I soon shall join the throng. 
 God comforteth in the still hour of death, 
 
 And thou art near I hear the heavenly song, 
 'Twill not be very long ! 
 
 BRING FLOWERS. 
 
 RING me flowers, sweet and fair ; 
 This the essence of my prayer, 
 Let them blossom everywhere. 
 
 Pluck them for the sufferer's room, 
 Let them shed their sweet perfume, 
 Smooth the pathway to the tomb. 
 
 Bring me flowers when I die ; 
 When all earthly pleasures fly, 
 Let them in my coffin lie. 
 
 Let them blossom o'er my tomb ; 
 Chase away each cloud of gloom, 
 Home of one eternal bloom. 
 
 Bring me flowers, sweet and fair ; 
 This the essence of my prayer, 
 Let them blossom everywhere.
 
 124 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 ALICE GARY. 
 
 ILL it be joy to thee in the hereafter, 
 
 Sweet singer, in the lowly vales of song, 
 To know that gentle hearts and loving faces 
 Shall keep thy memory green as shady places, 
 Through the hot dryness of the summer long ? 
 
 The spring is near us, and the wakened pulses 
 
 Of the numb earth shall thrill with life again ; 
 The small sweet flowers thou sangst of in thy numbers 
 Shall waken as a child from pleasant slumbers, 
 And for thy smiling welcome look in vain. 
 
 There have been grander lyres than thine, sweet singer, 
 
 And higher flights of more impassioned song; 
 But the clear utterance of the river's motion 
 May touch when the loud eloquence of ocean 
 In stormy anthems may have failed to move. 
 
 Thine may not be the poet's wreath immortal, 
 Thy modest hope had scarcely climbed so high ; 
 
 Yet the small light flung out against disaster, 
 
 The talent used in honor for the Master, 
 Leave a sweet memory that is slow to die. 
 
 Oh, standing on the jasper sea, whose waters 
 
 Mirror the glory of that promised land, 
 How shall the darks of life be lightened over, 
 And clearly shall the doubting soul discover 
 How good the labor of the faithful hand ! 
 
 Hearts that have never seen thy life's devotion 
 
 Have heard through word of thine the upward call, 
 And the low mound that covers what was human 
 Of the dear poet, and the dearer woman, 
 Must be a spot where holy tears shall fall.
 
 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 CONTRITION. 
 
 > 
 
 SAW a young man by his father's bier; 
 His brow was darkened, and his look was 
 
 wild ; 
 
 I knew that he had been a wayward child, 
 Though not a word was said, nor dropped a tear. 
 
 Yet there was settled anguish in his eye, 
 As if deep feelings swept across his breast; 
 I knew that he must feel that long unrest, 
 
 Though summer suns should count a century. 
 
 A maiden stands beside a mother's bed ; 
 
 The call was sudden that had brought her there ; 
 
 Her gaze was one of anxious fear and care ; 
 " She cannot live an hour more," they said. 
 
 She knelt and strove convulsively to pray ; 
 The pale face whitened, and upon the dead 
 She bowed in agony, and, sobbing, said, 
 
 " I spake so harshly, and but yesterday." 
 
 There is a little golden head that lies 
 
 Upon a snowy couch ; an hour ago. 
 
 He frolicked on the garden green below, 
 And shot bright glances from his laughing eyes. 
 
 Here are two hearts that shudder, but the tide 
 Is wild in one, for sad, but true, his hand, 
 And he a father, struck him in command, 
 
 And thrust him forward where he, falling, died. 
 
 A husband stands beside a new-made grave ; 
 His is no petty sorrow ; he has lost 
 His compass, where the ship is tempest-tossed, 
 
 And his, alas ! was once the power to save. 
 
 Her patient love, that murmured not at pain, 
 Once disregarded, moves the man to tears : 
 " How have I robbed her of her human years, 
 
 And lost what earth can never give again."
 
 126 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 There are sad tidings in the stifled air, 
 
 And pale lips stammer forth a fearful word : 
 " Your friend is dying at the lower ford ; 
 
 His steed took fright ; there is no time to spare." 
 
 He, dying, he, whose parting was so cold, 
 And mine so cruel, can it be too late ? 
 Hasten, oh, hasten ! ere we reach the gate 
 
 " The song is ended and the story told." 
 
 Oh, faithful friend, misunderstood, for whom 
 My heart has had its yearnings all the day, 
 Why did we sever in this heartless way, 
 
 Never, perchance, to meet this side the tomb ? 
 
 For war's red cloud is round thee, and I see 
 
 In thought's low trances, danger's threat'ning form 
 Draw near to still the pulse that now is warm, 
 
 And leave me only bitter memory. 
 
 Thus do we heap remorse with careless hand, 
 Knowing that " life's a shadow ;" still we say 
 The cruel word, that ere the close of day 
 
 May strike the flint unto the slumbering brand. 
 
 Grief of itself is keen enough the loss, 
 
 The sad vacuity, the cheerless gloom ; 
 
 But deep repentance o'er a loved one's tomb 
 Bows down the spirit with life's heaviest cross. 
 
 God gives and takes. What seems to us his wrath, 
 And stunning vengeance, is the fruit of seed 
 Which our own hands have sown, the word or deed 
 
 That grows a thorn along our bleeding path. 
 
 Nay, ask not from such sorrows to be spared, 
 But rather shape thy prayer, " O Father, give 
 Patience and strength, that I may daily live 
 
 For every dispensation well prepared."
 
 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). I2/ 
 
 SWEET AGNES. 
 
 HE silence of night fell o'er her, 
 
 Sweet Agnes, sitting alone, 
 Her light eyes dusk with the shadows 
 That played on the old door-stone. 
 
 She had braided her hair so often 
 
 For the one who never came ; 
 So long had her heart been breathing 
 
 That still unuttered name. 
 
 Ten years from to-night he had spoken 
 As only one friend can speak ; 
 
 Ten years from to-night she had listened, 
 With the love-blush on her cheek. 
 
 How slowly the years had glided, 
 
 How wearily passed the time, 
 Since he sailed for that far-off country, 
 
 The land of the golden clime ! 
 
 And to her who had lived on his presence 
 
 No tidings backward flew, 
 Save a dream of a foundering vessel, 
 
 And a desolate shipwrecked crew. 
 
 From eyes that were wild with terror, 
 Through lips that were frantic in prayer, 
 
 The face that her maidenhood cherished 
 Looked out in its great despair ; 
 
 But wilder the winds and the waters, 
 And fainter the hope that could save, 
 
 Till down through the angry billows 
 He sinks to a watery grave. 
 
 Yet the vision of night was forgotten 
 In brighter dreams of the day, 
 
 As she pictured him home returning, 
 Self-chiding his long delay.
 
 128 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 Again in his manly beauty 
 
 He stands at her father's door, 
 And claims as reward for his exile, 
 
 The one that shall leave him no more. 
 
 And the years through her dreaming sweep onward, 
 
 And the roses pale on her cheek, 
 And the brown of her tresses is mingled 
 
 With many a silver streak. 
 
 Oh, wonderful heart of a woman ! 
 
 Oh, love that is fed on a breath ! 
 Sweet Agnes, thy dream is unfolding, 
 
 Through the mystical changes of death. 
 
 THE LAST MORNING. 
 
 IFT up the curtain, dearest, 
 
 That the morning light may shine 
 Once more upon us, where all night 
 
 My hand has lain in thine; 
 This weary watching soon must end, 
 
 And minister no more 
 That loving hand, whose kindly touch 
 A blessing ever bore. 
 
 Raise me a little higher, love, 
 
 That I may better see 
 The breaking day, whose sun shall set 
 
 In heavenly light for me; 
 Supported in thy tender arms, 
 
 God's mercy seems to be 
 A bridge of love, to link this life 
 
 With his eternity. 
 
 Oh, sweet hath been this dream of love. 
 And sweet should be its close, 
 
 The full bright day that folds in peace 
 The curtain of repose.
 
 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 Thou hast been everything to me, 
 
 The truest, tenderest, best, 
 And no regretful memory 
 
 Should stir thy spirit's rest. 
 
 
 Nay, weep not, I would have thee strong, 
 
 To meet the coming blow ; 
 The longest life is never long, 
 
 To welcome thee, I go ; 
 And having rendered back in love 
 
 The life thou couldst not save, 
 Think of me, if thou wilt, but make 
 
 No idol of my grave. 
 
 THE AIDE'S STORY. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR OF THE REBELLION. 
 
 I HERE were crimson pillars resting on the 
 
 sun's departing light, 
 As we journeyed on in silence to possess the 
 
 captured height. 
 We were miles this side the city that our battery-boys 
 
 had shelled, 
 And the march would last till midnight, at the steady 
 
 pace we held. 
 Battle-worn and weak and weary, at the general's side 
 
 I rode, 
 Honored by his trust and friendship, valued next to 
 
 home and God. 
 It had been a desperate struggle; for three days we 
 
 fought and bled, 
 And our manly ranks were wasted with the wounded 
 
 and the dead. 
 We had laid our fallen heroes in a soldier's hasty 
 
 grave, 
 With a simple pencil record of the " unreturning 
 
 brave. ' ' 
 Many of our best and truest in that bitter strife had 
 
 died ; 
 Hearts were aching with emotions that we vainly 
 
 strove to hide ;
 
 I3O ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 So we held our march in silence, but a skeleton in 
 
 form, 
 Keeping many a sad reminder of the losses we had 
 
 borne. 
 Brave young forms were thin and wasted, worn with 
 
 suffering and disease, 
 More, perhaps, in need of pity than the dead are such 
 
 as these, 
 Who have borne the brunt of battle, passed unscathed 
 
 the fiery storm, 
 All the horrid din of memories pulsing thro' them 
 
 quick and warm. 
 Vacant ranks where brother comrades kept no more 
 
 the measured tramp, 
 Hands in theirs but yester morning with the clammy 
 
 death-dews damp. 
 Crowning all the pain and sorrow that had held their 
 
 course that day 
 Was the crushing grief that settled on the homesteads 
 
 far away. 
 Now and then a straggling soldier by the roadside 
 
 met the eye, 
 And the general's brow grew darker as we rode in 
 
 silence by ; 
 So we urged our horses forward, following close upon 
 
 the rear, 
 Better to inspect the matter that was growing painful 
 
 here. 
 "It will never do," he murmured;, "that command 
 
 must be obeyed ; 
 They have suffered much, poor fellows, but we cannot 
 
 be delayed." 
 Then a shadow crossed his forehead, and he bridled in 
 
 his steed, 
 
 'Twas a pale face lifted to us, and a boyish form in 
 deed. 
 
 He had broken ranks that moment, with a slow, de 
 spairing tread, 
 And his pallid face resembled less the living than the 
 
 dead; 
 So I thought, perhaps none other. Spake the general, 
 
 firm but kind, 
 "Are you tired, my good fellow, that you loiter here 
 
 behind?"
 
 ANNE F. KENT (BRADLEY). 
 
 Pitying Christ ! a brow was lifted, almost girlish, thin 
 
 and fair, 
 Something of his mother's presence fell on every 
 
 warrior there. 
 " 1 am very tired, general" said the boy, with tearful 
 
 eye; 
 "I have tried to make the journey, but must either 
 
 stop or die." 
 Quickly from his steed dismounting, ere another word 
 
 was said, 
 "Give your musket, my poor fellow, I will take the 
 
 ranks instead." 
 Mount in haste, my aides will guide you;" and the 
 
 honored form we loved, 
 Ere we thought, or said, or acted, in the steady column 
 
 moved. 
 Mute, astounded, hardly knowing what to do or what 
 
 to say, 
 We, who would have died to save him, kept the tenor 
 
 of our way. 
 God ! thy valiant sons are living men, with hearts as 
 
 true as steel ; 
 Yet shall turn the scale of fortune for the long im 
 
 perilled weal. 
 When the general over thousands takes a private 
 
 soldier's place, 
 There are chances of salvation for our weak, corrupted 
 
 race. 
 As in speechless thought we journeyed, there was many 
 
 a moistened eye 
 Raised in dread solicitation to the tempest-gathering 
 
 sky. 
 On the pommel of his saddle wearily had leaned the 
 
 boy, 
 Murmuring of home and mother, with a child's ecstatic 
 
 joy; 
 
 But when to the tent we bore him, what we thought 
 
 but sleep and rest 
 Ended in the pale hands folding on a cold and pulse 
 
 less breast. 
 We were striving to restore 'him, when the general 
 
 sought his tent, 
 And in undisguised emotions o'er the lifeless soldier 
 
 bent.
 
 132 MORDECAI LARKIN. 
 
 It may be an idle fancy, I should surely know that 
 
 face, 
 But the stumbling feet of memory strive in vain a clew 
 
 to trace. 
 From his breast I loosed a portrait, fastened with a 
 
 ribbon band, 
 And, with "This may be his mother," dropped it in 
 
 the general's hand. 
 Long, intently bending o'er it, sat that man of iron 
 
 nerve. 
 Calm amid the cannon's rattle, dowered with a proud 
 
 reserve ; 
 And such tears as shame not manhood coursed adown 
 
 his swarthy cheek, 
 While emotions sad and tender shook the voice that 
 
 strove to speak. 
 " Bear his body to his comrades, and request them, for 
 
 my sake, 
 That the tender ritual honors in his burial they shall 
 
 make. 
 Lay him to his dreamless slumber in some sweet, retired 
 
 place ; 
 Write his name and age in letters that the years shall 
 
 not efface. 
 May the grass grow green above him, and the wild 
 
 birds warble there ; 
 I will send this to his kindred, with a locket of his 
 
 hair. 
 You shall have the story some time, but our midnight 
 
 watch must end ; 
 Pardon me, that soldier's mother was my manhood's 
 
 truest friend." 
 
 MORDECAI LARKIN. 
 
 THE subject of this sketch was born in Concord Township, 
 Delaware County, Pa., January 31, 1797. He was the son of 
 John and Martha Larkin, worthy members of the Society of 
 Friends. His early life was spent upon his father's farm. His 
 education was obtained at the public schools of the neighborhood, 
 where he learned the ordinary branches ; but being fond of reading
 
 MORDECAI LARKIN. 133 
 
 and study, he acquired an extensive knowledge of literary and 
 scientific subjects, which served him in good stead in after life. 
 
 At the age of sixteen years he was apprenticed to Nathan Pen- 
 nell, of Chichester, with whom he learned the milling business. 
 In 1820 he married Sarah Rogers; they were the parents of five 
 sons and one daughter. In 1825 he purchased a farm and mills 
 in Upper Uwchlan Township, where he resided for many years. 
 Subsequently he removed to East Brandywine Township, where 
 he resided for several years, and in 1870 retired from business and 
 removed to Downingtown, where he died, March II, 1884. Mr. 
 Larkin was a diligent reader and student, and deeply interested 
 in the natural sciences, philosophy, and metaphysical inquiries. 
 He was the author of many fine poems written in the latter part 
 of his life. 
 
 THE WORKS OF GOD. 
 
 [AREN'T divine ! whose power and wisdom 
 
 sways 
 Earth's varied scenes and heaven's unbounded 
 
 maze, 
 
 Where countless suns in endless glory shine, 
 No freak of chance, but planned by skill divine. 
 Through depths of space, through ether's trackless 
 
 bounds, 
 
 These shining globes pursue their ceaseless rounds. 
 Attractive bands engirdle every zone ; 
 Round the vast realm protection's arm is thrown ; 
 Through fields of space Thy all embracing clasp 
 Holds worlds and systems with unfailing grasp. 
 Science may gaze, and, erring, judge afar 
 Thy distant throne, and Thou the guiding star, 
 While truth and wisdom teach this just reply, 
 Thy throne is boundless, and Thy presence nigh. 
 The air, the earth, and ocean, each display, 
 Through myriad forms, life's all-pervading sway. 
 Can human thought conceive the bounds of space, 
 Or teach the number of each varied race? 
 Progressive life, how limitless thy reign ! 
 Where matter spreads extends thy wide domain. 
 Refinement, progress, ever meet our view ; 
 Thus dying forms dissolve, to rise anew.
 
 1 34 JOHN E. LEONARD, LL.D. 
 
 On earth around what smiling beauty reigns, 
 High woody mountains and delightful plains, 
 Where winding rivers ever downward roam, 
 To meet, embrace, and die in ocean's foam. 
 Does God design His secrets to conceal ? 
 Sun, moon, and stars His perfect thoughts reveal, 
 His revelations far and wide outspread ; 
 Who scorns the page is infidel indeed ! 
 Eternal volume ! op'ed for wondering eyes. 
 Great theme of science ! Bible of the wise ! 
 While zealots wrangle, churches disagree, 
 These glorious works lure angels up to Thee ! 
 Through passing time the mighty plan has stood, 
 Upheld by wisdom and triumphant good ; 
 As trembling dew-drops to the ocean flee, 
 Thy earthly children trust and fly to Thee. 
 Immortal source ! from whom our bounties flow, 
 Can thought conceive the sumless debt we owe ? 
 In realms celestial, when transfer'd from this, 
 May heavenly anthems swell the chords of bliss. 
 
 JOHN E. LEONARD, LL.D. 
 
 JOHN EDWARDS LEONARD, son of John E. Leonard, was 
 born near Fairville, September 22, 1845. He was educated 
 at Phillips Academy, Exeter, N. H., and Harvard College, where 
 he graduated in 1867. He studied law in Germany, and received 
 the degree of Doctor of Laws at Heidelberg University. He 
 settled in Louisiana, where he was elected district attorney, and 
 soon afterwards appointed judge of the Supreme Court of the 
 State, which office he filled to the satisfaction of the people. He 
 was elected to Congress from the Fifth District of Louisiana in 
 1876, and died in Cuba, March 15, 1878, while still a member of 
 Congress, while on an important government mission. His re 
 mains were buried at West Chester by a committee of the House 
 of Representatives. Mr. Leonard was a fine scholar and a bril 
 liant poet. He was the author of a small volume entitled " Early 
 Poems," which he dedicated to his father, and of the " Louisiana 
 Federal Digest," and also a number of brilliant essays and elo 
 quent orations. He married Miss Ella Burbank, of St. Paul, 
 Minn., who died in 1875, leaving two sons.
 
 JOHN E. LEONARD, LL.D. 135 
 
 MEMORY AND HOPE. 
 
 HEN travellers leave their homes to go 
 
 Across the desert's burning sand, 
 How brightly to their memories glow 
 The green fields of their native land. 
 
 The laughing brook, the balmy skies, 
 
 The mead with wild flowers scattered o'er, 
 
 Are teeming to their longing eyes 
 With joys they never knew before; 
 
 And fainting on the cheerless way, 
 Beneath the sun's relentless beams, 
 
 They see before them, far away, 
 The waters of refreshing streams. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis but a mocking dream ; 
 
 The weary waste is traversed o'er, 
 But still the cool and crystal stream 
 
 Is ever distant as before. 
 
 Thus, save the careless days of youth, 
 Our life is but a round of sighs; 
 
 Of memories fairer than the truth, 
 And hopes we never realize. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 HEN the moon comes over the mountain-top, 
 And brings the night-wind with her, 
 
 The fairies gain my window-pane, 
 And whisper, "Hither, hither!" 
 
 They tell me how their sisters fair 
 And the moon have come together ; 
 
 Their ships are dancing on the sea, 
 Themselves upon the heather.
 
 136 CHARLTON T. LEWIS. 
 
 Oh, fairies, fairies, long ago 
 
 You spoiled my life's endeavor; 
 
 You bound my spirit to the night, 
 And won my heart forever ! 
 
 My cheek is pale and wan, alas ! 
 
 My soul like autumn weather ; 
 I'm standing all night at the pane, 
 
 And gazing on the heather. 
 
 And I hear a voice in the forest say, 
 The stricken leaf must wither ; 
 
 And soon 'twill gain my window-pane, 
 And whisper, "Hither, hither!" 
 
 WEARINESS. 
 
 HE child that plays through some long day in 
 June 
 
 Grows tired and weary of its own delight ; 
 And sweeter than the pleasures of the noon 
 
 Are the deep, dreamless slumbers of the night. 
 
 So he whose life is one long summer's day 
 Still finds at last how little worth it is, 
 
 And fain would rest him on the flowery way, 
 To drink the cup of sweet forgetfulness. 
 
 CHARLTON T. LEWIS. 
 
 CHARLTON T. LEWIS, son of Joseph J. and Mary (Miner) 
 Lewis, and grandson of Enoch Lewis, was born in West Chester, 
 February 25, 1834. He was educated at Yale College, and grad 
 uated in 1853 in the class with Wayne McVeagh, Andrew J. 
 White, the poet, E. C. Stedman, and others. He studied law in 
 West Chester with his father, but in 1854 began to study for the 
 ministry of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and for a few years 
 was a member of the Philadelphia Conference. In 1857 he 
 taught as professor of languages in the State Normal University in 
 Bloomington, 111. ; in 1858 he became professor of mathematics,
 
 CHARLTON T. LEWIS. 137 
 
 and in 1 860 of Greek, in the Troy University, New York, and in 
 1863 was appointed Deputy Commissioner of Internal Revenue 
 in Washington, his father being then commissioner. The next 
 year he was admitted to the bar of New York, and has been 
 practising law in that city ever since, except that for four years he 
 was editorial writer and managing editor of the New York Even 
 ing Post, William Cullen Bryant being editor-in-chief. 
 
 Mr. Lewis is endowed with much poetical genius, which, had 
 circumstances permitted him to cultivate and develop, would 
 have given him a place among the foremost poetical writers of his 
 time. He was class poet at Yale College in 1853, and read a 
 poem at the class reunion in 1883. 
 
 TELEMACHUS. 
 
 A certain Telemachus had cherished a life of seclusion. For 
 this reason, having set out from the East, he went to Rome, where 
 he witnessed that wicked ceremony, gladiatorial games. When 
 he entered the arena, he went forward and attempted to cause 
 those bearing arms against each other to desist. But the beholders 
 of the blood-guiltiness were enraged, and having countenanced the 
 revelry of the god (Bacchus) rejoicing in that carnage, they stoned 
 to death the guardian (Telemachus) of peace. But when the ex 
 cellent king heard this he enrolled him with the triumphant 
 martyrs and abolished the sinful spectacle. Theodorefs Ecclesiasti 
 cal History, vol. xxvi. 
 
 MUSED on Claudian's tinselled eulogies, 
 And turned to seek, in other dusty tomes, 
 Through the wild waste of those degenerate 
 
 days, 
 
 Some living word, some utterance of the heart ; 
 Till, as when one lone peak of Jura flames 
 With sudden sunbeams breaking through the mist, 
 So, from the dull page of Theodoret, 
 A flash of splendor rends the clouds of life, 
 And bares to view the awful throne of love. 
 
 The bishop's tale is meagre, but as leaven 
 It works in thoughts that rise and fill the soul. 
 
 Telemachus, a Greek, far in the East, 
 Gave all for Christ, and led a life of prayer, 
 With longings still for Rome, Christ's capital. 
 He waits in Christ's name, with an open door,
 
 138 CHARLTON T. LEWIS. 
 
 To cheer the passing pilgrim, wash his feet, 
 And break the loaf, and gather from his lips 
 Signs of the Kingdom ; till one comes who, late 
 Touched by the holy hands of Innocent, 
 Still wears unchanged from Rome, Christ's capital, 
 His garments and his thoughts. Telemachus 
 With reverent service watches for his words, 
 As beams of light from God's own moon and sun, 
 The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair. 
 
 The Coliseum is his theme, between 
 The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair: 
 More horrid shrine than Moloch's, when he set 
 His temple right against the temple of God, 
 For murder there was worship, here is sport. 
 
 Here had he seen the gladiator fall, 
 Writhing in death, while throngs enraptured gazed, 
 And mercy's breath is vain as his last sigh 
 Drowned in the plaudits of unpitying Rome. 
 
 Telemachus gives ear, while from his soul 
 Fades that bright vision of the city of God, 
 End and delight of Christian pilgrimage. 
 Its sun is darkened and its moon is blood ; 
 And where he looks for Rome, Christ's capital, 
 He finds another Rome, the mouth of hell. 
 
 His thoughts are chaos, till from out their depth 
 
 A firmament of love arising parts 
 
 The waters from the waters, life above, 
 
 Despair below, obedient to the voice 
 
 That spoke creation, but at Pilate's bar 
 
 Was silent ; and his soul goes forth'in prayer: 
 
 " Let not thy wrath be kindled, though they rage 
 
 The heathen in thy capital, nor stir 
 
 The sword of Gideon and the pit of Kore. 
 
 But as when heaven was darkened, and the earth 
 
 Was shaken by thy sorrow, angel hosts 
 
 Hovered above thy foes, and hell beneath 
 
 Was moved to meet them coming, thou didst cry, 
 
 ' Forgive them, for they know not what they do !' 
 
 So now I see heaven's armies in thy train,
 
 CHARLTON T. LEWIS. m 139 
 
 Thine eyes a flame of fire, and dipped in blood 
 Thy vesture, and a sharp sword from thy mouth 
 To smite the nations, as thou comest to tread 
 The wine-press of the fierceness and the wrath 
 Of God, and on thy vesture and thy thigh 
 Is written 'King of kings,' and none can stand 
 Before thee ; but upon thy hands and side 
 Is written a new name which no man knows, 
 With power to still the fire and dull the sword 
 And stop the wine-press. Yet once more let wrath 
 Wait upon mercy, for that name is love, 
 And' love is Lord of lords. O Word of God ! 
 Thou who was silent, scourged at Pilate's bar, 
 And smitten anew in whom thou diedst to save 
 Art silent now in Rome, dost speak in me. 
 Yea, through me, at the mouth of hell, between 
 The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair. 
 Speak, if thou wilt, though these be silent still, 
 For lo ! I come to do thy will, O God !" 
 
 A short farewell, and with his leathern scrip 
 
 And pilgrim staff, he took his lonely way, 
 
 And begged his bread in Christ's name, hiding still 
 
 His purpose in his heart. Companionship 
 
 Was none, save that the moon, lonely as he, 
 
 Seemed the familiar face of one pursuing 
 
 A path of light, unfaltering in God's eye. 
 
 Twice waned, thrice waxed, that angel form, and sunk, 
 
 At last, full-orbed behind the Capitol, 
 
 Pale in the first beams of the Christmas morn 
 
 That lit the towers of Rome. On Tiber's bank 
 
 He paused a while to wash his bleeding feet, 
 
 And stay his heart upon the word within. 
 
 The city awoke before him ; hour by hour 
 
 Strange faces passed, strange garbs, strange voices 
 
 raised 
 
 In praises of their saviour Stilicho, 
 Till, in the pilgrim's soul, his Saviour felt 
 Again the loneliness of Calvary. 
 They swept him to the Forum, where a wild 
 Confusion of white steeds and purple robes 
 Pressed through the throng, and, charioted high, 
 Honorius and his saviour Stilicho 
 Led the chained Goths in triumph. Then, above
 
 I4O CHARLTON T. LEWIS. 
 
 The clatter of sandals and the clash of arms, 
 The din of hoof-beats and the rumbling wheels, 
 Arose an eager cry of multitudes, 
 " On to the Coliseum : the games ! the games !" 
 
 To the stern portals of that wondrous pile, 
 
 As one drop on the tide, Telemachus 
 
 Was borne, and entered, but he knew not how ; 
 
 Nor saw nor heard the thousands as they passed 
 
 Before the throne, and joined in loud acclaim, 
 
 ' Hail to thee, Caesar, happiest and best, 
 
 Be victory thine forever ! Thy tight hand 
 
 Is Stilicho, who smites the foes of Rome : 
 
 We greet Honorius with Stilicho." 
 
 He heard not, saw not : other thousands filled 
 
 His inner sense with music and with light, 
 
 Saints who in pagan days had met their Lord 
 
 And triumphed over death, in these grim walls. 
 
 He felt the soil, long drenched with martyrs' blood, 
 
 Send healing through his feet to all his frame. 
 
 He drank the air that trembled with the joys 
 
 Of opening Paradise, and bared his soul 
 
 To spirits whispering, " Come with us to-day !" 
 
 The longings of his life were satisfied. 
 
 He stood at last in Rome, Christ's capital, 
 
 The gate of heaven and not the mouth of hell. 
 
 Suddenly, rudely, comes disastrous change. 
 
 He starts and gazes, as the glory of saints 
 
 Fades round him and the angel songs are stilled : 
 
 A world of hatred hides the throne of love ; 
 
 Hell opens in the gleam of myriad eyes 
 
 Hungry for slaughter, in a hush that tells 
 
 How in each heart a tiger pants for blood. 
 
 Into the vast arena files a band 
 
 Of Goths, the prisoners of Pollentia, 
 
 Freemen, the dread of Rome but yesterday, 
 
 Now doomed as slaves to wield those terrible arms 
 
 In mutual murder, kill and die, amid 
 
 The exultation of their nation's foes. 
 
 Pausing before the throne, with well-taught lips 
 
 They utter words they know not ; but Rome hears, 
 
 " Caesar, we greet thee who are now to die !" 
 
 Then part and line the lists ; the trumpet blares
 
 CHARLTON T. LEWIS. 
 
 For the onset, sword and javelin gleam, and all 
 Is clash of smitten shields and glitter of arms. 
 
 Without the tumult one of mighty limb 
 
 And towering frame stands moveless ; never yet 
 
 A nobler captive had made sport for Rome. 
 
 Throngs watch that eye of Mars, Apollo's grace, 
 
 The thews of Hercules, in cruel hope 
 
 That ten may fall before him ere he falls. 
 
 They bid him charge : he moves not ; shield and sword 
 
 Sink to his feet ; his eyes are filled with light 
 
 That is not of the battle. Three draw near, 
 
 Whose valor or despair has cut a path 
 
 Through the thick mass of combat, and their swords, 
 
 Reeking with carnage, seek a victim new, 
 
 The glory of whose death may win them grace 
 
 With that fierce multitude. Telemachus 
 
 Gazes, and half the horror turns to joy, 
 
 As the fair Goth undaunted bares his breast 
 
 Before the butchers, and awaits the blow 
 
 With peaceful brow, a firm and tender lip, 
 
 Quivering as with a breath of inward prayer, 
 
 And hands that move as mindful of the cross. 
 
 And with a mighty cry, " Christ, he is thine ! 
 
 He is my brother ! Help !" The monk leaps forth, 
 
 Gathers in hands unarmed the points of steel, 
 
 Throws back the startled warriors, and commands, 
 
 "In Christ's name, hold ! Ye people of Rome, give 
 
 ear ! 
 
 God will have mercy and not sacrifice. 
 He who was silent, scourged at Pilate's bar, 
 And, smitten again in those he died to save, 
 Is silent now in his great oracles, 
 The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair, 
 Speaks thus through me : ' In Rome, my capital, 
 Let love be lord, and close the mouth of hell. 
 I will have mercy and not sacrifice.' ' 
 
 The slaughter paused, he ceased, and all was still. 
 But baffled myriads with their cruel thumbs 
 Point earthward, and the bloody three advance : 
 Their swords meet in his heart. Honorius 
 Cries " Save," too late, he is already safe, 
 And turns, with tears like Peter's, to proclaim
 
 142 SUSAN LUKENS. 
 
 The festival dissolved ; nor from that hour 
 Ever again did Rome, Christ's capital, 
 .Make holiday with blood, but, hand in hand, 
 The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair 
 Honored the martyr-saint, Telemachus, 
 And love was lord and closed the mouth of hell. 
 
 SUSAN LUKENS. 
 
 SUSAN LUKENS, daughter of John and Hannah Wilson, was 
 born in Whitemarsh Township, Montgomery County, Pa., January 
 14, 1797, and was educated at Westtown Friends' School. She 
 was a member of the Society of Friends. December 4, 1845, sne 
 married Solomon Lukens, and came to reside with her husband 
 near Ercildoun. She died January I, 1873. In 1849, Solomon 
 and Susan Lukens went to the establishment of the Friends at 
 Tunessassah, adjoining the reservation of the Seneca Indians on 
 the Alleghany River, Cattaraugus County, N.Y., with a view 
 of promoting the concern of the yearly meeting of Friends for the 
 civilization of the Indians. They returned to their home in 1852, 
 where they resided during the remainder of their lives. Mrs. 
 Lukens wrote poetry at an early age, some of which appeared in 
 the magazines of that day. She also contributed to the columns 
 of The Liberator and other anti-slavery journals. Though not a 
 prolific, she was a pleasant, writer. Her poem, " The Painter of 
 Seville," is very popular, and justly entitles her to take high rank 
 among the literati of America. Her writings were collected by 
 herself, and published by her friends, after her death, in a small 
 volume entitled " Gleanings at Seventy-five." 
 
 THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 
 
 Sebastian Gomez, better known as the Mulatto of Murillo, was 
 one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be 
 seen exhibited in Seville the picture he was found painting by his 
 master, with a number of others. The incident related in the 
 poem occurred about the year 1630. 
 
 [WAS morning in Seville, and brightly beamed 
 
 The early sunlight in one chamber there, 
 Showing, where'er its glowing radiance 
 
 gleamed, 
 
 Rich varied beauty. 'Twas the study where 
 Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
 
 SUSAN LUKENS. 143 
 
 With young aspirants his long-cherished art, 
 
 To prove how vain must be the teacher's care 
 Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, 
 The language of the soul, the feelings of the heart ! 
 
 The pupils came, and, glancing round, 
 Mendez upon his canvass found, 
 Not his own work of yesterday, 
 But, glowing in the morning ray, 
 A sketch so rich, so pure, so bright, 
 
 It almost seemed that there "were given, 
 To glow before his dazzled sight, 
 
 Tints and expressions warm from heaven. 
 
 'Twas but a sketch, the Virgin's head, 
 Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
 Upon the mildly beaming face ; 
 
 The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, 
 Had separate, yet blended grace ; 
 
 A poet's brightest dream was there ! 
 
 Murillo entered, and, amazed, 
 On the mysterious painting gazed : 
 "Whose work is this? speak, tell me I he 
 
 Who to his aid such power can call," 
 Exclaimed the teacher, eagerly, 
 
 " Will yet be master of us all. 
 Would I had done it ! Ferdinand ! 
 Isturitz ! Mendez ! say, whose hand, 
 Among ye all?" With half-breathed sigh, 
 Each pupil answered, " 'Twas not I !" 
 
 " How came it, then?" impatiently 
 Murillo cried ; " but we shall see 
 E'er long into this mystery. 
 Sebastian !" At the summons came 
 
 A bright-eyed slave, 
 Who trembled at the stern rebuke 
 
 His master gave ; 
 
 For, ordered in that room to sleep, 
 And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
 Murillo bade him now declare 
 What rash intruder had been there ;
 
 144 SUSAN LUKENS. 
 
 And threatened, if he did not tell 
 The truth at once, the dungeon-cell. 
 
 "Thou answerest not," Murillo said 
 (The boy had stood in speechless fear) 
 
 " Speak, or ' At last he raised his head, 
 
 And murmured, " No one has been here." 
 
 " 'Tis false !" Sebastian bent his knee, 
 
 And clasped his hands imploringly, 
 
 And said, " I swear it ! none but me !" 
 
 " List," said his master. " I would know 
 
 Who enters here, there have been found 
 
 Befqre, rough sketches strewn around, 
 By whose bold hand 'tis yours to show. 
 
 See that to-night strict watch you keep, 
 
 Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep; 
 If on to-morrow morn you fail 
 
 To answer what I ask, 
 The lash shall force you, do you hear? 
 
 Hence ! to your daily task." 
 
 *## ### * * # 
 
 'Twas midnight in Seville. And faintly shone, 
 From one small lamp, a dim, uncertain ray 
 
 Within Murillo's study ; all were gone 
 
 Who there, in pleasant tasks, or converse gay, 
 Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 
 
 'Twas shadowy gloom and breathless silence save, 
 That to sad thoughts and torturing fears a prey, 
 
 One bright-eyed boy was there, Murillo's little slave. 
 
 Almost a child, that boy had seen 
 
 Not thrice five summers yet ; 
 But genius marked the lofty brow, 
 
 O'er which his locks of jet 
 Profusely curled ; his cheeks' dark hue 
 Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through 
 Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, 
 To Africa and Spain allied. 
 
 " Alas ! what fate is mine?" he said : 
 
 " The lash, if I refuse to tell 
 Who sketched those figures ; if I do, 
 
 Perhaps e'en more, the dungeon-cell !"
 
 SUSAN LUKENS. 145 
 
 He breathed a prayer to heaven for aid. 
 It came ! for soon in slumber laid, 
 He slept until the dawning day 
 Shed on his humble couch its ray. 
 
 "I'll sleep no more," he cried ; "and now 
 
 Three hours of freedom I may gain 
 Before my master comes, for then 
 
 I shall be but a slave again. 
 Three blessed hours of freedom ! how 
 Shall I employ them ? Ah ! e'en now 
 The figure on that canvas traced 
 Must be, yes, it must be effaced." 
 
 He seized a brush. The morning light 
 Gave to the head a softened glow ; 
 
 Gazing enraptured on the sight, 
 He cried, " Shall I efface it? No ! 
 
 That breathing lip ! that beaming eye ! 
 
 Efface them? I would rather die !" 
 
 The terror of the humble slave 
 
 Gave place to the o'erpowering flow 
 Of the high feelings nature gave, 
 
 Which only gifted spirits know. 
 He touched the brow, the lip ; it seemed 
 
 His pencil had some magic power ; 
 The eye with deeper feeling beamed ; 
 
 Sebastian had forgot the hour ! 
 Forgot his master, and the threat 
 
 Of punishment still hanging o'er him ; 
 For with each touch new beauties met 
 
 And mingled in the face before him. 
 
 At length 'twas finished. Rapturously 
 He gazed ; could aught more beauteous be ? 
 A while absorbed, entranced he stood, 
 Then started ; horror chilled his blood ! 
 His master and the pupils all 
 
 Were there, e'en at his side ! 
 The terror-stricken slave was mute ; 
 
 Mercy would be denied, 
 E'en could he ask it. : so he deemed, 
 And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 
 
 B k 13
 
 146 SUSAN LUKENS. 
 
 Speechless, bewildered for a space, 
 They gazed upon that perfect face, 
 
 Each with an artist's joy; 
 At length Murillo silence broke, 
 And with affected sternness spoke : 
 
 " Who is your master, boy?" 
 "You, sefior !" said the trembling slave. 
 "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, 
 Before that virgin's head you drew ?" 
 Again he answered, " Only you." 
 " I gave you none !" Murillo cried. 
 "But I have heard," the boy replied, 
 
 " What you to others said." 
 " And more than heard," in kinder tone 
 The painter said ; "'tis plainly shown 
 
 That you have profited." 
 
 " What (to his pupils) is his meed, 
 
 Reward or punishment?" 
 " Reward, reward !" they warmly cried. 
 
 (Sebastian's ear was bent 
 To catch the sounds he scarce believed, 
 But with imploring look received.) 
 "What shall it be ?" They spoke of gold, 
 
 And of a splendid dress ; 
 But still unmoved Sebastian stood, 
 
 Silent and motionless. 
 
 "Speak," said Murillo, kindly; "choose 
 
 Your own reward ; what shall it be ? 
 Name what you wish, I'll not refuse; 
 
 Then speak at once, and fearlessly." 
 " Oh, if I dared !" Sebastian knelt, 
 
 And feelings he could not control 
 (But feared to utter even then) 
 
 With strong emotion shook his soul. 
 
 " Courage !" his master said, and each 
 Essayed, in kind, half- whispered speech, 
 To soothe his overpowering dread. 
 He scarcely heard, 'til some one said, 
 "Sebastian, ask, you have your choice; 
 Ask for your freedom." At the word
 
 REV. JOHN M. LYONS. 
 
 The suppliant strove to raise his voice ; 
 
 At first but stifled sobs were heard, 
 And then his prayer, breathed fervently, 
 " Oh, master, make my FATHER free /" 
 
 " Him and thyself, my noble boy !" 
 
 Warmly the painter cried ; 
 Raising Sebastian to his feet, 
 
 He pressed him to his side : 
 " Thy talents rare and filial love 
 
 E'en more have fairly won ; 
 Still be thou mine by other bonds, 
 
 My pupil and my son !" 
 
 Murillo knew, e'en when the words 
 
 Of generous feeling passed his lips, 
 Sebastian's talents soon must lead 
 
 To fame that would his own eclipse ; 
 And constant to his purpose still, 
 
 He joyed to see his pupil gain, 
 Beneath his care, such matchless skill 
 
 As made his name the pride of Spain. 
 
 REV. JOHN M. LYONS. 
 
 REV. JOHN MORRIS LYONS was born near Atglen, January 
 24, 1828. His childhood was spent on his father's farm near 
 Russellville, and at a school taught by his father, under whose 
 tuition he became master of the ancient languages. He graduated 
 at the University at Lewisburg in 1851, and two years later 
 entered upon the pastorate of the Union Church, Philadelphia, 
 and in the following spring was married to Eliza Keller. Subse 
 quently he labored at North Haven, Conn., and New Rochelle, 
 N. Y. His health having failed, he returned to the home of his 
 parents, and, finding the Beulah Baptist Church vacant, became 
 its pastor, and ministered to its people for the next eight years. 
 He is now pastor of the Baptist Church in Medford, N. J. Mr. 
 Lyons wrote poetry early in life and began to publish it when 
 about twenty years of age. His poems have appeared in the 
 Lewisville Chronicle, and Christian Chronicle of Philadelphia. 
 He has also contributed to the Baptist Family Magazine, Ex-
 
 148 REV. JOHN M. LYONS. 
 
 aminer, Religious Herald, and other periodicals. He is the 
 author of several popular hymns, and three commencement poems, 
 entitled, " Action the Element of Man," " The Triumvirate," 
 and " The Dervish," which have been highly commended by com 
 petent judges. 
 
 THE ZEPHYR. 
 
 ASKED the bland Zephyr to tell me his 
 
 story ; 
 
 He answer'd, "I've strayed from my ra 
 diant clime, 
 
 Which Sol from blue ether is flooding with glory, 
 The laod of the orange, banana, and lime. 
 
 "When last the bright star of the evening had lighted 
 Her lamp, so resplendent in beauty above, 
 
 A beacon of hope to the hapless benighted, 
 Oh, then did I whisper of heavenly love. 
 
 " I pleas'd in the mansion a little to linger, 
 'Mid feasting and music and pleasure untold ; 
 
 I fann'd a fair cheek, and, with spirit-like finger, 
 Toy'd lightly with drap'ry of purple and gold. 
 
 "The cot, too, I enter'd, consoling the sleeper, 
 On pinions swift-gliding, like those of the dove ; 
 
 I sooth'd the pale brow of the feverish weeper, 
 And wafted sweet harp- notes of seraphs above. 
 
 "O'er mirror-like floods, thro' bowers scented with 
 roses, 
 
 I haste on my mission, a spirit unseen, 
 Where labor is toiling, or leisure reposes, 
 
 Or all are at rest 'neath low hillocks of green." 
 
 Sweet Zephyr, I love thee ! thy whispers are telling 
 Of him who to chaos brought beauty and light ; 
 
 Who enters my soul, all its darkness dispelling 
 With earnests of glory, unceasingly bright !
 
 REV. JOHN M. LYONS. 149 
 
 OLD OCEAN. 
 
 LD ocean's voice sublime I hear ; 
 Upon his wide expanse I gaze, 
 Where floating palaces career 
 
 And sunset glories grandly blaze. 
 Whence, whence this hoary-crested wave, 
 
 Now wildly breaking at my feet ? 
 
 What shores has it been wont to lave, 
 
 What prows adventurous to greet? 
 
 When glow'd it pendent in the air, 
 
 In purple and in gold array'd, 
 To deck the gorgeous portals, where 
 
 Bright matin-splendors changeful play'd? 
 This shining spray, perchance it hung, 
 
 Like pearls in monarch's priceless crown, 
 By night, His sacred locks among, 
 
 Who drew celestial favors down. 
 
 Nay, in creation's early morn, 
 
 When angels mov'd the balmy air 
 With notes of joy o'er earth new-born, 
 
 Deep cerule billows, ye were there. 
 And still in serried ranks ye roar 
 
 In ceaseless thunders, guarding well, 
 In caves immense, a boundless store, 
 
 Whose wealth high seraph-tongues might tell. 
 
 Oh, vast profound, strange wat'ry waste, 
 
 The more I gaze and think, the more 
 I'm lost, cast down, amaz'd, abas'd 
 
 A mote, a speck upon the shore ! 
 Oh, thou art great ! What must he be 
 
 Who holds thy waters in his hand, 
 And bids thee stay, majestic sea, 
 
 Upon thy barriers of sarid ? 
 
 Yes, thou art great ; but yet, proud sea, 
 Spurn not his words who by thy side 
 
 Looks forth admiringly on thee, 
 Trembling before thy restless tide. 
 '3*
 
 I5O REV. JOHN M. LYONS. 
 
 Thy rage shall cease, and thou no more 
 Shalt sport with man in pride of power 
 
 But I shall sing when hush'd thy roar, 
 For Life-Eternal is my dower. 
 
 DAY'S DECLINE. 
 
 EANING o'er the western gate, 
 
 Gazing pensive down the dell, 
 Lo, I stand and watch and wait. 
 
 Bound as by a magic spell. 
 Longer still the shadows grow, 
 
 Chill the fresher night-winds are ; 
 Now the sun has ceas'd to glow, 
 
 See the trembling evening star. 
 
 Erst by yonder eastern gate, 
 
 Gazed I on the blushing morn, 
 Rising like a queen in state, 
 
 With all beauties to adorn. 
 Then, enraptur'd with the scene, 
 
 What thought I of toil or care ? 
 Of dark hours to intervene, 
 
 Or of burdens I should bear ? 
 
 But the toilsome day is past, 
 
 I the restful evening greet ; 
 Aching limbs may rest at last, 
 
 Wrapp'd in slumber soft and sweet. 
 Yet I know that I shall wake 
 
 In his likeness all divine, 
 And of deathless joy partake, 
 
 For a living Lord is mine. 
 
 Youth, 'tis morning with thee now, 
 
 And thy skies are bright and fair, 
 While upon thy beaming brow 
 
 Are no traces drawn by care. 
 Ere thou think it, fervid noon 
 
 And the shades of day's decline 
 Will o'ertake thee all too soon ; 
 
 Say, art hopes immortal thine?
 
 LIZZIE M. MARSHALL. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 And it came to pass, that, when Jesus was returned, the people 
 gladly received him : for they were all waiting for him. LUKE 
 viii. 40. 
 
 * 
 
 AITING on the sandy shore, 
 
 Gazing o'er the azure deep 
 For the bounding boat that bore 
 
 Christ the shepherd to his sheep, 
 Waiting, watching hour by hour. 
 
 Anxious hearts with many fears, 
 Ye shall feel his gracious power, 
 
 He can dry your gushing tears ; 
 While ye look, behold, afar, 
 
 O'er the restless tide appear, 
 Like the rising morning star, 
 
 Sails that waft the Saviour near ; 
 Nearer, nearer, wind and wave 
 
 Must his high behest obey ; 
 None who trust in him to save 
 
 Shall be helpless turned away. 
 Now upon his royal throne 
 
 Saints and angels round him sing 
 Making all his glories known, 
 
 Zion's great Anointed King, 
 Yet the Saviour is his name. 
 
 Watching, waiting ones, take cheer ; 
 Now and evermore the same, 
 
 He to help you will appear. 
 Quickly coming, Blessed one ; 
 
 Quickly coming faithful word ; 
 Amen, thou exalted Son ; 
 
 Quickly come, redeeming Lord. 
 
 LIZZIE M. MARSHALL. 
 
 LIZZIE M.' MARSHALL, daughter of William and Ann Stern 
 McFarlan, was born in Kennel Township, July 21, 1826, and is 
 related through her father to the Healds, Puseys, and Swaynes of 
 her native county ; and on the Stern side to the Wests, her great- 
 grandmother being a niece o> the celebrated painter of that name.
 
 152 LIZZIE M. MARSHALL. 
 
 Her progenitors have been farmers, and her life has been spent 
 with the tillers of the soil. A child of nature, she was always 
 fond of out-door life, and early explored the fields and woods, and 
 became familiar with the flora and fauna of the neighborhood. 
 
 She wrote poetry in early life, but few of her productions were 
 published, owing to her reluctance to appear in print. Occasion 
 ally she wrote for the Saturday Evening Post, and for the news 
 papers and children's magazines of her native county, and contrib 
 uted largely to the various literary societies of which she was 
 from time to time a member. 
 
 On November 8, 1862, she married Lewis, son of Humphrey 
 and Mary Underbill Marshall, of Newlin Township, a member 
 of the Society of Friends, to which denomination she also belongs. 
 Their abode is on the banks of the classic Brandywine, at North- 
 brook, where, with the aid of her husband, she has surrounded 
 their home with trees and flowers, which she devotedly loves and 
 cares for. Largely absorbed in household cares, she devotes less 
 time than formerly to literature, but her interest in books, and es 
 pecially poets and poetry, is unabated, while efforts to remove the 
 evils that afflict our race have in her efficient support. 
 
 With heart to feel and will to do, 
 She meets new duties as they come, 
 
 Nor doubts that labor prompt and true 
 
 Will bring the welcome words, " Well done !" 
 
 MY ANGEL. 
 
 Y angel, stay not so away ; 
 
 Until my soul is strong 
 I cannot spare thy blessed face, 
 
 Thy spirit-presence, long. 
 I cannot work as I would work, 
 
 So utterly alone, 
 With no responsive throb of heart, 
 
 Or arm about me thrown. 
 
 Sometimes I weakly yearn to lay 
 
 My throbbing head to rest 
 Upon its refuge in old days, 
 
 Thy true and gentle breast ; 
 And often when the night has drawn 
 
 Her curtains to a close, 
 Have found in happy dreams the peace 
 
 So grateful to repose.
 
 LIZZIE M. MARSHALL. 1 53 
 
 But sometimes, angel-friend, when thou 
 
 Art very long away, 
 And night-times of the spirit come 
 
 "When we are apt to stray, 
 I seek in vain to keep the faith, 
 
 The promise fast and sure ; 
 That when I feel thy presence near, 
 
 Is steadfast and secure. 
 
 Then leave me not till I am strong, 
 
 And plumed for higher flight, 
 Until I stand so self-approved 
 
 And conscious of the right, 
 That He, the Father of our love, 
 
 Will fold me e'en as thou, 
 And take all sorrow from my heart, 
 
 The earth-stains from my brow. 
 
 JUNE A FRAGMENT. 
 
 T is June, the genial season when dame 
 Nature wears her chaplet full of roses, 
 And expanding leaves grow perfect in their 
 
 pride ; 
 
 The air is full of perfume, and the clover 
 Blossoms make a carpet richer than the 
 Tyrian looms e'er wove for palace floor ; 
 The bee, proverbial for his industry, , 
 
 Seeketh the poplar chalice to procure 
 Some sweet addition for his precious store. 
 The wind comes through the casement, laden now 
 With odor from the flowers, and yonder vine, 
 Tying its tendrils to each bending twig, 
 Hath a voice rich with promises of fruit. 
 The wheat in its green sheath bends gracefully 
 To every passing breeze, like one who acts 
 With spontaneity and sweet accord. 
 At early morn musicians interfere 
 With the grave silence of the peaceful night, 
 And call us from our slumber with their songs. 
 No more the violet, with azure eyes,
 
 154 LIZZIE M. MARSHALL. 
 
 Meets ours in rambles by the meadow stream, 
 For all spring's gentle visitors have gone, 
 And the green vestments of the monarch trees 
 Keep many lowly graves hid from the sun. 
 They sleep, and more aspiring flowers have come 
 To greet us with their queenlier majesty. 
 Ah ! how like living friends, the earliest 
 That come with quiet smiles of greeting oft 
 Are loved the most, and worthiest to be loved. 
 They semble life, those flowers of the year : 
 The first have childhood, innocence, and youth's 
 Pure gentle beauty and rare confidence, 
 That sullied once or lost comes never more. 
 The summer blooms are likened to life's prime ; 
 They lift their heads above the blinding grass 
 And stand where even the unobservant see, 
 Strong, and in regal beauty unsurpassed. 
 The last flowers of the season are like life's 
 Declining days, of lofty stature, but 
 With more humility of mien and speech ; 
 They seem to have the consciousness that death 
 Opens the door of a diviner life, 
 And quenching time unlocks eternity. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 THANK thee, oh, my Father ! 
 
 That my cup is full to-night ; 
 That the stars that look upon me 
 
 Are so tranquil, clear, and bright ; 
 That my spirit looks up gladly 
 
 Through renewing of its sight. 
 
 I thank thee, oh, my Father ! 
 
 For the strength so newly born ; 
 For the grace that has been granted 
 
 Since the dying of the morn, 
 When I sat alone despairing, 
 
 Dreading, doubting, and forlorn.
 
 ISAAC MARTIN. 1 55 
 
 I thank thee, oh, my Father ! 
 
 For thy gift of love to me ; 
 For the bark of Hope set sailing 
 
 On a blue and quiet sea ; 
 For the trust that now reposes 
 
 In the days that are to be. 
 
 ISAAC MARTIN. 
 
 ISAAC MARTIN, son of George and Amy (Buffington) Martin, 
 both of whom descended from emigrants from England in the 
 days of Penn, was born in East Marlborough Township, October 
 30, 1804, and has resided there all his life. His earliest recollec 
 tion of books is associated with the reading of Watts's hymns for 
 children, which gave him great pleasure, and no doubt induced 
 him to try to express his thoughts in measured lines. His first 
 poem was suggested by seeing a butterfly in November. It was 
 written when he was quite young. 
 
 THE WAVY PANE. 
 
 S through my window's waving pane 
 
 I look towards a distant point, 
 Each object on the level plain 
 Is seen as something out of joint. 
 
 What's just, I see disjointed stand ; 
 
 What's straight presents a wavy line ; 
 The even field seems rolling land, 
 
 Where gorge, and cliff, and vale combine. 
 
 The stately pine is dwarf'd to shrub, 
 The willow's pendent branches seem 
 
 As tangled mass of useless grub 
 Fit only for the axe, I ween. 
 
 But when I look through perfect glass, 
 This strange illusion fades from view ; 
 
 I see the true before me pass, 
 And stand again as once I knew.
 
 156 THE MICHENERS. 
 
 From this pray learn a lesson meet : 
 
 When e'er thou wouldst a comrade test, 
 
 Be sure to have a perfect sheet, 
 
 Or power, within thy chambered breast. 
 
 Perhaps his seeming lack of worth, 
 His cold neglect or tart reply, 
 
 May all be found to have their birth 
 Within thy own distorted eye. 
 
 Thy greed for self, thy love for fame, 
 Thy pride in some peculiar scheme, 
 
 May be the root of what you blame 
 Unreal as an idle dream. 
 
 THE MICHENERS. 
 
 EZRA MICHENER, M.D. 
 
 DR. EZRA MICHENER was born in London Grove Township, a 
 short distance north of West Grove, November 24, 1794. His 
 parents, Mordecai and Alice (Dunn) Michener, were members of 
 the Society of Friends. His father was a well-to-do farmer. His 
 early education was limited to such as he could obtain at the 
 schools of the neighborhood and by a diligent use of the books 
 in the Farmers' Library, then recently established in that neigh 
 borhood. In 1815 he commenced the study of medicine in Phila 
 delphia, under the tuition of Dr. D. J. Davis, and graduated at 
 the University of Pennsylvania in 1818. The following year he 
 married Sarah, daughter of Samuel and Mary Spencer, and com 
 menced the practice of his profession within a mile of his birth 
 place. Three years later he removed to New Garden Township, 
 where for more than forty years he successfully practised his pro 
 fession. The last twenty-five years of his life were entirely de 
 voted to scientific and literary work. He was a voluminous and 
 versatile writer, and investigated a large number of subjects, 
 which he generally tseated in a plain matter-of-fact way, but 
 sometimes in a critical manner. In 1860 he published a " Retro 
 spect of Early Quakerism," and later, " A Brief Exposition of 
 the Testimony of Peace ; or, The Pearl of Great Price," " Man 
 ual of Weeds; or, Weeds' Exterminator," " Tornadoes," and, in 
 connection with Dr. Hartman, " Conchologia Cestrica," being 
 a description of the mollusca of Chester County. He was also 
 the author of other books, and a large number of papers on scien-
 
 EZRA MICHENER, M.D. 
 
 tific and other subjects. Dr. Michener was a man of temperate 
 habits, and retained his mental faculties to the last. He died 
 June 24, 1887, at the age of ninety-two years and seven months. 
 A few of his poems which have been preserved manifest no small 
 degree of poetical ability and entitle him to a place among the 
 poets of his native county. 
 
 FRANCES LAVINA MICHENER. 
 
 THIS writer and Dr. Ezra Michener, were members of the same 
 family, her grandfather and he being first cousins. She was the 
 daughter of Jefferson and Amanda (Pyle) Michener, and was 
 born near Avondale, April I, 1866. Very early in life she evinced 
 the possession of rare intellectual gifts and a chaste and vivid 
 imagination, and at the age of ten years wrote poetry which was 
 remarkably fine for one of her age. But the restless struggles of 
 her mind seem to have been too strong for the frail casket which 
 held it, and in her seventeenth year she was called to exchange 
 the scenes of this sublunary sphere for the beauties and joys of 
 that upper and better country she loved so well. Her poems and 
 prose writings were collected and published in a small volume by 
 her sister in Wilmington in 1886. 
 
 EZRA MICHENER, M.D. 
 THE CAR OF LIFE. 
 
 HE car of life, a wondrous train, 
 Unceasing rolls adown the plain, 
 
 Nor ever to return ; 
 The young, the old, the meek, the proud, 
 Alike are jumbled in the crowd, 
 One common fate to learn. 
 
 The train is free alike to all, 
 Yea, all must join the giddy thrall, 
 
 Without a stop or stay ; 
 The crowd increasing as they go, 
 Causing a constant overflow 
 
 Anon from day to day. 
 
 The sick, the weak, and e'en the strong 
 Are jostled off to ease the throng 
 Of its accumulation ; 
 
 H
 
 158 EZRA MICHENER, M.D. 
 
 It is not chance ; it is not fate ; 
 'Tis Providence that gives the date, 
 To shorten or to lengthen. 
 
 And so ray life has hither run, 
 From day to day, from sun to sun, 
 
 A round of weary strife, 
 Still hoping in the end to gain 
 A recompense for all my pain, 
 
 An endless happy life. 
 
 Another year hath run its course, 
 Another year hath spent its force 
 
 On this time-honor'd crone, 
 Since sad and weary I sat down 
 Upon yon cold, unfeeling stone, 
 
 My mile-stone ninety-one. 
 
 Nor might I rest my limbs so frail, 
 The car ran swiftly down the vale, 
 
 Unceasing in its flight ; 
 Sometimes the sun shone bright and clear, 
 Sometimes the clouds were dark and drear, 
 
 Obscuring heaven's pure light. 
 
 This glorious morn a cheering ray 
 Shone bright and clear at break of day, 
 
 And kindly brought to view, 
 Along the dew-bespangled vale, 
 The object of my artless tale, 
 
 My mile-stone ninety-two. 
 
 There may I rest awhile to view 
 The past, the present, and renew 
 
 My covenant of peace ; 
 And thus prepare to join the throng 
 Of angel spirits pure and strong 
 
 Around the throne of grace. 
 
 And as the poet erst hath said, 
 
 When life its fleeting course hath sped, 
 
 And spent its youthful fire, 
 Let age take up the joyous lay 
 Sing the bless'd name, then soar away 
 
 And ask an angel's lyre.
 
 FRANCES L. MICHENER. 159 
 
 The rose of feeble growth may fade, 
 And spend its sweetness in the shade 
 
 Among the early dead ; 
 The violet, too, may drop its bloom 
 And fragrance on an early tomb, 
 
 Beneath death's cruel tread. 
 
 The old and stricken oak at last 
 May fitly yield before the blast, 
 
 And moulder into earth; 
 But why should manhood thus so soon 
 Lie down and die at early noon, 
 
 When just of greatest worth ? 
 
 The ways of Providence to man 
 Are not for human thought to scan, 
 
 In this imperfect state. 
 Passing away ! as well we know, 
 Is stamped on all things here below 
 
 The little and the great. 
 
 FRANCES L. MICHENER. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 (From poems and prose writings of Frances L. Michener by 
 permission.) 
 
 IRDS are singing, branches swinging, 
 And the air is ripe with sweetness, 
 For 'tis the sunny month of May, 
 May in all her fresh completeness. 
 And the birds sing merrily, 
 And the bells ring cheerily, 
 And the winds sigh wearily ; 
 For 'tis the sunny month of May, 
 And nature claims a holiday. 
 
 Flowers are springing, bluebells ringing, 
 And the trees are dense with leaves; 
 
 And the sunshine and the grasses 
 All day long their gay webs weave.
 
 I6O CAPTAIN CHARLES M'lLVAINE. 
 
 And the blossoms whisper lightly 
 Of the moon that beameth nightly 
 On their low-bowed heads so brightly; 
 
 For in the merry month of May 
 
 The flowers sing a roundelay. 
 
 May is dying, winds are sighing, 
 For the fairy month they grieve, 
 And the flowers she leaves behind her 
 When of earth she taketh leave. 
 And the bells ring merrily, 
 And the leaves wave cheerily, 
 And the winds sigh wearily ; 
 For May has gone with all her sweetness, 
 And summer cometh in completeness. 
 
 CAPTAIN CHARLES MCILVAINE. 
 
 CHARLES MC!LVAINE, son of Hon. Abraham R. Mcllvaine, and 
 Anna (Mulvaney) Mcllvaine, was born on Springton Farm, part 
 of the old Penn Manor of Springton, on the 3ist of May, 1840. 
 
 The Mcllvaine family are of Scotch-Irish extraction. In 1529 
 they were the Lairds of Gremit, and a powerful Sept of the House 
 of Kennedy. James Mcllvaine, from whom the subject of this 
 sketch is descended, emigrated from County Antrim, Ireland, and 
 settled near Chester, in the year 1740. 
 
 Abraham R. Mcllvaine, father of Charles, was a patriotic and 
 public-spirited citizen. He represented Chester County in the 
 State Legislature in 1836; was a member of the Electoral College 
 of Pennsylvania in 1840, casting his vote for General Harrison 
 for President, and represented the Seventh Congressional District 
 in Congress from 1842 to 1846, inclusive. During his whole active 
 life he was a pronounced Unionist, and at the breaking out of the 
 late war encouraged his son Charles to aid in the suppression of 
 the rebellion, his own delicate health and age alone preventing 
 him from going to the field himself. 
 
 Charles Mcllvaine, though only just of age, raised a company 
 of volunteers, of which he was elected captain, and was mustered 
 into the service of the United States in October, 1861. He 
 united his company with the Ninety-seventh Regiment of Penn 
 sylvania Volunteers as Company H. 
 
 Captain Mcllvaine filled many important staff and military 
 positions, and served his country with distinction and bravery until 
 compelled to resign by ill health on June 10, 1863. 
 
 His early education was received at the hands of private teachers 
 and at the public schools of Indian Town and Brandywine
 
 CAPTAIN CHARLES M'lLVAlNE. l6l 
 
 Manor. He afterwards spent eighteen months at the Northwest 
 Grammar School of Philadelphia, hut was compelled to leave there 
 at the age of thirteen because of failing health. Being fond of 
 reading and study, he has been a hard student since that age, and 
 may be called a self-educated man. 
 
 With the exception of letters written upon art matters while in 
 Europe in 1873-74, Captain Mcllvaine published but little until 
 1881, when he became a contributor to the Detroit Free Press, in 
 which he has published many humorous poems and short prose 
 sketches in the dialect of the West Virginia mountaineers, under 
 his 'nont de plume of " Tobe Hodge." The " Tim Price" yarns 
 and " Powerful Temperance," as humorous sketches, and the 
 stories of " The Twins of Weasel Branch," " The Ghost of Aaron's 
 Prong," and " Tina's Holin' " met with great popular favor. 
 
 Under his nom de plume he is a contributor to nearly all the 
 leading American magazines, and is, under his proper name, a 
 well-known writer upon scientific subjects, edible and non- edible 
 fungi being his specialty. Puck, Harper's publications, and 
 others published much of his humorous work, signed and un 
 signed. 
 
 His story entitled " A Legend of Polecat Hollow," which 
 originally appeared in 7~he Continent, has been republished in 
 England in book-form, where it has had a large sale. 
 
 He excels as a writer of humorous and dialectic poems ; and as 
 a writer of short stories is given rank by the press in general with 
 the best. 
 
 GROOM AN' BRIDE. 
 
 WO uncarved stones in an unfenced field, 
 
 Scratched dates of a hundred years ago ; 
 Worth climbing a sedge-grown hill to see 
 
 Parting the briars where the cattle go 
 Tripping on vines where the dewberries grow. 
 
 The legend is told in the simplest way 
 By those who dimly remember the tale ; 
 
 But young folks, just before " marryin' day," 
 Clasp their hands o'er the grave's brown shale, 
 Trusting the custom which does prevail. 
 
 Sitting one night by a dying fire, 
 
 In a cabin where poverty always had been, 
 With the snow stealing in and the wind braving 
 
 through, 
 
 Chilling past hope of comfort within, 
 I asked an old man a yarn to spin. 
 / 14*
 
 1 62 CAPTAIN CHARLES M'lLVAINE. 
 
 " Hain't you never heerd tell uv them two thet's dead ? 
 
 I disremember how long they're gone, 
 But I've heered my fayther tell uv the time; 
 
 He lived when the buryin' wuz goin" on. 
 
 (Sich a time ez they hed to git 'em ondone.) 
 
 " The trail useter lay up thar on the hill, 
 
 Where you've seed them stones standin' side by side 
 
 With writin' an'. riggers my fayther was larned : 
 He said, ' Thet's the time that them two died ;' 
 An' I think he named 'em Groom an' Bride. 
 
 " Hit must hev' been, likely, sich weather as this ; 
 Fer the snow wuz deep, an' 'twere powerful cold, 
 
 I mind he telled me they fruz so quick 
 
 You wouldn't hev' knowed ef you hedn't been told : 
 Fer she looked so purty, an' he 'peared so bold. 
 
 " He'd putted his coon-skin cap on her head 
 Puttin' hern on his own, thet wuzn't so thick 
 
 An' his b'ar-skin coat wuz about her feet ; 
 Bein' sorter tucked, like he'd done it quick. 
 (I don't reckon he knowed that he iver wuz sick.) 
 
 " Fer his arms wuz around her warmin' like 
 
 His face wuz a-layin' right agin' hern ; 
 An' it 'peared fayther said like her lips wuz up, 
 
 An' sorter hed a kissin' turn. 
 
 (But that wuz jist guessin'. Maybe it weren'.) 
 
 "The way thet he knowed thet they'd been gittin' 
 
 j'ined 
 
 Wuz 'cause uv the tricks they wuz packin' hum, 
 A skillet, an' b'iler, an' powder and lead, 
 
 An' the leaves uv The Book there wuz nothin' on 
 
 some 
 Them wuz the signs, an' all uv 'em dumb. 
 
 " 'Twere amixtery whar they wuz from, an 1 wuz goin' ; 
 His rifle wuz new, an' her moccasins sound ; 
 
 No one ever knowed. They buried them thar. 
 I forgitted to tell you how 'twuz they wuz found : 
 The snow wuz knee-deep on top uv the ground.
 
 CAPTAIN CHARLES M'lLVAINE. 163 
 
 " A dog kep' a howlin' the howl for the dead, 
 Fayther he s'picioned thet somethin" wuz died; 
 
 An' he said, when he come to the p'int whar he wuz, 
 An' unkivered an' seed how the two uv 'em 1'yed, 
 He didn't mind tellin', he sot down and cried. 
 
 " Hit's away yander back; but the young folk 'round 
 
 yere 
 
 Allus goes thar afore their marryin' day ; 
 Fer they say thet the spirits uv them two thet's dead 
 Is hoverin' 'round thar in some sort o' way, 
 That makes the j'int last. Least thet's what they 
 say." 
 
 SPRING FEVER. 
 
 HE spring is coming ! Let her come. 
 The bees are humming ! Let them hum. 
 I can't stop spring, I won't stop bees; 
 I'd like to have a hand to squeeze. 
 
 The birds are singing ! Let them sing. 
 The violets springing ! Let them spring. 
 I'm not a bird, I'm not a flower; 
 I can't improve a " shining hour." 
 
 Buds are bursting ! Let them burst. 
 The sun is thirsting ! Let it thirst. 
 Shoo fly ! you're walking on my nose. 
 Please go away ; I seek repose. 
 
 The lambs are skipping ! Let them skip. 
 My hammock's ripping ! Let it rip. 
 I wish some one would say " confound !" 
 My hammock's ripped ; I!m on the ground. 
 
 THE HEATED TERM. 
 
 SAT upon an ice machine 
 
 This twentieth day of August, 
 
 Fearing that I would desiccate 
 Like heathen god in sawdust.
 
 164 CAPTAIN CHARLES M'lLVAINE. 
 
 I took my pen to make a sketch 
 
 Of what I saw about, 
 And lit my pipe with point of it 
 
 While underneath a spout. 
 
 I saw a star just tip our air, 
 Then leave with fiery tail ; 
 
 Upon a piece of toasted bread 
 Then came and sat a quail. 
 
 A dog picked up a marrow-bone, 
 But dropped it with a howl ; 
 
 My fingers boiled like parsnips 
 As I lanced his blistered jowl. 
 
 A cat left off her midnight best, 
 And climbed a charred post, 
 
 Which saved a little red-hot mouse 
 Its little red-hot ghost. 
 
 A kitten stopped and spat upon 
 The flame that 'gan to rise 
 
 From off its warped revolving tail, 
 As sparks flew in its eyes. 
 
 The hens, that went to lay their eggs, 
 Metamorphosed their cackle 
 
 From noisy joy and pleasure to 
 A cry demoniacal. 
 
 The cook stood piling ice within 
 The fire-box of the stove ; 
 
 Her buttons flew like drops of lead 
 With every heave she hove. 
 
 The milkmaid lost her plumpness, 
 As she melted on her stool, 
 
 And said she would not milk again 
 Until the cows got cool. 
 
 The chambermaid exemplified, 
 In one capacious blister, 
 
 Exactly how, and when, and where 
 The summer boarder kissed her.
 
 JAMES M'CLUNE, LL.D. 165 
 
 He was a Legislative man, 
 
 So did not mind the therm ; 
 But said he'd "salt the treasury," 
 
 For an "extra (heated) term." 
 
 I laid my scorched paper down ; 
 
 For gone the power of writing 
 When fingers dry burst into flame, 
 
 And matters grew exciting. 
 
 APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 HEN the apple was in blossom," 
 
 Said a pretty girl to me, 
 " I love the fruit, but, could I wish, 
 
 The blossom I would be." 
 (Love in the budding is glad.) 
 
 Again the apple was in blossom : 
 
 That same capricious Fay 
 Wished that like its fleeting sweetness 
 
 She might swiftly pass away. 
 (Love in the growing is sad.) 
 
 Yet again the apple blossomed : 
 She kissed the clustered cup, 
 
 Sighing then to be an apple, 
 That I might eat her up. 
 
 (Love in the ripening is mad.) 
 
 JAMES MCCLUNE. LL.D. 
 
 JAMES McCLUNE is a native of West Nantmeal Township, and 
 graduated at Princeton College, taking the first honor, in a large 
 class, in 1835. After having been principal of an academy at 
 tewisburg, also of one at Mifflinburg, and subsequently of the 
 Howard Academy in Chester County, he was, in 1855, elected 
 Professor of Theoretical Mathematics and Astronomy in the Phil 
 adelphia High-School, and continued there until the decline of 
 health and vigor, caused by forty-four years spent in the school 
 room, compelled him to resign.
 
 1 66 JAMES M'CLUNE, LL.D. 
 
 In 1866 he served as one of the examiners of the annual assay 
 of the United States Mint, and in 1869 was selected by the govern 
 ment to accompany one of the parties sent to Iowa to observe the 
 total solar eclipse, of which he published a report. He also pub 
 lished observations of the great comet of 1858, of the November 
 meteors of 1867, and of the remarkable solar spots of 1870. 
 
 Professor McClune has been for more than forty years a con 
 tributor on literary and scientific subjects to several standard works, 
 and of poetry to the periodical press, though few of his writings 
 have appeared with his signature. The degree of LL.D. was con 
 ferred upon him by his Alma Mater many years ago. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LAS NAVAS. 
 
 " The day was fatal to the Almohades. The Christians, en 
 couraged by the appearance of a cross in the northern sky, defeated 
 them with dreadful slaughter, and the battle of Las Navas in 
 volved the loss of the Mohammedan power in Spain." Spanish 
 Chronicle. 
 
 ETIRING day had clothed the West 
 
 In gold and russet brown, 
 While night prepared the world for rest 
 And ranged her star-gemmed crown. 
 
 The moon, now tipped with silver light, 
 
 Now sailed through fleecy clouds ; 
 Now made the mists on mountain height 
 
 Seem giant ghosts in shrouds. 
 
 When sword-formed rays shot from the North, 
 
 And soon a blood-red light; 
 Then others, quickly streaming forth, 
 
 Engage in mimic fight. 
 
 While far above, like twilight gray, 
 
 A crescent spanned the skies : 
 The Christians saw with wild dismay 
 
 The Moorish ensign rise. 
 
 
 
 "The morrow's battle," loud they cried, 
 
 "The Infidels will gain, 
 The Crescent still the Cross deride 
 
 Throughout thy bounds, O Spain !"
 
 JAMES M'CLUNE, LL.D. 167 
 
 When, lo ! those warrior rays combine, 
 
 And form a pillar bright ; 
 The Crescent changes to a line, 
 
 A Cross salutes their sight. 
 
 At once, with reverential fear 
 
 The astonished Christians cry, 
 " O Lord, accept our thanks sincere, 
 
 Thou art a helper nigji !" 
 
 Joyous as if the field were won, 
 
 Each breast with ardor glows, 
 And with the morrow's rising sun 
 
 They rush upon their foes. 
 
 Soon their oppressors die or flee, 
 
 And, boldly pressing on, 
 They on that day forever free 
 
 Castile and Arragon. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 IS said, and none its truth deny, 
 
 "Who judge with care or reason right, 
 That blessings brighten as they, fly, 
 And pleasure as it takes its flight. 
 
 Has Friendship wove its silken chains, 
 And twined its fibres round the heart, 
 
 A work unknown that friendship gains 
 When from its object forced to part. 
 
 Our youthful home at parting seems 
 More pleasing still to meet our view ; 
 
 Its joys, its hopes, its sinless scenes, 
 Rise clothed in robes of brighter hue. 
 
 But as the beam of closing day 
 
 Paints evening's clouds and then expires, 
 So parting's joys, with fitful ray, 
 
 Oft light to blast hope's smouldering fires.
 
 168 WILLIAM M'CULLOUGH. 
 
 Still Memory o'er those scenes will dwell, 
 That joy and hope the breast expand, 
 
 While friends arise known long and well, 
 Summoned by Fancy's potent wand. 
 
 And when life's changeful scenes are o'er, 
 When death has set the spirit free, 
 
 Then friends may meet to part no more, 
 Throughout a blest eternity. 
 
 WILLIAM MCCULLOUGH. 
 
 WILLIAM MCCULLOUGH, son of William and Mary McCullough, 
 was born near Oxford, April 13, 1815, and was educated at Hope- 
 well Academy near that place. Mr. McCullough held the office 
 of justice of the peace five years, and subsequently, in 1845, was 
 elected recorder of deeds of Chester County, and held that office 
 three years. In 1859 he was elected treasurer of the West Ches 
 ter and Philadelphia Railroad Company, and continued to act in 
 that capacity until 1881. For many years he has been a frequent 
 contributor of dialectic poems to the West Chester journals, and 
 also an exemplary ruling elder in the Presbyterian Church. 
 
 LIFE'S MILESTONES. 
 
 HE yearly milestones on life's way 
 Seem closer as our heads grow gray, 
 
 And watched with care ; 
 And as we near the silent end, 
 To which our fated footsteps tend, 
 
 We ask, Who's there? 
 
 But looking back calls up the past, 
 And memory travels far and fast 
 
 To youthful days, 
 
 When entering on our roving 'teens, 
 The sweet attachments, winning scenes, 
 
 Beset our ways.
 
 WILLIAM M'CULLOUGH. 169 
 
 A year then seemed a century ; 
 Now, like a day it hurries by, 
 
 Laden with cares ; 
 
 And doubts and fears our hearts oppress, 
 And pleasures end in weariness 
 
 And worldly tares. 
 
 Ah, me ! how glad and gay we were 
 Before this world became a care, 
 
 And charmed our eye ! 
 Then life seemed like an endless theme, 
 But now it passes like a dream, 
 
 Singing good-by. 
 
 Yes, good-by, only to earth's cares, 
 Its toils, its trials, and its snares, 
 
 And secret woe ; 
 
 To join the ransomed throng above, 
 Where all is purity and love, 
 
 Whiter than snow. 
 
 The sunlight on the living green, 
 Prefigures what will there be seen 
 
 Free from all ill. 
 But darkness in the sky destroys 
 Alike the leaf and heavenly joys, 
 
 E'en 'gainst our will. 
 
 To those yet in the morn of life, 
 Ere earthly cares and worldly strife 
 
 Beset your way, 
 
 We say, remember life's a trust, 
 And He who gave it will be just 
 
 At the last day.
 
 I/O MARY ANN MOORE. 
 
 MARY ANN MOORE. 
 
 MARY ANN MOORE, daughter of Isaac and Rachel (Biles) 
 Moore, was born in London Grove Township, March n, 1821. 
 Her great-grandparents, Andrew and Rachel Moore, came from 
 Ireland and settled in Lancaster County, Pa., very early in its his 
 tory. They, like herself and most of their other descendants, 
 were members of the Society of Friends. When she was thir 
 teen years old her parents removed to New Castle County, Del., 
 and settled near Mechanicsville, where she resided for the next 
 eighteen years. Subsequently the family removed to Harford 
 County, Md., where her parents died ; she has since resided in 
 Ohio, Bureau County, 111. Her education was obtained at the 
 public schools, which when fourteen years of age she was com 
 pelled to leave, because of the diseased condition of her eyes, the 
 sight of which entirely failed a few years afterwards. Soon after 
 losing her sight she resorted to the composition of poetry in order 
 to divert her mind from her unfortunate condition, and to enable 
 her to spend her time more pleasantly. In 1873, J- B. Lippin- 
 cott & Co. published a small volume of her prose and poetical 
 writings entitled "Musings of a Blind and Partially Deaf Girl," 
 from which we have been allowed to select the following poem. 
 
 WHO IS THY FRIEND? 
 
 HO is thy friend ? Not he who smiles 
 
 When pleasure's cup is running o'er; 
 Not he who firmly grasps thy hand 
 When welcomed to thy splendid door. 
 
 Who is thy friend ? Not he who speaks 
 On thy behalf when fortune reigns, 
 
 Or in thy presence approbates 
 
 That which in absence he disdains. 
 
 Who is thy friend ? Dost thou not feel 
 It is not he who seeks to place 
 
 His sport and ridicule on thee, 
 By flattering praises to thy face? 
 
 Who is thy friend ? Not he, the proud, 
 Who covets honor, pomp, or fame ; 
 
 He'll greet thee in an humble crowd, 
 In grander places shun thy name.
 
 ELIZABETH W. MOORE. \"J I 
 
 Who is thy friend? 'Tis he who stands 
 Unchanged midst scenes of sun or shade, 
 
 Who lingers near with ready hands 
 When trials are upon thee laid. 
 
 Who is thy friend? 'Tis he who strives 
 
 In kind compassion to improve 
 An erring habit thou hast not 
 
 Seen necessary to remove. 
 
 Who is thy friend ? The Lord above, 
 
 Who sees and pities all thy fears, 
 Who grants thee meekness, patience, love, 
 
 He is thy friend in joys and tears. 
 
 ELIZABETH WALTON MOORE. 
 
 ELIZABETH WALTON MOORE, daughter of Edwin and Mary 
 (Dent) Walton, was born November 13, 1859, in the old Maple 
 Hill homestead in Highland Township. Her parents and grand 
 parents were members of the Society of Friends. She received her 
 early education at the public schools, and at Ercildoun seminary 
 and the West Chester State Normal School, and graduated at the 
 National School of Elocution and Oratory in Philadelphia in the 
 class of 1 884. She began teaching school at West Grove in 1 879, 
 and continued to teach in the public schools of Chester County 
 for about seven years. On the 25th of August, 1886, she and G. 
 Winfield Moore were married, by Friends' ceremony, at the family 
 homestead where she was born. Mrs. Moore wrote poetry when 
 quite young. Her first published poem appeared in the Chester 
 County Times in 1875, since which many of her poems have been 
 published in that paper. She has also written for The Gems of 
 Poetry, Moore Literary Gazette, Scholar's Portfolio, and Oxford 
 Press. 
 
 COUNT ZINZENDORF. 
 
 This incident occurred in 1742. 
 
 O fair Wyoming's charming vale, 
 
 Where peace and plenty dwelt ; 
 Where Indian slaughters tell a tale 
 Of bloody vengeance felt ;
 
 ELIZABETH W. MOORE. 
 
 Around Wilkesbarre's shaded hills 
 
 And groves enriched by song, 
 Where Pennsylvania's happy rills 
 
 Flow peacefully along ; 
 
 From 'neath Moravian skies had come 
 
 Her persecuted band ; 
 To find them here a. quiet home 
 
 Within a foreign land. 
 
 One day in summer, mild and warm, 
 
 There came from Saxony 
 Count Zinzendorf, who braved the storm 
 
 And dangers of the sea, 
 
 That he to Christian faith might teach 
 
 These " Forest Sons" to turn ; 
 The higher, holier light to reach, 
 
 The fires of truth to burn. 
 
 Upon the river's bank enriched 
 
 By verdure deep and fair, 
 A little tent he rudely pitched 
 
 Within the forest there. 
 
 The gazing band of Shawanese 
 
 Watched with an evil eye : 
 A dread suspicion wakened these 
 
 That danger brooded nigh. 
 
 For why should "white man" cross the wave, 
 
 Brave death and danger too, 
 That he the Indian's soul might save 
 
 And preach conversion true ? 
 
 " Ah, no ! some other motive sent 
 
 This ' white man' to our shore, 
 And we will have his scalp, his tent 
 
 With blood shall trickle o'er." 
 
 Thus planned this band of murderous men, 
 
 And in the cool of night 
 They silently marched onward when 
 
 They saw a sudden light.
 
 ELIZABETH W. MOORE. 
 
 Count Zinzendorf sat writing there, 
 
 Nor from his papers turned ; 
 To warm him from the cool night air, 
 
 A low fire faintly burned. 
 
 A curtain hung on pins was all 
 
 That guarded him from sight ; 
 And soft the bloody red men crawl, 
 
 And peer in thro" the night. 
 
 When lo ! unguarded, still apart, 
 
 As in his tent he lies, 
 A sight that thrilled the Indian's heart 
 
 Now met their wicked eyes. 
 
 Upon a bunch of weeds his bed 
 
 He rested ; watched without 
 By cruel murderers stern and dread, 
 
 With many a lurking doubt. 
 
 And as they raised their hands in ire 
 
 To deal the fatal blow, 
 A rattlesnake, roused by the fire, 
 
 Crawled o'er his feet below. 
 
 The red men saw the reptile's form 
 
 Pass o'er his limbs, with dread, 
 And watched with awe as safe from harm 
 
 It left him on his bed. 
 
 " Surely," said they, in silence all, 
 
 "Great Manitou has kept 
 The white man from the serpent's gall." 
 
 Then slowly back they crept. 
 
 They hastened to the town to tell 
 
 Their story, wild with fear : 
 How that the " Count" would do them well; 
 
 That God preserved him here. 
 
 The Count gave to these wild red men 
 
 His friendship warm and true, 
 And planted in the land of Penn 
 
 The Christian faith anew.
 
 174 SARA L. OBERHOLTZER. 
 
 Tho' nought remains of fame to tell, 
 Nor history's records give, 
 
 How long he toiled, how bravely well- 
 Yet Christian deeds shall live. 
 
 SARA LOUISA OBERHOLTZER. 
 
 THIS author is the daughter of the late Paxon and Ann T. 
 Vickers, and was born in the family mansion on the Vickers es 
 tate, in Uwchlan Township, May 20, 1841. The Vickers family is 
 of English extraction, and for three generations have been mem 
 bers of the Society of Friends. They were formerly well known 
 as the manufacturers of earthenware of superior quality. 
 
 Mrs. Oberholtzer was educated at Thomas's Boarding-School, in 
 Lionville, and at Millersville State Normal School. She was pre 
 vented from studying medicine by sickness. 
 
 In 1862 she married John Oberholtzer, one of the originators 
 of the Pickering Valley Railroad, and for many years a success 
 ful grain merchant. Mrs. Oberholtzer has written since her ear 
 liest recollection, and for many years has been a frequent con 
 tributor to the Philadelphia Press, Public Ledger, Godey^s Lady's 
 Book, and many other leading periodicals. Her poetic talent has 
 been appreciated and admired by the best critics. John G. 
 Whittier says of her poetry " that much of it seems to sing itself." 
 Her Burial Ode for Bayard Taylor, sung at his Longwood funeral 
 service, has been translated into several languages, and a number 
 of her songs have been set to music. She writes poetry with 
 ease, finding rest and recreation in it, and " sings her songs 
 simply because God allows her voice, and offers whatever is 
 worthy in them as a thank-offering to him." She is State Super 
 intendent of Narcotics under the auspices of the Woman's Chris 
 tian Temperance Union. Mrs. Oberholtzer is the author of three 
 small volumes of poetry, " Violet Lee," " Come for Arbutus," 
 and " Daisies of Verse," and " Hope's Heart Bells," a Quaker 
 story of three hundred pages, which has had a large sale. 
 
 INTERVIEW WITH THE SPRING WIND. 
 
 OMBING out the gold-brown tresses 
 
 Of the mosses, 
 
 I met the Air that each year blesses 
 Some hope renewed, and kindly presses 
 Down the crosses.
 
 SARA L. OBERHOLTZER. 
 
 And of the Air I questioned, smiling 
 
 At our meeting, 
 
 " What are you, Gentle Wind, beguiling 
 With voice and bloom so reconciling 
 
 And entreating?" 
 
 With her long comb the Wind proceeded 
 
 To card the mosses, 
 Sort out the tangles that impeded 
 With liberal hand, I as unheeded 
 
 As the losses. 
 
 " You waste the good and bad together," 
 
 I persisted, 
 
 " Rake bud and bramble from the heather, 
 The brush of summer best knows whether 
 
 Strands are twisted." 
 
 The Wind her face in ire and wonder 
 
 Now uplifted ; 
 
 She snapped her pretty comb asunder, 
 And screamed, " Alack ! How men will blunder ! 
 
 You're not gifted !" 
 
 A BURIAL ODE. 
 
 FOR BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Sung as a part of his funeral services at Longwood Cemetery, 
 March 15, 1879. (Published by permission.) 
 
 MPTY the casket, the caged bird out flown ; 
 Back again, back again, earth take thy own ! 
 Thou who didst give it thy 'fairest of clay, 
 Clasp thy arms tenderly, fold it away. 
 
 Fold it away ; for the loved one has fled. 
 
 Fold it away; for our hero is dead. 
 
 Carried most lovingly over the sea, 
 Bring we our offering, Longwood, to thee ; 
 Wanderings over, and full garlands won, 
 Reverently bring we the dust of thy son.
 
 1/6 SARA L. OBERHOLTZER. 
 
 Fold it away ; for the great soul has fled. 
 Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 
 
 Leave as our treasures his life and his songs ; 
 Take in thy keeping what to thee belongs ; 
 Take the wayfarer's inn, God has taken the guest, 
 Ours are the memories, thine is the rest. 
 Fold it away ; for the singer hath fled. 
 Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 
 
 Back again, back again, earth unto earth ! 
 Cradle his slumbers who cradled his birth ; 
 Take the form tenderly close to thy breast, 
 Gather it lovingly home to its rest. 
 Fold it away ; for the tenant has fled. 
 Fold it away ; for our hero is dead. 
 
 THE FORGOTTEN BIRTHDAY. 
 
 ND we have forgotten thy birthday 
 
 'Til night has gathered it in, 
 And the moon her pale gold crescent 
 Hangs where the sun has been. 
 
 The prism-like guards of the daylight, 
 With their gold arms stacked away, 
 
 Have folded their glittering garments 
 In chests of silver and gray. 
 
 It is only now, as I kiss thee 
 Good-night, my boy eighteen, 
 
 That I think how the years elude me 
 Octobers for summers green. 
 
 Our children in truth are the dials 
 That mark the flight of hours ; 
 
 And those who have never owned them 
 Must guess the time by flowers. 
 
 It is we who count by the sunshine, 
 Though the sands run down too fast, 
 
 And know by the growth of our offspring 
 When our own youth is past.
 
 SAMUEL M. OSMOND, D.D. 
 
 It is we who see the Octobers 
 
 As garlands of scarlet beads, 
 And the threads that glisten between them 
 
 Expanding to clover meads. 
 
 Ah, well, we were eighteen one year ! 
 
 And it seems but a span ago 
 Since I welcomed my mother's kisses 
 
 Through a May-time blossom snow. 
 
 No day can be lost or forgotten, 
 If blessed on the parting wing ; 
 
 And, my boy, for thy coming slumber 
 A wreath of prayers I bring. 
 
 A wreath to be ever around thee, 
 
 Refreshed by a nightly dew ; 
 To tenderly rest on thy forehead, 
 
 Fadeless my lifetime through. 
 
 Although the world may forget thee, 
 Or grudge thee scant laurels won, 
 
 'Tis the mother at night who remembers 
 Forever to bless her son. 
 
 SAMUEL M. OSMOND, D.D. 
 
 SAMUEL MCCLURG OSMOND, son of William and Elizabeth 
 Osmond, was born near Oxford, August 18, 1825. His paternal 
 ancestry were from England, and his mother's were of Scotch 
 origin. He received his education at the public schools, New 
 London and Hopewell Academies, Lafayette, Delaware, and 
 Princeton Colleges, graduating at the latter in 1850.' Subse 
 quently he spent three years in Princeton Theological Seminary, 
 and while there accepted a call as associate pastor, with the Rev. 
 Dr. Jacob Kirkpatrick, of the United First and Second Presby 
 terian Churches of Amwell, N. J., where he spent four years. 
 Subsequently he removed to Illinois and preached for some years 
 in Perry and Pittsfield, and in 1862 became pastor of the First 
 Presbyterian Church of Iowa City, la., where he remained until 
 1879, when he accepted a call to the First Presbyterian Church 
 of Lawrence, Kan. After spending nine years in Lawrence, 
 he accepted a call to the Presbyterian Church of Elkton, Md., 
 where he now resides. Dr. Osmond was married to Miss Louisa 
 P. Murdagh, of Oxford, Chester Co., June I, 185*3. His first wife
 
 SAMUEL M. OSMOND, D.D. 
 
 died March 10, 1873. He subsequently married Mrs. Harriet 
 S. Lane, of Iowa City. He received the degree of D.D. from 
 the University of Iowa in 1873. Dr. Osmond wrote poetry in 
 boyhood, and in early life contributed many poems to the West 
 Chester journals. 
 
 UNATTAINABLE. 
 
 EARTS with the love, but not the gift of song ! 
 Oh, restless ones, forego your vain desires 
 To emulate the bright and quenchless fires_, 
 Kindled on mountain summits^by those strong 
 And bold aspirants, who so lightly scale 
 The dizzy heights^that glow above the throng 
 
 Of wingless souls, whose home is in the vale. 
 Ah ! baffled, bootless strugglers for the power 
 To wed with your poor verse the beauty rare 
 That gold can never buy, nor painful care 
 Mould into being, know 'tis but the dower 
 Of the anointed few : to them is given 
 
 The POET'S mystic art they, only, share, 
 To whom its sacred birthright comes from heaven. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 IGH-souled, but hapless, Shelley, how my heart 
 Is pained at thy life's tragedy ! Thy thought 
 Strong-winged and proudly daring roved afar 
 In doubt's dark region till thy brain grew wild 
 With strange imaginings ; and startled reason, 
 Grasping amid the gloom, clutched error fast, 
 And dreamed that she was Heaven's bright daughter, 
 Truth. 
 
 Thou wert deceived, poor Shelley, and thy lips 
 Were swift to utter what thy heart believed ; 
 And thou didst link thy darkest thoughts to song 
 Which genius made immortal, and, alas ! 
 Gifted with poisoned sweetness for the souls 
 Of its rapt listeners. Under its spell, 
 E'en falsehood's form grows brilliant and serene 
 As twilight's gentle stars ; and some have scanned 
 The beautiful illusion, looked and loved,
 
 GEORGE W. PEARCE. 
 
 And, in their impious adoration, flung 
 Heaven's garnered hopes, as worthless weeds, away ; 
 And like the lost through Circe's charm or sirens' 
 Luring have followed thee to ruin, dreaming 
 They tracked an angel's footprints to the skies. 
 
 Oh, I could weep to think what harmful work 
 
 Thou may'st have wrought yet wrought unwittingly 
 
 In thine unselfish zeal, and restless striving 
 
 To disenthrall a world of struggling thought 
 
 That pined for freedom, and still writhed in chains 
 
 Red with the rust of ages and the blood 
 
 Of martyr-heroes, else so vainly shed. 
 
 Perchance, had patient love and sympathy 
 Tempered the passions of thy youthful breast ; 
 Nor misconception, coldness, hate, and wrong 
 Too early chilled thy spirit's latent good ; 
 And oh, perchance, had riper years been thine, 
 To yield life's autumn fruits of mellowed wisdom, 
 Thou mightst, indeed, have won thy noblest aim, 
 And wrought the blessing that was in thy heart 
 And in thy hope for sad humanity. 
 Hence do I pardon thee : I mourn thy fate, 
 Storm-driven in thy death as in thy life ! 
 And twine around the urn that holds thine ashes 
 This briefly blooming wreath, bedewed with tears, 
 To tell the world I love and pity Shelley. 
 
 GEORGE W. PEARCE. 
 
 GEORGE W. PEARCE was born in West Whiteland Township, 
 January 15, 1814. He studied law in West Chester with Hon. 
 John Hickman, and was admitted to the bar in 1842, and was 
 elected Treasurer of Chester County on the Democratic ticket in 
 1849. He became editor and proprietor of the American Repub 
 lican, a Democratic journal published in West Chester, in 1853. 
 He advocated the election of James Buchanan to the Presidency, 
 but became an ardent Republican and Unionist in the war of the 
 Rebellion. He was thoroughly educated, of scholarly tastes, and 
 a poet of much ability, and the author of many hymns and poems, 
 which were published in the leading periodicals. He died April 
 13, 1864.
 
 ISO GEORGE W. PEARCE. 
 
 DAVID C. BRODERICK. 
 
 David C. Broderick was killed in a duel by Alfred H. Terry, 
 who was shot by a United States Marshal, while assaulting Judge 
 Stephen J. Field, of the United States Supreme Court, in 1889. 
 
 |HE blood-hounds are sated, the jackals have 
 
 fled 
 
 And the LION is sleeping the sleep of the dead ; 
 His blood is still fresh on the sward where 
 
 they trod, 
 And, incense-like, rises, appealing to God. 
 
 The dews of the morn will not wash it away 
 'Twill redden and glow in the noon-tide of day, 
 And in the deep gloom of the storm-mantled night 
 It will rise like a pillar of fire on the sight. 
 
 Ho, brothers, who stand by his patriot-grave, 
 And pour out your griefs for the valiant and brave, 
 Let his death be the watchword to startle with fear 
 The tyrants who stiffened his limbs on the bier ! 
 
 Arouse from your lethargy, children of toil, 
 Ye sons of the anvil, the loom, and the soil, 
 Come forth as the winds in their struggling might, 
 And wrestle till death with the foemen of Right ! 
 
 'Twas thus with your leader, the gifted and true ; 
 His life was a sacrifice given for you; 
 Every pulse of his heart, every nerve of his frame, 
 Was to dignify Labor and give it to Fame ! 
 
 He was peer to the proudest who govern the land, 
 But he stood by his class, as a hero will stand ; 
 And when the hot taunt, like an arrow of fire, 
 Was hurled at the artisan craft of his sire 
 
 How he sprang to the breach with halberd and glaive, 
 Defiantly meeting the lord of the slave I 
 He spoke for the workshop the sweat on the brow 
 Of the freemen, whose crest is the sword and the 
 plough.
 
 ANN B. PHILLIPS. iSl 
 
 There are fountains of feeling we may not control ; 
 They spring from the innermost depths of the soul, 
 And flow, like a river escaped from its bed, 
 To freshen the fame of the glorious dead. 
 
 And thus as we stand on the ramparts of Time, 
 By the post where a sentinel fell in his prime, 
 We open the caskets our bosoms enfold, 
 And pour out a treasure more precious than gold. 
 
 Oh ! men, who look out from the far Golden Gate, 
 Where the holocaust smokes in the embers of hate, 
 Have you drunk of the flagons that nerved him to stand 
 For Truth, as a rock on your ocean-beat strand ? 
 
 Then rear to the martyr a shaft that shall rise, 
 As a beacon of Freedom, far up to the skies, 
 And write on the granite, in letters of flame, 
 IMMORTAL ! IMMORTAL ! the patriot's name ! 
 
 ANN B. PHILLIPS. 
 
 ANN BAILY PHILLIPS, eldest daughter of Richard Baily and 
 Susan (Buffington) Baily, was born in West Marlborough Town 
 ship, on Christmas Day, 1820. Her childhood was spent at the 
 family homestead, about a mile northwest of the village of Leonard. 
 She was educated at the schools in the neighborhood, and at 
 Price's Boarding-School near West Chester. She took a deep in 
 terest in literary work, and was one of the most active members 
 of the Lyceum at Bloomingdale. She married Harvey Phillips, 
 February 14, 1850. Mrs. Phillips was the author of a large 
 number of poems, but owing to her modesty few of them have 
 been published. The " Two Visions" was published under the 
 nom de plume of " Allan McAuley." After the death of her hus 
 band, she resided in Kennet Square, where she died, August 30, 
 1887. She left a family of two sons and five daughters. 
 
 TWO VISIONS. 
 
 twilight, in the gathering dark, 
 Two visions come to me, 
 I see a gay and gallant bark 
 Stand proudly out to sea. 
 16
 
 1 82 ANN B. PHILLIPS. 
 
 The starry flag streams bravely out, 
 
 The sun shines bright above, 
 While from her deck goes up a shout 
 
 Of triumph, joy, and love. 
 
 On men and women, good and fair, 
 
 Shines down the golden sun ; 
 But of the crowd that gathers there 
 
 I mark but only one ; 
 I seem to hear him softly sing, 
 
 While all around him stand, 
 "A heart unchanged by time I'll bring 
 
 Back to my native land." 
 The vision will not pause or stay, 
 
 But fades into the night, 
 The good ship speeds upon her way 
 
 And passes from my sight. 
 ******* 
 
 The summer flowers bestrew the ground, 
 
 The South winds wander free, 
 Another vessel, homeward bound, 
 
 Comes sailing o'er the sea: 
 The starry flag hangs from her mast, 
 
 But draped with signs of woe ; 
 I see a dark procession pass, 
 
 With footsteps sad and slow. 
 With mournful voices low they sing, 
 
 Bearing a burden o'er the sand, 
 " Our Poet- Statesman here we bring 
 
 Back to his native land." 
 While men and women sorrowing wept, 
 
 And mournful tones breathed soft, 
 Onward the sad procession swept 
 
 To "Towered Cedarcroft," 
 Where father, mother, kindred all 
 
 Receive the wand'rer home, 
 He sleeps, his country's flag his pall, 
 
 And rests, his labor done. 
 While lovely June, with balmy breath, 
 
 Is scat'ring flowers on every hand, 
 His true warm heart comes, cold in death, 
 
 Back to his native land.
 
 ANN B. PHILLIPS. 183 
 
 Sitting alone in the gloaming, 
 These visions come to me, 
 
 And my spirit goes roaming, roaming 
 With two ships that sailed the sea. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Ann Taylor died February, 1877, * n tne ninety -second year 
 of her age. 
 
 ONE to her rest, crowned with her many years 
 Of well-spent life, she leaves the things of 
 
 time; 
 But, looking backward through the gathering 
 
 tears, 
 
 I see her now as in her noonday prime ; 
 When patiently she walked her round of duty, 
 
 Her husband's love enshrined within her breast; 
 While children gathered round her in their beauty, 
 And, rising up in honor, called her blessed. 
 
 Unvexed by wild ambition's stormy powers, 
 
 Life's quiet by-ways peacefully she trod, 
 Gathering wise precepts from the birds and flowers, 
 
 The golden sunshine and the daisied sod. 
 Thrice honored she, as mother, wife, and friend ; 
 
 Her children's children gathered to her side, 
 Bringing their children o'er her grave, to bend 
 
 With filial love and reverence when she died. 
 Find we a better fate, where'er we roam, 
 
 Or any truer happiness in life, 
 Than thus to live, the guiding star of home, 
 
 An honored mother, and devoted wife? 
 Her lamp clear burning, at the set of sun, 
 
 She laid her down as on a mother's breast, 
 And surely heard the father say, " Well done," 
 
 Thou good and faithful, enter into rest. 
 Dear to the heart her unassuming worth, 
 
 And sweet the memory of her modest fame ; 
 Not with the great, but with the good of earth, 
 
 The pure in heart, shall be inscribed her name.
 
 184 ISSACHAR PRICE. 
 
 Oh, when her children seek the silent bowers 
 
 Where peacefully the honored dead repose, 
 To deck her place of rest with summer flowers, 
 
 The modest lily and the fragrant rose, 
 Fain would I join me with that pilgrim band, 
 
 There where the grasses now above her wave, 
 That I might lay with loving, reverent hand, 
 
 One little tuft of violets on her grave.. 
 
 ISSACHAR PRICE. 
 
 THE subject of this sketch was of Welsh descent, and was born 
 in Gallagherville, Cain Township, March 7, 1828, and died 
 August 29, 1881. He was educated at the public schools, and at 
 a select school taught by Jonathan Cause, near Marshalton. He 
 taught school nine years in Downingtown. Subsequently he bought 
 a farm, and was engaged in farming when the war of the Rebellion 
 began. He enlisted in' the One Hundred and Twenty-fourth 
 Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteers and served nine months, 
 taking part in the battles of Chancellorsville and Antietam. He 
 wrote poetry in early life, and in 1856 published a small volume 
 of poems entitled " School-Day Rhymes." For many years he 
 was a frequent contributor to the Chester County newspapers. 
 
 THE SNOW-BIRD. 
 
 HY comest thou, dear minion, when the winter 
 Lays desolate the fields of summer flow'rs ? 
 Do stormy days prove more delicious 
 Than summer's sunny hours? 
 
 On broken seeds I hear thee in the meadows, 
 
 And in the bow'rs deserted, soft and low, 
 Thy music trembles every stormy morning 
 Amid the falling snow. 
 
 When pathless drifts are piled along the highway, 
 
 When every hill is white, and vale and moor, 
 Thou comest blithely, making little footprints 
 Around the cottage door.
 
 ELI K. PRICE. l85 
 
 Though Boreas harshly from the northward whistles, 
 
 And huge, black clouds ride on the stormy air, 
 Thy songs remind me of the blue-bird's singing, 
 When skies are mild and fair. 
 
 The ruder winds weigh not upon thy pinions ; 
 
 But thou, triumphing over every storm, 
 
 Foldest thy wing, after thy day's rejoicing, 
 
 To sing again at morn. 
 
 The darkest day, when woods are bare and lifeless, 
 
 And every herb is bound with icy chains, 
 When winds blgw hollow up the snowy valleys, 
 Thou sing'st thy sweetest strains. 
 
 Why wilt thou go while rosy spring is coming? 
 
 Stay, stay, and sing as in the winter day; 
 When flowers are blooming and the glad bees hum 
 ming, 
 Fly not from us away ! 
 
 ELI K. PRICE. 
 
 ELI K. PRICE, son of Philip and Rachel Price, was born not 
 far from the Brandywine battle-ground, July 20, 1797. Like his 
 ancestors for many generations, he was a member of the Society 
 of Friends. His early education was obtained at Westtown 
 School, and his business training in the shipping-house of Thomas 
 P. Cope, in Philadelphia, in which city he studied law in the 
 office of John Sergeant, and was admitted to the bar, May 28, 
 1822. He was a member of the State Revenue Boards of 1845 
 and 1848; in the State Senate for three terms, ending with 1856, 
 and was for many years a Commissioner of Fairmount Park. He 
 took an active part in the consolidation of the city of Phila 
 delphia, and was instrumental in perfecting the law in regard to 
 real estate in the Commonwealth. He was an active member of 
 the American Philosophical Society, and the author of a number 
 of books on legal and scientific subjects. 
 
 He was possessed of much poetic ability, though he wrote but 
 little for publication. 
 
 1 6*
 
 1 86 ELI K. PRICE. 
 
 THE GOOD MAN'S DEATH HYMN. 
 
 SEE a light thou canst not see ; 
 
 I hear a voice thou canst not hear ; 
 The day immortal dawns for me : 
 
 My loved and lost are calling near. 
 
 I hear celestial billows roll 
 
 Before I've reached the parting strand ; 
 I listen with transported soul 
 
 To music from the better land. 
 
 I hear the sounds of harpers there ; 
 
 I hear the hymns the angels raise ; 
 I hear a voice, " Oh, come up, where 
 
 Are sung the songs of endless praise ! 
 
 " Come where the ' weary be at rest,' 
 From pain and sorrow here set free ; 
 
 Come join the host, immortals blest, 
 Come join the heavenly minstrelsy." 
 
 To loved of earth I bid farewell ; 
 
 But, where I go, they soon will come. 
 I listen to the welcome knell 
 
 That calls me to my happy home. 
 
 The mansion Christ has made for me 
 He made for loved ones gone before ; 
 
 The same He has prepared for thee, 
 Where we shall meet to part no more. 
 
 The life of Life we there shall live, 
 
 There breathe the bliss of perfect love ; 
 
 The joys of angels God will give, 
 His glory share in realms above.
 
 THE PRESTONS. l8/ 
 
 THE PRESTONS. 
 ANN PRESTON, M.D. 
 
 ANN PRESTON, daughter of Amos and Margaret Preston, was 
 born in West Grove, December, 1813, and spent the first thirty- 
 six years of her life in the old family mansion in which her 
 grandfather had lived and in which her father was born. Owing 
 to the delicate health of her mother, her early education was 
 rather limited, but she made the best use possible of the facilities 
 afforded by a public library and literary association to improve 
 her mind, and late in life commenced the study of the Latin lan 
 guage, which she pursued with interest and success. Her father 
 was a minister of the Society of Friends, and the subject of this 
 sketch, when about twenty years old, became a member of the 
 Clarkson Anti-Slavery Society, which was organized in the neigh 
 borhood of her home, and for many years continued to be an ac 
 tive abolitionist, and occasional engineer on the " Underground 
 Railroad." Her poem entitled " The Burning of Pennsylvania 
 Hall" bears witness of her zeal in behalf of the cause of which 
 she was one of the most distinguished advocates. In 1848 she 
 published a small volume of poems for children, entitled " Cousin 
 Ann's Stories," and subsequently engaged in teaching school for 
 several years. She was one of the first students of the Woman's 
 Medical College of Philadelphia, and graduated at that institution 
 in 1852, and soon afterwards became Professor of Physiology and 
 Hygiene and continued to be connected with the faculty of the 
 college until the time of her death, which occurred April 18, 
 1872. She wrote poetry when quite young, and, though not a 
 voluminous writer, was the author of many fine poems, which are 
 greatly admired for their depth of thought and the deep vein of 
 spirituality which pervades them. 
 
 WILLIAM B. PRESTON, M.D. 
 
 WILLIAM B. PRESTON, son of Levi and Sarah (Bernard) Preston, 
 and a nephew of Dr. Ann Preston, was born in Kennet Square, 
 December 20, 1858, and died in Philadelphia, April 17, 1888. He 
 was graduated from the Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia, 
 in 1882, but did not practise. He was the author of a number 
 of creditable poems.
 
 1 88 ANN PRESTON, M.D. 
 
 ANN PRESTON, M.D. 
 THE IDEAL IS THE REAL. 
 
 |E make this life a mournful, empty dream, 
 
 And stones for bread we give, 
 And know not that the soul's realities 
 
 In its ideals live. 
 These are the stars that shine within its night, 
 
 The angel ones it sees, 
 And evermore, unconsciously, it learns 
 
 Its possible from these. 
 There are no limits to the real, 
 Save those that bound the pure ideal. 
 
 The thoughts of beauty dawning on the soul 
 
 Are glorious heaven's gleams ; 
 And God's eternal truth lies folded deep 
 
 In all man's lofty dreams. 
 'Twas first in thought's clear world that Kepler saw 
 
 What ties the planets' bound ; 
 
 And through long years he searched the spheres, and 
 there 
 
 The answering law he found. 
 Men said he sought a wild ideal ; 
 The stars made answer, "It is real." 
 
 Paul, Luther, Howard, all the crowned ones 
 
 That star-like gleam through time, 
 Lived boldly out before the clear-eyed sun 
 
 Their inmost thoughts sublime. 
 These truths, to them more beautiful than day, 
 
 They spoke to quicken men ; 
 And deeds at which the blinded gazers sneered 
 
 They dared to practise then, 
 'Til they who marked their young ideal 
 In meekness owned it was the real. 
 
 Thine early dreams, which come like " shapes of light," 
 
 Come bearing prophecy ; 
 And nature's tongues, from leaves to " quiv'ring stars," 
 
 Teach loving faith to thee.
 
 ANN PRESTON,. M.D. 189 
 
 Fear not to build thine eyrie on the heights 
 
 Where golden splendors lay, 
 And trust thyself unto thine inmost soul 
 
 In simple faith alway ; 
 And God will make divinely real 
 The highest forms of thine ideal. 
 
 PENNSYLVANIA HALL. 
 
 This building was erected by the early abolitionists for the pur 
 pose of holding anti-slavery meetings. It stood at the southwest 
 corner of Sixth and Haines Streets, Philadelphia. It was burned 
 by a mob May If, 1838.) 
 
 HAT noble hall threw up its light 
 
 To meet the answering sky, 
 While startled men, with shuddering sight, 
 
 Saw threatening ruin nigh. 
 Oh ! Slavery's form that hour was seen 
 
 Polluting all our air ; 
 Its fearful front and fiendish mien 
 And twining chains were bare, 
 And well that hall, in freedom's name, 
 Hath spoken out with words of flame ! 
 
 Is, then, the hallowed home of Penn 
 
 A place no longer free ? 
 Have Rush and Franklin lived in vain, 
 
 Oh, recreant land, for thee? 
 Can freedom's cry, flung wildly out 
 
 From sunny vale and hill, 
 Wake in thy sons no answering shout 
 
 Of proud devotion still? 
 Shall the stern voices of her slain 
 Thrill from thy olden graves in vain ? 
 
 No ! from thy ruin, glorious hall ! 
 
 Shall rise a battle cry ; 
 Unsinged, "upon the outer wall," 
 
 Our lofty banners fly. 
 Our conquering arms are truth and light, 
 
 Encircling love our shield, 
 And firmly for eternal right 
 
 We will maintain the field.
 
 I9O WILLIAM B. PRESTON, M.D. 
 
 Woe unto us if now we falter, 
 
 When freedom bleeds on her own altar. 
 
 Though o'er us now the raging storm, 
 
 And rushing waters round, 
 Though fierce the lightning's lurid form, 
 
 And dread the thunder's sound, 
 Oh ! brightly yet the promise-sign 
 
 Shall span the arching dome, 
 And singing birds, and glad sunshine, 
 
 And balmy breezes come 
 When franchised slaves their songs shall raise, 
 And yon blue welkin ring with praise ! 
 
 WILLIAM B. PRESTON, M.D. 
 
 NOW IS THE TIME FOR THE *BABY TO 
 WAKE. 
 
 (LOWLY the shadows of night are departing, 
 
 Songs in the tree-tops the little birds make ; 
 In the red east the big sun is upstarting, 
 Now is the time for the baby to wake. 
 Bonny blue eyes, which the white lids uncover, 
 Sleep's rosy dreamland with laughter forsake ; 
 Loud sings the robin, the lark is a rover, 
 Now is the time for the baby to wake ; 
 Birds in the orchards, and bees in the clover, 
 Now is the time for the baby to wake. 
 
 Flowers in the woodlands, their eyelids unfolding, 
 
 Shake from their petals the gems of the dew ; 
 Cows in the pastures a banquet are holding, 
 
 Soft wave the boughs where the turtle-doves coo. 
 Lo, the white mists, round the mountain-tops sweeping, 
 
 Borne on the morning winds, scatter and break ! 
 God shows His handiwork, who would be sleeping? 
 
 Now is the time for the baby to wake ; 
 God shows His handiwork, who would be sleeping? 
 
 Now is the time for the baby to wake.
 
 ISAAC R. PENNYPACKER. 19 1 
 
 ISAAC R. PENNYPACKER. 
 
 THIS author was born in Phoenixville, December n, 1852. He 
 is a son of the late Dr. Isaac A. Pennypacker, who was Professor 
 of Theory and Practice in the old Philadelphia College of Medi 
 cine, and Anna M. Whitaker, whose father, Joseph Whitaker, was 
 one of the most successful iron-masters in Pennsylvania. His direct 
 paternal ancestor, a surveyor for the Penns, came to the province 
 prior to 1699, and laid out most of the roads and some of the 
 townships of the central and upper part of Montgomery County. 
 Seven of Mr. Pennypacker's forefathers sat in the Pennsylvania 
 Assembly ; two were judges of courts ; one was a member of 
 Congress; one served in the French and Indian War; and one 
 was in command of the Pennsylvania battalion of musketry in 
 the Revolutionary army. Mr. Pennypacker was educated at Mr. 
 Bond's school at Phoenixville ; under the care of Dr. Meigs, at the 
 well-known High-School in Pottstown, and studied conveyancing 
 with Lewis H. Redner in Philadelphia, and law with his brother, 
 Judge Samuel W. Pennypacker. Having a penchant for news 
 paper work, he began in early life to write letters which appeared in 
 the A ew York Tribune, Graphic, and Philadelphia Press ; to which 
 latter paper he also contributed editorials. In 1880, in connection 
 with his cousin, Henry C. Conrad, he purchased a half-interest in 
 the Wilmington Morning News, which under the efficient manage 
 ment of the new proprietors underwent rapid improvement, and 
 soon became the best newspaper on the Peninsula. In April, 1882, 
 Mr. Pennypacker joined the editorial staff of the Philadelphia 
 Press, which paper he left to go upon the editorial staff of the 
 Philadelphia Jnquirer, in 1889. He is a brilliant and forcible as 
 well as a polished and popular .writer. Mr. Pennypacker's wife 
 is a great-grand-daughter of that Colonel Nathaniel Ramsay who 
 led the van of Washington's army so bravely at Monmouth, N. J., 
 and whose brother, Dr. David Ramsay, was the author of the first 
 history of the American Revolution. Mr. Pennypacker's poems 
 long since attracted the attention of Longfellow and Whittier, 
 and were highly commended by them. Mr. Longfellow inserted 
 two of them in his " Poems of Places," and Miss Longfellow, the 
 poet's daughter, when compiling her dainty little volume, " In the 
 Saddle," included among its classics Mr. Pennypacker's " Tale 
 of Providence." 
 
 On behalf of the Governor of Pennsylvania and the State 
 Board of Commissioners on Gettysburg Monuments, an invitation 
 was extended to Mr. Pennypacker by Colonel John P. Nicholson, 
 secretary of the board, to compose and read a poem as a part of 
 the ceremonies on Pennsylvania Day, September 11-12, 1889, at 
 Gettysburg, upon the occasion of the dedication of the monuments 
 erected by the cojnmonwealth to mark the positions of the Penn 
 sylvania commands engaged. The poem " Gettysburg," which 
 Mr. Pennypacker read upon this occasion, which drew to the 
 battle-field some twenty thousand survivors of the battle, has since 
 been pronounced a noble lyric by Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman,
 
 ISAAC R. PENNYPACKER. 
 
 whose volumes of literary studies, " The Victorian Poets" and 
 " The Poets of America," have placed him at the head of the 
 literary critics of this country. 
 
 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 This poem was read at Gettysburg on Thursday September 
 12, 1889, on which day the eighty odd monuments of Pennsyl 
 vania regiments engaged in the battle were turned over to the 
 care of the State. 
 
 WAS on the time when Lee, 
 
 Below Potomac's swollen ford, 
 
 Had beaten down the broken sword 
 
 Of his baffled enemy. 
 His long line lengthened faster 
 Than the days of June, 
 O'er valleys varied, mountains vaster, 
 By forced marches night and noon. 
 Any morn might bring him down 
 Captor of the proudest town ; 
 Any one of cities three 
 At noon or night might prostrate be. 
 
 Then to Meade was the sword of the North 
 
 Held hiltward for proof of its worth ; 
 
 O'er the vastness of masses of men 
 
 All the glorious banners of war, 
 
 All the battle-flags floated again ; 
 
 All the bugles blew blithely once more, 
 
 Sounding the stately advance. 
 
 Village door-ways framed faces of awe 
 
 At the trains of artillery pressed 
 
 On earth's reverberant breast, 
 
 And the sun sought the zenith, and saw 
 
 All the splendors of war at a glance. 
 
 How soon the first fierce rain of death, 
 In big drops dancing on the trees, 
 Withers the foliage ! At a breath, 
 Hot as the blasts that dried old seas, 
 The clover falls like drops of blood 
 From mortal hurts, and stains the sod.
 
 ISAAC R. PENNYPACKER. 1 93 
 
 The wheat is clipped, but the ripe grain 
 Here long ungarnered shall remain ; 
 And many who at the drum's k>ng roll 
 Sprang to the charge and swelled the cheer, 
 And set their flags high on the knoll, 
 Ne'er knew how went the fight fought here ; 
 For them a knell tumultuous shells 
 Shook from the consecrated bells, 
 As here they formed that silent rank 
 Whose glorious star at twilight sank. 
 
 And night, which lulls all discords night, 
 Which stills the folds and vocal wood, 
 And, with the touch of finger light, 
 Quiets the pink-lipped brook's wild mood, 
 Which sends the wind to seek the latch, 
 And seals young eyes while mothers watch 
 Night stays the battle, but with day 
 Their lives, themselves, foes hurl away. 
 Where thousands fell, but did not yield, 
 Shall be to-morrow's battle-field. 
 Ere dying died or dead were cold, 
 New hosts pressed on the lines to hold, 
 And held them hold them now in sleep, 
 While stars and sentinels go round, 
 And war-worn chargers shrink like sheep 
 Beside their riders on the ground. 
 All through the night all through the North 
 Speed doubtful tidings back and forth ; 
 Through North and South, from dusk 'til day, 
 A sundered people diverse pray. 
 
 So gradual sink the deliberate stars, 
 The sun doth rtfn the laggards down, 
 At sleep's still meadows bursts the bars, 
 And floods with light the steepled town. 
 Blow ! bugles of the cavalry, blow ! 
 Forward the infantry, row on row ! 
 While every battery leaps with life, 
 And swells with tongueless throats the strife ! 
 
 Where grappled foes, one flushed with joy 
 From triumphs fresh, and come to destroy, 
 i 17
 
 IQ4 ISAAC R. PENNYPACKER. 
 
 And one by blows but tempered fit 
 
 To keep the torch of freedom lit, 
 
 The battle-dust from heroes' feet, 
 
 Brief hiding rally and last retreat, 
 
 By the free sunlight touched became 
 
 A golden pillar of lambent flame. 
 
 Glorified was this field, its white 
 
 Faces of victors and of slain, 
 
 And these and Round-Top's luminous height 
 
 That glory flashed afar again, 
 
 Around the world, for all to see 
 
 One nation and one wholly free, 
 
 And branded deep with flaming sword 
 
 Its primal compact's binding word. 
 
 'Neath Freedom's dome that light divine, 
 
 Borne here from dark defiles of Time, 
 
 From here upblazed a beacon sign 
 
 To all the oppressed of every clime, 
 
 And dulled eyes glistened ; hope upsprung 
 
 Wher'er ills old when man was young 
 
 Against awaking thought were set, 
 
 Where power its tribute wrongly wrung, 
 
 Or moved on pathways rank even yet 
 
 With martyr's blood ; where'er a tongue 
 
 Hath words to show, as serf, slave, thrall, 
 
 How great man's power ! how deep man's fall ! 
 
 Long will be felt, though hurled in vain, 
 The shock that shook the Northern gate ; 
 Long heard the shots that dashed amain, 
 But flattened on the rock of fate, 
 Where Lee still strove, but failed to break 
 The barrier down, or fissure make, 
 And never grasped by force the prize 
 Deferred by years of compromise. 
 Long will men keep the memory bright 
 Of deeds done here ; how flashed the blade 
 Of Hancock from South Mountain's shade 
 To the sheer heights of unfading light ! 
 That martial morn o'er yonder ridge 
 Reynolds last rode face towards the foe, 
 And onward rides through history so ; 
 For Meade, even as for Joshua, suns 
 The unmindful gulf of Time abridge,
 
 ISAAC R. PENNYPACKER. 1 95 
 
 While still its depths fling back his guns' 
 Victorious echoes. The same wise power 
 Which starts the currents from ocean's heart, 
 And hurls the tides at their due hour, 
 Or holds them with a force unspent, 
 Made him like master, in each part, 
 O'er all his mighty instrument. 
 Chief leaders of the battle great ! 
 Three sons of one proud mother State ! 
 These epoch stones she sets stand fast, 
 As on her field her regiments stood ; 
 Their volleys rang the first and last ; 
 They kept with Webb the target-wood, 
 And there for all turned on its track 
 The wild gulf stream of treason back, 
 Or on the stubborn hill-sides trod 
 Out harvests sown not on the clod ; 
 Hearts shall beat high in days grown tame 
 At thought of them and their proud fame, 
 And watching Pickett's gallant band 
 Melt like snow-flakes in the deep, 
 Pity shall grow throughout the land, 
 And near apace with joy shall keep. 
 
 Baffled, beaten, back to the ford, 
 His own at last the broken sword, 
 Rode the invader. On his breast 
 His head with sorrow low was pressed ; 
 On his horse's tangled mane 
 Loosely hung the bridle rein ; 
 At Gettysburg his valiant host 
 The last hope of their cause had lost ; 
 In vain their daring and endeavor, 
 It was buried there forever. 
 Right well he knew the way he fled 
 Straight to the last surrender led. 
 
 So ended Lee's anabasis, 
 
 And all he hoped had come to this : 
 
 As well for master as the driven 
 
 That not to him was victory given; 
 
 So Right emboldened and made known 
 
 Hurled the whole troop of Error down,
 
 196 AMELIA J. ROWLAND. 
 
 And here held fast an heritage ; 
 So on that course may all hold fast 
 'Til no man takes an hundred's wage, 
 And each one has his own at last, 
 'Til the last caravan of the bound, 
 Driven towards some Bornuese market-place, 
 Happily shall feel their bonds unwound, 
 And steps of woe in joy retrace. 
 
 In the*cities of the North 
 
 The brazen cannon belched forth 
 
 For the defeat of Lee. 
 
 When the smoke from this field 
 
 Unfolded, lo ! fixed on the shield, 
 
 Each wandering star was revealed, 
 
 And the steeple bells pealed 
 
 Inland to the farther sea. 
 
 In the villages flags waved 
 
 For Meade's victory, 
 
 A thousand, thousand flags waved 
 
 For the souls to be free, 
 
 For the Union saved, 
 
 For the Union still to be. 
 
 AMELIA J. ROWLAND. 
 
 AMELIA J. ROWLAND, daughter of William and Mary Don 
 nelly, great-grand-daughter of Rev. John Donnelly, a Scotch Irish 
 divine of some note, and widow of Robert Rowland, of Chester 
 County, was born in Elk Township, and is the youngest of a 
 large family. From childhood it was her ambition to become a 
 teacher, and at an early age she entered upon that profession. 
 After teaching for some years in Chester County, and in several 
 of the counties of Maryland, she removed to Washington, D. C., 
 where she taught with great success, nearly two thousand pupils 
 having been under her tuition, many of whom are now occupying 
 important positions in different parts of the country. Some years 
 ago she relinquished teaching, having been appointed to a clerk 
 ship in the United States Pension Bureau, where she is now em 
 ployed. Mrs. Rowland was appointed by President Hayes a 
 member of the Board of Managers of the Government Hospital 
 for the Insane in Washington, D. C., and reappointed by President 
 Arthur, she being one of the first women who were appointed to 
 that important position. She early showed ability as a writer.
 
 AMELIA J. ROWLAND. 197 
 
 Her first publications appeared in the Philadelphia Dollar News 
 paper ; and under the nom de plume of Florence Hastings, she 
 was a frequent contributor to the Harford Times, published in 
 Havre de Grace, and edited by her brother, John K. Donnelly. 
 For many years she has been a frequent contributor to the Oxford 
 Press. She usually spends her vacations in travelling, and her 
 letters descriptive of scenes and incidents at the capital, the 
 White Mountains, and various historic points in New England, the 
 sunny South, and the distant West, are very popular. 
 
 HERE AND THERE. 
 
 HO hath no sorrow, who no grief to bear? 
 What cup of joy is not unmixed with care? 
 What life is like the cloudless summer sky? 
 What heart so light as ne'er to heave a sigh? 
 
 X 
 
 Alas ! no dream of youth or hope of age 
 But hath some blot to mar its brightest page ; 
 Some poison deep lurks in the fairest flower, 
 Some hidden sorrow clouds the brightest hour. 
 
 But, rightly heeded, we one day shall know 
 That all our cares and sorrows here below 
 Were steps to lead us to our home above, 
 Completely blest in Christ's eternal love. 
 
 Then let us bear with meekness every ill, 
 Resigned, submissive to the Master's will, 
 Assured that when our conflicts here are o'er, 
 We there shall dwell in bliss forever more. 
 
 NOW. 
 
 F I to-day should pass away, 
 
 Who'd think of me to-morrow? 
 t Who'd drop a tear o'er my lone bier, 
 
 Or feel a twipge of sorrow ? 
 
 And yet when gone, some may look on 
 My face with fond affection ; 
 
 With kindly meed, recall some deed 
 Within their recollection, 
 
 17*
 
 198 AMELIA J. ROWLAND. 
 
 Some words of cheer, when days were drear, 
 
 That gave a new endeavor ; 
 Inspired a love for heaven above, 
 
 And One strong to deliver. 
 
 Yet, friends, I pray, think as you may 
 
 Of me when past returning, 
 'Tis while I live I'd have you give 
 
 The love for which I'm yearning, 
 
 When this frail breath is chilled in death 
 
 I'll need not your caresses : 
 Now let me have that which I crave, 
 
 That love in life which blesses. 
 
 LIFE'S SHADOWS. 
 
 ES, life hath its shadows ; 
 
 Its seasons of gloom 
 Oft darken our pathway 
 
 From youth to the tomb ; 
 
 The hopes of our childhood 
 
 Have mingled with fears, 
 
 Our mirth and our gladness 
 
 Were followed by tears. 
 
 The hopes we have cherished 
 
 So fondly have fled ; 
 But yesterday blooming, 
 
 Now withered and dead. 
 Like roses of summer, 
 
 Once fair and so sweet, 
 Which the cold breath of autumn 
 
 Hath cast at our feet. 
 
 Hath age, then, all sunshine? 
 
 No shadows to cast 
 Despair o'er the future, 
 
 Regret o'er the past? 
 No ; life hath its shadows ; 
 
 Its seasons of gloom 
 Oft darken our pathway 
 
 From youth to the tomb.
 
 THE RAKESTRAW FAMILY. 1 99 
 
 THE RAKESTRAW FAMILY. 
 ABRAHAM RAKESTRAW. 
 
 ABRAHAM RAKESTRAW was born near Moorestown, N. J., March 
 24, 1799. In 1834 he removed to near Steelville, West Fallow- 
 field Township, where the remainder of his life was spent. In 
 1834 he married Lydia Bushong, daughter of Henry Bushong, 
 who married Sarah Gilbert, a descendant of John Gilbert, the an 
 cestor of Howard W. Gilbert, whose poems are published in this 
 book. Mr. Rakestraw was. an exemplary member of the Society 
 of Friends, and a great admirer of the beauties of nature, from 
 which he drew the inspiration that made itself manifest in his 
 poems. Though engaged in farming all his life, he was for many 
 years a writer of poetry, and an occasional contributor to the 
 Bethania Palladium, of Lancaster County, and the Oxford Press, 
 He died December 9, 1874. 
 
 MARY RAKESTRAW (JONES). 
 
 MARY R. JONES, daughter of Abraham and Lydia Rakestraw, 
 was born near Steelville, September 29, 1836. She married Em- 
 mor S. Jones, March 15, 1855, and died September 9, 1886. She 
 was educated in the district schools, and wrote poetry when about 
 twenty years of age, and for many years was a contributor to the 
 Oxford Press and other local journals. Her poetry was the re 
 sult of an irresistible impulse to give expression to her feelings. 
 
 ELIZA RAKESTRAW (WHITSON). 
 
 THIS writer is the daughter of Abraham and Lydia Rakestraw, 
 and was born near Steelville, December 6, 1840. She was edu 
 cated at the public schools, and at Millersville Normal School, 
 and when about eighteen years of age commenced teaching, and 
 taught in the public schools of Chester and Lancaster County for 
 several years. In 1865 she married Theodore Whitson. Mrs. 
 \Vhitson wrote poetry at a very early age. Her first poems 
 appeared in the Cedar Branch, the organ of the Cedar Grove 
 Lyceum ; subsequently she contributed much to the Lancaster 
 Inquirer and the Page Monthly.
 
 2OO ABRAHAM RAKESTRAW. 
 
 ABRAHAM RAKESTRAW. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 HE ice and the snow have all melted away, 
 
 Stern winter has taken his flight ; 
 The fields and the meadows look smiling and 
 
 g a y> 
 
 Presenting a beautiful sight. 
 
 The songs of the blackbird and robin I hear, 
 
 In the morning so balmy and still ; 
 And the swallow has come from a country afar, 
 
 And dips in the murmuring rill. 
 
 The beautiful thrush, how he warbles his lays ! 
 
 His notes with much pleasure I hear ; 
 Kind nature has taught him his Maker to praise, 
 
 And rejoice in the spring of the year. 
 
 The orchards so lately quite naked and bare, 
 
 Now clad in fair garments of white, 
 Diffuse their sweet odors, perfuming the air, 
 
 And add to the scene of delight. 
 
 The innocent lambs, in their frolicsome glee, 
 Skip light o'er the meadows so green ; 
 
 The sight is so lovely, so charming to me, 
 I would never get tired of the scene. 
 
 Then while all around is so active and gay, 
 
 Shall gloominess dwell on my brow? 
 Oh, no ; I will banish all sorrow away, 
 
 And sing as I follow my plough. 
 
 My heart shall expand with the feelings of love, 
 For blessings which kindly are given ; 
 
 My affections I'll place upon objects above, 
 In the bright blissful mansions of heaven.
 
 MARY RAKESTRAW (jONEs). 2OI 
 
 MARY RAKESTRAW (JONES). 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY SEEING A WOMAN ENGAGED IN PRIVATE 
 DEVOTION. 
 
 I HEN in the crowded church the countless 
 
 numbers 
 Low bend the knee, or rise in form of 
 
 prayer ; 
 
 When full-toned voices with the pealing organ 
 Mingle together on the Sabbath air ; 
 
 Or, when around the family altar kneeling, 
 
 They bow the knee or raise the voice in prayer, 
 
 Something akin to reverential feeling 
 Forbids intrusion as they worship there. 
 
 But when within her closet's still seclusion 
 A woman folds her hands in secret prayer, 
 
 The question to our minds comes quickly stealing, 
 Why in her solitude she kneeleth there. 
 
 Has chill bereavement left the bosom bleeding, 
 And grief ris'n high with its o'erpowering wave? 
 
 Asks she for strength to bear each earthly trial, 
 To bless alike the hand that took and gave ? 
 
 Or has she come with joy and thankful feeling, 
 To praise Him for his mercies day by day, 
 
 Who watches even every falling sparrow, 
 
 And leads her still in wisdom's peaceful way? 
 
 Earth's fairest scenes of grandeur and of glory, 
 And all the wonders art and wealth display, 
 
 Will serve to dazzle history's brilliant story, 
 When all the builders crumble with decay. 
 
 But this lone kneeler, in her heart's devotion, 
 From worldly cares has turned her feet away ; 
 
 'Tis not for fame, enrolled on history's pages, 
 That she has come in solitude to pray.
 
 2O2 ELIZA RAKESTRAW (WHITSON). 
 
 Clergy or priest, on yielding cushion kneeling, 
 Where columns high with lofty spires combine, 
 
 Seem not so fitting in their gaudy worship 
 As this lone kneeler at her humble shrine. 
 
 The rich attire that robes the sainted millions, 
 And cumbrous wealth of envied millionaire, 
 
 Can bring no comfort to the wounded spirit, 
 Like that which follows humble, earnest prayer. 
 
 Then when the morn's first gleam of rosy beaming 
 Greets every dew-drop on the flowery lea ; 
 
 When noonday beams or evening's gath'ring shadows 
 Have made the brightness of the day to flee, 
 
 Remember then the gracious hand of heaven ; 
 
 With prayer and praise begin and end each day, 
 And He whose care protected! e'en the ravens 
 
 Will hearken when his earnest followers pray. 
 
 ELIZA RAKESTRAW (WHITSON). 
 
 SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. 
 
 EAUTIFUL days in winter ! 
 
 How it gladdens the heart and eyes 
 To see the grim old storm-king 
 
 Throw off his icy guise ! 
 For, though a monarch cold and stern, 
 
 And in frosted beaver dressed, 
 We can hear the beat of a generous heart 
 When he doffs his icy vest. 
 
 The little brook in the meadow, 
 
 That yesterday was still, 
 Is singing a snatch of a childish song 
 
 As it turns the school-boy's mill : 
 A little song it learned last June, 
 
 One sultry summer day, 
 When a gentle child from the village school 
 
 Had sought its banks to play.
 
 ELIZA RAKESTRAW (WHITSON). 20$ 
 
 She sat in the shade of the alder tree, 
 
 That over the brooklet hung ; 
 She bathed her feet in its waters cool, 
 
 And dreamily smiled and sung. 
 She sung of a country far away 
 
 That's free from care and pain, 
 Alas for the brook ! It may never learn 
 
 A song from the maid again. 
 
 For now she walks on the shining shore 
 
 Of that country of which she sung, 
 Where wisdom comes to the smallest child, 
 
 And the oldest heart grows young. 
 But merrily flows the brook to-day, 
 
 And brightly the sunbeams fall, 
 Till we almost think the summer has come, 
 
 And we hear the sweet birds call. 
 
 QUAKER MEETING. 
 
 OW brightly shines the sun to-day ; 
 
 A soft air stirs the trees ; 
 The white fleeced clouds sail through the sky, 
 
 As vessels sail the seas. 
 
 A holy Sabbath stillness reigns ; 
 
 The working world is still ; 
 Hushed is the plough-boy's whistle 
 
 And whirr of busy mill. 
 
 And in this quaint old meeting-house, 
 
 Endeared by memories old, 
 My heart recalls, with sigh or smile, 
 
 The changes time has told. 
 
 Oh, brightly shone the sun as now, 
 
 And balmy was the air, 
 And gayly beat our youthful hearts, 
 
 Untouched by toil or care,
 
 2O4 ELIZA RAKESTRAW (WHITSON). 
 
 When, closely packed by mother's hand, 
 
 'Neath shady oak and elm, 
 Our family coach rolled slowly out, 
 
 With father at the helm. 
 
 Though sober horse and driver were, 
 
 And placid mother's brow, 
 The echo of our laughing tones 
 
 Steals o'er my senses now. 
 
 From bonnets void of flower or fern 
 
 Came many a burst of song, 
 And many a softly whispered prayer 
 
 That "meeting won't be long." 
 
 Green is the grass on father's grave ; 
 
 His heart was green always; 
 And though his lips ne'er turned a hymn, 
 
 His life was full of praise. 
 
 Beyond the window where I sit 
 
 The little graveyard lies, 
 And scarcely higher than the grass 
 
 The modest tombstones rise. 
 
 No "city of the dead" is it, 
 
 A quiet country town, 
 A hamlet where the weak may rest, 
 
 The weary ones lie down. 
 
 High in the maples overhead 
 
 The robin trills her song, 
 Unmindful of the ancient creed 
 
 Pronouncing music wrong. 
 
 And by my side a young girl sits; 
 
 Her eyes of beauty speak, 
 A summer rose is in her hair, 
 
 A fairer on her cheek. 
 
 The old time creed will pass away, 
 
 The voice of song be heard, 
 And broad-brimmed hats a lesson learn 
 
 From flower and from bird.
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 20$ 
 
 And may we strive in earnest faith 
 
 A broader view to gain, 
 And, casting off those fetters which 
 
 Our onward majxh detain, 
 
 Attain at last a noble height 
 
 From early errors free, 
 Still showing in our dress and life 
 
 A sweet simplicity. 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 THIS distinguished poet and painter was born in the great val 
 ley, within the shadow of the blue hills of Uwchlan, on the 1 2th 
 of March, 1822. His childhood and youth were not remarkable 
 for anything to distinguish them from those of the other youths 
 with whom he associated, .and old residents of the neighborhood 
 tell how he used to help their fathers in harvest, and of the jolly 
 times they had with the future artist and poet. The beautiful 
 scenery of the great valley and the hills that skirt its borders 
 made a lasting impression upon his youthful mind, and no doubt 
 helped to develop those traits of character which in after-life 
 placed his name among those of the most illustrious poets and 
 painters which this country has produced. In early life he was 
 apprenticed to the tailoring business ; but he seems no.t to have 
 liked that business, and at the age of fifteen started out to seek 
 his fortune in the wide, wide world. In 1839 he opened a studio 
 in Cincinnati, and two years later removed to Boston, where the 
 first of his published verses appeared in the Courier of that city. 
 In 1846 he removed to Philadelphia, and the next year published 
 his first volume of poems in Boston, and in the following year 
 another volume in Philadelphia. In 1850 he visited England, 
 and subsequently spent about two years in Italy, engaged in writing 
 and painting. Like many other men of genius, he had a restless 
 disposition, which impelled him to frequently change his residence ; 
 and the latter part of his life was spent at Bordentown, N. J., in 
 Italy, in Philadelphia, and during the war of the Rebellion, in 
 which he participated as an aide to General Lew Wallace, in Cin 
 cinnati. He died of pulmonary disease, in New York City, May 
 II, 1872. In 1856 he married Miss Harriet Denison Butler, of 
 Northampton, Mass. He is one of the few men of genius who 
 have attained distinction as poet and painter. His poem entitled 
 " The Closing Scene" is said by an English critic to " be unques 
 tionably the best American poem we have," and " an addition to 
 the permanent stock of poetry in the English language." 
 
 18
 
 2O6 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 Published by permission of the J. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
 [THIN his sober realm of leafless trees 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, 
 
 Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
 When all the fields are lying brown and 
 bare. 
 
 The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 
 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills 
 On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 
 
 All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued ; 
 
 The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low ; 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 
 His winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
 Their banners bright with many a martial hue, 
 
 Now stood like some sad beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 
 
 On slumberous wings the vulture held his flight ; 
 
 The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint ; 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 
 
 The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 
 
 The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew 
 Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before; 
 
 Silent, till some replying warder blew 
 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
 
 Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 
 
 Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young ; 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
 By every light wind like a censer swung : 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
 
 The busy swallows, circling ever near, 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year:
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 2O/ 
 
 Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 
 
 And warned the reaper of the rosy east, 
 All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 
 
 While croaked the crow through all the dreamy 
 gloom ; 
 
 Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; 
 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; 
 The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers, 
 
 Sailed slowly by passed noiseless out of sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
 
 And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, 
 Firing the floor with its inverted torch ; 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 
 
 The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, 
 
 Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien, 
 Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 
 
 She had known Sorrow ; he had walked with her, 
 Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust ; 
 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom 
 Her country summoned, and she gave her all; 
 
 And twice war bowed to her his sable plume, 
 Regave the swords to rust upon her wall. 
 
 Regave the swords ; but not the hand that drew, 
 
 And struck for liberty its dying blow ; 
 Nor him who,- to his sire and country true, 
 
 Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.
 
 2O8 . THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed ; 
 
 Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene, 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 
 
 While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 
 
 THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 
 By permission of the J. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
 ETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn 
 Is the lowly home where I was born ; 
 The peach-tree leans against the wall, 
 And the woodbine wanders over all ; 
 There is the shaded door-way still, 
 But the stranger's foot has crossed the sill. 
 
 There is the barn and, as of yore, 
 
 I can smell the hay from the open door, 
 
 And see the busy swallows' throng, 
 
 And hear the peewee's mournful song ; 
 
 But the stranger comes oh ! painful proof 
 
 His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 
 
 There is the orchard the very trees 
 Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, 
 And watched the shadowy moments run 
 Till my life imbibed more shade than sun : 
 The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, 
 But the stranger's children are swinging there. 
 
 There bubbles the shady spring below, 
 
 With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; 
 
 'Twas there I found the calamus root, 
 
 And watched the minnows poise and shoot, 
 
 And heard the robin lave his wing: 
 
 But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. 
 
 / 
 
 Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, 
 Step lightly, for I love it still ; 
 And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 
 Then think what countless harvest sheaves
 
 MARTHA B. RUTH. 2CX) 
 
 Have passed within that scented door, 
 To gladden eyes that are no more. 
 
 Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 
 And when your children crowd your knees, 
 Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 
 As if old memories stirred their heart : 
 To youthful sport still leave the swing, 
 And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 
 
 MARTHA B. RUTH. 
 
 MARTHA B. RUTH, daughter of Justinian and Tacy T. Ken- 
 derdine, was born in West Nantmeal Township, April 21, 1835. 
 Her education was obtained at the public schools, and at the Ken- 
 net Square Boarding-School, then kept by Samuel Martin. She 
 wrote poetry when about fourteen years of age. At the sugges 
 tion of her teacher, Susanna Dance, some of her poems were pub 
 lished in the Register and Examiner and the Independent Herald 
 of West Chester. October n, 1855, she was married to M. T. 
 Ruth. For some years after her marriage she had little leisure for 
 writing, but later in life found time to engage in literary pursuits. 
 Her parents were members of the Society of Friends, but after 
 her marriage she joined the Baptist Church, of which she con 
 tinued to be an exemplary member until her death, which oc 
 curred July 8, 1886. Her poems are well written, chaste, and 
 beautiful. 
 
 A BRIGHTER WORLD THAN THIS. 
 
 KNOW this world is beautiful, but, far beyond 
 
 the skies, 
 They tell me that a happier realm, a world far 
 
 brighter lies, 
 
 Where reigns in everlasting joy a fair angelic band, 
 And that no sorrow enters there, it is the spirit land. 
 
 They say the pleasures here below, compared with 
 
 those above, 
 Are but an outline sketch of His, our Holy Father's 
 
 love; 
 o 18*
 
 2IO MARTHA B. RUTH. 
 
 That there all tears are wiped away which here our 
 
 pathway dim, 
 That all united find a home and live in peace with 
 
 Him. 
 
 Why should we mourn when friends depart, to enter 
 
 on that road 
 Which leads to scenes more fair than ours, within a 
 
 blessed abode, 
 Where fadeless flowers forever bloom, and " living 
 
 waters" flow, 
 That those who drink of heaven's pure stream no thirst 
 
 again may know ? 
 
 We love to view the beauteous things that ever meet 
 
 the eye, 
 
 But earthly pleasures all will fade and from before us fly ; 
 This life is but a varied scene of pleasure and of care, 
 Then let us win that land of rest, and dwell forever 
 
 there. 
 
 At times the spirit soars from earth, amid those realms 
 
 above, 
 And longs to change its chilling smiles for those of 
 
 heavenly love ; 
 
 Amid the busy din of life it fills the soul with bliss, 
 To know that God has promised us a brighter world 
 
 than this. 
 
 NATURE'S MUSIC. 
 
 HERE is music all about us, 
 
 Far above, around, below ; 
 In the falling dew of heaven, 
 
 In the pure and pearly snow ; 
 In the chilling blasts of winter, 
 
 As they whistle o'er our path; 
 In the summer's gentle breezes, 
 
 In the roaring tempest's wrath. 
 
 There is music in the twilight, 
 As the evening zephyrs sigh, 
 
 When the golden rays of sunset 
 Light with beauty earth and sky.
 
 t 
 SLATER B. RUSSELL. 211 
 
 There is music in the spring-time 
 As we view each fairy scene, 
 
 When the fields are spread before us, 
 Decked in garments rich and green. 
 
 There is music in the wildwood, 
 
 In each flower that lifts its head ; 
 In the murmuring streamlet dancing 
 
 In its pure and pebbly bed ; 
 In the calm and silver moonlight 
 
 Playing on the ocean wave, 
 Breathing forth a dirge-like anthem 
 
 O'er the gallant sailor's grave. 
 
 Hearken to the merry songsters ! 
 
 There is music in each note, 
 As some blissful, fleeting vision, 
 
 Richest strains around us float. 
 As a golden dream it cometh 
 
 With the memory of the past, 
 Gently stealing o'er our spirits, 
 
 Far too pure for earth to last. 
 
 Thus, where'er our footsteps wander, 
 
 Sweet and sad those whisp'rings come, 
 As some gentle angel wooing 
 
 Back the spirit to its home. 
 In that brighter land above us 
 
 Still shall rise these songs of bliss, 
 Heavenly music, never ceasing, 
 
 Richer, sweeter far than this. 
 
 SLATER B. RUSSELL. 
 
 SLATER BROWN RUSSELL, son of John N. and Amelia (Kirk) 
 Russell, was born in Drumore Township, Lancaster County, Pa., 
 June 1 8, 1834. He received a liberal education, having attended 
 the London Grove Friends' School, the Jordan Bank Seminary, and 
 the Millersville Normal School. In the summer of 1857 he made 
 an extended tour through Europe, and soon after his return pub 
 lished several articles, under the title of " Memories," in the 
 Page Monthly, which were much admired and extensively copied. 
 In 1857 he became principal of Locust Grove Academy, Lancaster
 
 212 SLATER B. RUSSELL. 
 
 County, and subsequently of Pleasant Valley Seminary, near Ox 
 ford. On the 1st of May, 1861, he was appointed corresponding 
 clerk in the United States War Department, which position he 
 held until May, 1867, when he resigned on account of impaired 
 health, and returned to his father's farm, where he spent the en 
 suing three years. He has resided in West Chester since 1875, 
 engaged in the real-estate business, and in the performance of the 
 duties appertaining to the office of Justice of the Peace, to which 
 he has twice been elected. Mr. Russell, in 1861, was married to 
 Miss Amelia R. Levis, daughter of Norris Levis, of Cecil County, 
 Md. * Four daughters have blessed this union. Mr. Russell has 
 seldom attempted to court the muses, but, to use the language of 
 another, " there is a certain sort of delicate imagery abounding in 
 his prose writings which makes them read like poetry." 
 
 JASMIN. 
 
 HE clouds like a leaden curtain 
 Were hung against the sky ; 
 
 The earth was robed in winter, 
 And the winds went wailing by. 
 
 I came into my study : 
 
 A delicate perfume, 
 Like a faint, ethereal presence, 
 
 Pervaded all the room. 
 
 So faint was the misty fragrance, 
 So mild did the presence seem, 
 
 It was less of the earth about me 
 Than the memory of a dream. 
 
 I knew 'twas the breath of summer, 
 Though winter's icy hand 
 
 Had bound the streams with a fetter 
 And whitened with snow the land. 
 
 I searched from floor to ceiling, 
 I questioned each leafy friend, 
 
 But they made no sign nor answer 
 To help me to comprehend. 
 
 Then over against my window, , 
 Concealed in its leafy bower, 
 
 As if to hide away from me, 
 I found a jasmin flower.
 
 FRANK H. STAUFF.ER. 213 
 
 And I marvelled that the sweetness 
 
 Of so frail and tiny a thing 
 Should banish the dreary winter, 
 
 And bring in its stead the spring. 
 
 My heart was sad and weary 
 
 With its weight of sorrow and care, 
 
 Till life itself seemed a burden 
 Almost too great to bear. 
 
 Between my soul and the sunshine 
 
 There hung, like a leaden pall, 
 A cloud whose terrible darkness 
 
 Descended and covered all. 
 
 Then through my heart's grim winter 
 
 The gladsome summer smiled, 
 For my ear had caught the music 
 
 Of the gentle voice of a child. 
 
 It brought the welcome sunshine 
 
 And banished the clouds away; 
 It brought to my life's December 
 
 The delicate flowers of May. 
 
 And I call this child my jasmin 
 
 As I fold her to my breast, 
 And think of the balm supernal 
 
 She brought to my life's unrest. 
 
 FRANK H. STAUFFER. 
 
 FRANCIS HENRY STAUFFER was born in Philadelphia, October 
 3, 1832. His father, Jacob Stauffer, was of Swiss descent, was a 
 botanist and entomologist of considerable note, and died at Lan 
 caster, Pa., in 1880. His mother, Sarah Birch, was born in Not 
 tinghamshire, England, and was a descendant of the Earl of More- 
 land. 
 
 Mr. Stauffer graduated in the school of journalism, and began to 
 write for the press before he had attained his majority. At the 
 age of sixteen he wrote a poem entitled " To the Stars," which 
 was so meritorious that it was for a time supposed to have been
 
 214 FRANK H. STAUFFER. 
 
 written by George D. Prentice. He established the Mount Joy 
 (Pa.) Herald (now in its thirty-fifth year), and filled editorial 
 positions on the Lancaster Inland Daily, The Sunday Mercury, 
 Philadelphia, The Woonsocket Patriot, Saturday Night, and the 
 Philadelphia Daily Evening Call. He is a contributor to St. 
 Nicholas, Our Little Ones, Harper's Young Folks, Good House 
 keeping, etc. He is also somewhat of a humorist, and not a few 
 of the cleanly-cut " squibs" which appear in Harper's Bazar, 
 Life, Tid-Bits, and the Detroit Free Press are from his pen. 
 
 He has published two volumes, " Queer, Quaint, and Quizzical," 
 and " Towards Sunset," a collection of his poems. The latter 
 were received with great favor. Joseph A. Turner, M.A., Pro 
 fessor of English and Modern Languages, Hollins Institute, Vir 
 ginia, said of them, " These poems possess unusual purity and 
 healthfulness, a fact greatly to be commended at a time when so 
 much of the poetry published has a tendency to sap one's most 
 cherished beliefs." 
 
 Mr. Stauffer was Assistant Assessor of Internal Revenue for Lan 
 caster County under President Lincoln. He has been residing for 
 the last thirteen years at a pretty home in Berwyn, Chester County, 
 where he is an elder in the Presbyterian Church, superintendent 
 of the Sabbath-school, and foremost in every project of public 
 interest. 
 
 WATCHING THE DAWN. 
 
 HE shadows fill the vale below, 
 The mountain-tops are all aglow ; 
 The dew is clinging to the thorn, 
 The lark salutes the rosy morn ; 
 With fragrance all the air made sweet, 
 A dawn with perfect charms replete. 
 
 The clouds in pearly vapors lie, 
 A slumb'ring silence fills the sky ; 
 Still wider grows the harbor-bar, 
 Still dimmer grows the morning star ; 
 How like the mazy fancies of a dream, 
 This soft bewilderment of shade and sheen ! 
 
 TO THE STARS. 
 
 WEET watchers of the night, 
 Bejewelling the summer air, 
 Say, are there "many mansions" there, 
 Beyond those gates so wide and fair?
 
 FRANK H. STAUFFER. 
 
 O spirits of the dead ! 
 As such ye sometimes seem to me ; 
 As such I sometimes talk to ye, 
 And ask of things that are to be. 
 
 Ye send no answer back ! 
 'Tis to reprove a faith so weak ; 
 It is to make me pure and meek, 
 And happiness in Christ to seek. 
 
 Shine on, ye twinkling orbs ! 
 .And when my spirit wings its flight, 
 Blest with the knowledge of the right, 
 Mark out my pathway through the night ! 
 
 A NAME THAT WAS NOT MINE. 
 
 OU turned your face away from me, 
 
 You heard not what I said, 
 Nor knew how bitter were to me 
 
 The weary tears I shed, 
 But gazed far out upon the sea, 
 With face white as the dead. 
 
 I felt your curls upon my cheek, 
 
 I saw your dark eyes shine ; 
 I heard your white lips gently speak 
 
 A name that was not mine. 
 My heart grew desolate and bleak, 
 
 Yet made no outward sign. 
 
 I spoke not of my love for you, 
 That throbbed in heart and brain j 
 
 How dark the shades of ev'ning grew ! 
 How poignant grew my pain ! 
 
 How meaningly the sea-winds blew ! 
 How damp the misty rain ! 
 
 In sullenness I bit my lips, 
 And felt my heart gro^v chill, 
 
 Although those burning finger-tips 
 Made all my pulses thrill. 
 
 My hopes went down like freighted ships 
 When all is calm and still !
 
 2l6 MARY E. SCHOFIELD. 
 
 MARY E. SCHOFIELD. 
 
 THE subject of this sketch is the daughter of Joseph E. Ander 
 son, son of Isaac Anderson, a native of Scotland, and Rebecca 
 M. Workizer, a descendant of Christian Workizer, mentioned in 
 the sketch of the Thropp sisters in this book. She was born near 
 Phcenixville, January 5, 1826, and married Albert R. Schofield, a 
 member of the Philadelphia bar, March 29, 1853. At this time Mr. 
 and Mrs. Schofield reside at Upper Roxborough, Philadelphia. 
 Mrs. Schofield wrote much poetry in early life, and was a fre 
 quent contributor to the Phcenixville Pioneer when that journal 
 was edited by Bayard Taylor. 
 
 OUR BIRD. 
 
 HEN autumn winds were scattering 
 
 The sere and yellow leaves, 
 And wailing with their low deep tones 
 
 Among the homestead trees ; 
 When frost had nipt each budding flower 
 
 That round our cottage grew, 
 And autumn over nature's face 
 
 A solemn shadow threw, 
 
 We knew that dreary winter-time 
 
 Was coming on apace, 
 That not a bird nor budding flower 
 
 Would gladden nature's face. 
 We knew that tears would chase the smiles 
 
 From all the shrouded earth, 
 And naught remain to bless our hearts 
 
 Save our own household hearth. 
 
 But in that dreary autumn time 
 
 There came a wingless bird ; 
 It cheered us with its carollings, 
 
 As sweet as e'er were heard j 
 Peerless and bright it came to us, 
 
 That little fairy thing, 
 And though 'twas winter o'er the earth, 
 
 Yet in our home 'twas spring.
 
 MARY E. SCHOFIELD. 
 
 The winter passed ; we scarce knew how 
 
 We blest the joyous spring 
 And, nestling in our happy hearts, 
 
 We felt our birdling cling; 
 Its gentle music sweetly rose, 
 
 So gladsome and so clear, 
 No bird that warbled in the woods 
 
 To us was half so dear. 
 
 Our bird is still a tiny thing ; 
 
 It creepeth everywhere; 
 Anon it climbs to mamma's knee, 
 
 Or journeys round a chair. 
 It lisps papa quite prettily, 
 
 And many roguish things ; 
 Our bird would sure an angel be, 
 
 But, ah, it has not wings ! 
 
 Its sparkling eyes are bright and clear, 
 
 Yet of the darkest blue ; 
 They mind me well of violets, 
 
 Filled with the morning dew ; 
 Its rosy lips resemble much 
 
 A rose-bud cleft in twain ; 
 Sure there was ne'er a bird like ours, 
 
 Or ne'er will be again. 
 
 THE MAIDEN LOVER. 
 
 OST anxiously I've looked for thee 
 Throughout the livelong day, 
 
 And ever and anon I've scanned 
 The dusty old highway. 
 
 To catch a glimpse of thy loved form, 
 Alas ! I've looked in vain ; 
 
 I sigh, and from the casement go 
 But to return again. 
 
 I feel the pangs of " hope deferred" 
 Rankling within my breast ; 
 
 My weary brain is ill at ease, 
 And strives in vain to rest. 
 19
 
 2l8 REV. MATTHIAS SHEELEIGH, D.D. 
 
 Night's sable robe is o'er the earth, 
 But still my heart's with thee, 
 
 And oh, how often have I breathed, 
 "Why comes he not to me?" 
 
 But hark ! along the gravelled walk 
 A hastening step is near, 
 
 And joy now fills my bounding heart, 
 The looked-for one is here. 
 
 REV. MATTHIAS SHEELEIGH, D.D. 
 
 THIS author was born in Charlestown, not far from old Pike- 
 land church, twelve miles north of West Chester, December 29, 
 1821. He is the son of Jesse and Mary (Orner) Sheeleigh. The 
 family is of German extraction, and originally spelled the name 
 Schillich. His paternal great-grandfather settled in Skippack, 
 Montgomery County, about forty years before the war of the Revo 
 lution. 
 
 His father dying in early life, his mother removed to Kimberton, 
 where his boyhood was spent. His early education was obtained 
 at the public schools and a select school at West Chester. Sub 
 sequently he taught school at intervals in Pennsylvania and New 
 Jersey, and prepared himself for his profession in Pennsylvania 
 College, at Gettysburg, and the Lutheran Theological Seminary at 
 that place. In 1885, Newberry College, South Carolina, conferred 
 upon him the degree of Doctor of Divinity. 
 
 Mr. Sheeleigh entered the ministry of the Lutheran Church, 
 October 4, 1852, and has been pastor at Valatie, N. Y., Miners- 
 ville, Pa., Philadelphia, Stewartsville, N. J., and, for the last 
 twenty years, at Whitemarsh and Upper Dublin, Pa., with residence 
 at Fort Washington. He has borne a prominent part in the ec 
 clesiastical councils of the church, and occupied many of its 
 prominent places of trust and honor. 
 
 In 1859 he married Miss Sabina M. Diller, of Lebanon, Pa., 
 whose ancestors came from Germany and settled in New Holland, 
 Lancaster County, a century and a half ago. 
 
 In addition to his pastoral labors, Dr. Sheeleigh has published 
 a number of books of poetry and prose, and edited several 
 volumes, translated one volume from .the German, and acted as 
 corresponding editor of church periodicals. Since 1861 he has 
 edited the Lutheran Sunday-School Herald, an illustrated monthly 
 paper for the young; and has also edited The Lutheran Almanac 
 and Year-Book since 1871. He is a voluminous and popular 
 writer, and many articles from his pen, both in poetry and prose,
 
 REV. MATTHIAS SHEELEIGH, D.D. 
 
 have appeared in our best periodicals. In late years his poetry 
 has largely taken the form of sonnets and of hymns. He has also 
 translated poetry from five or six different languages. For addi 
 tional poems by Dr. Sheeleigh, see concluding pages of this 
 volume. 
 
 LUTHER-STATUE UNVEILING. 
 
 Extract from a published poem of twenty-six stanzas, read on 
 the occasion, in the Memorial Lutheran Church, Washington, 
 D.C., May 20, 1884. 
 
 (HERE let it ever stand, 
 
 That form which Art hath planned, 
 That semblance wrought in bronze ; 
 Though mute and destitute of motion, 
 Around it men shall bring devotion 
 Devotion to their God, and honor to his sons. 
 
 There, firm on granite base, 
 With Heav'n-imploring face, 
 That symbol stand through time ; 
 To speak, adown the lapsing ages, 
 What history traced upon her pages 
 To thrill with joyfulness the men of every clime. 
 
 Stand ! that colossal form, 
 Facing the rushing storm, 
 Unmoved as 'neath the light ; 
 As Luther faced careering wrath 
 Which o'er him fain would plough its path, 
 But which in weakness broke before Jehovah's might. 
 
 There let it ever be 
 A sign of thought set free, 
 Of unbound tongue and will, 
 
 Of shackles from the conscience riven, 
 Of wider field to learning given, 
 And of God's Book unsealed, all men with joy to fill.
 
 22O I. MILTON SMITH. 
 
 There let that image stand, 
 The while the clinched hand 
 Is on the Bible pressed, 
 
 In token of the soul's appealing 
 From man's device to God's revealing, 
 Of truth the one the sure the everlasting test. 
 
 There let it stand for aye 
 Long as the orb of day 
 And nightly hosts behold ; 
 
 There stand, perpetual witness giving 
 In praise to God, the ever-living 
 For holy, highest truth, which doth all hope infold. 
 
 Long as that head shall there 
 Be lifted high in air, 
 Heedless of malice hurled, 
 
 His work, whose fame is there attested, 
 Shall more and more be manifested, 
 As God's unfettered truth emancipates the world. 
 
 Thus, while the centuries, 
 Unresting as the seas, 
 Roll onward, one by one, 
 
 This chosen of the Lord shall still 
 His mission through the earth fulfil, 
 Standing, to gazing eyes, like Uriel in the sun. 
 
 I. MILTON SMITH. 
 
 I. MILTON SMITH, son of Isaac and Mary Smith, worthy mem 
 bers of the Society of Friends, was born in Unionville, February 
 13, 1846, and was educated at the Unionville Academy, Green 
 wood Dell, and West Chester Academy, then in charge of W. F. 
 Wyers, with whom he took his first lessons in military life. Mr. 
 Smith entered the Union army in 1864, just before the close of the 
 war, and at its conclusion was honorably discharged. Subse 
 quently he attended college in Philadelphia, where he became ac 
 quainted with Lidy Ker, whom he married in 1868. His first 
 wife died in 1876, and he subsequently married Miss Lizzie P. E.
 
 I. MILTON SMITH. 
 
 221 
 
 Eldridge, daughter of S. T. Eldridge, of Philadelphia. Mr. 
 "Smith has a keen appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and oc 
 casionally writes poems for amusement and recreation. 
 
 SUMMER TIME. 
 
 ITH a woof of sun-threads golden, 
 
 And a warp of purple chain, 
 Nature, as in seasons olden, 
 
 Wears the summer robe again ! 
 Ever brighter, finer, fairer, 
 
 Grows the marvel of her loom, 
 As she adds, to grace the wearer, 
 
 Festal wreath and floral bloom. 
 
 Welcome summer, come to win us 
 
 From our woes with song and sheen, 
 How the weary heart within us 
 
 Freshens in the flood of green ! 
 How the soul her wings encloses, 
 
 Soars all sordid cares above, 
 As from lips of evening roses 
 
 Pours the perfumed breath of love. 
 
 EVENTIDE. 
 
 HE low wind swept among the scatter 'd flowers, 
 And brought a strange, sweet music in its 
 
 sound, 
 
 As if sweet anthems from beyond this world 
 Were thrilling all the air that trembled round. 
 
 The sun had set, and scattered in its path 
 A flood of gold and crimson cloud, so bright 
 
 With beauty, that it seemed as if beyond 
 Must lie the cloudless land of joy and light. 
 
 And did some angel, with its robes aflame, 
 With burnished glory, stand at heaven's gate, 
 
 To show us one bright glimpse of splendor there, 
 And teach our weary spirits how to wait? 
 19*
 
 222 THE SWAYNE FAMILY. 
 
 And will that gate be opened wide for us, 
 And let our ransomed spirits safely through, 
 
 Into the land of joy, and light, and love, 
 
 Where we shall mingle with the good and true ? 
 
 There are some hours, by heaven supremely blest, 
 That come to us with gladness on their wing, 
 
 That bring a holy meaning to our souls, 
 And music sweeter than the angels sing. 
 
 And there are whispers from the land of souls, 
 A world that holds such untold wealth of bliss, 
 
 That heaven in mercy sends us glimpses of 
 Its happiness, to cheer our paths in this. 
 
 THE SWAYNE FAMILY. 
 
 THE ancestors of this family were originally from Denmark, 
 but settled in England, from whence Francis and Elizabeth 
 (Milton) Swayne, the founders of the family in Pennsylvania, 
 removed and settled in East Marlborough Township, about the 
 year 1710. The family, since before their removal to Pennsylvania, 
 have been members of the Society of Friends, and mostly farmers. 
 
 JOEL SWAYNE. 
 
 JOEL SWAYNE, son of Benjamin and Susanna Swayne, was born 
 May 22, 1804, and died May 9, 1840. He was a public-spirited 
 man, and did much to advance the cause of education, being in 
 strumental in securing the adoption of the present public school 
 system. He was a member of the State Legislature in 1839, and 
 was a member of that body at the time of his death. He was an 
 indefatigable student, and the author of many fine poem-, some of 
 which were published in the periodicals of the day. 
 
 BENJAMIN W. SWAYNE. 
 
 BENJAMIN W. SWAYNE, son of William and Mary Ann (Mar 
 shall) Swayne, and the nephew of Joel Swayne, was born in 
 Pennsbury Township, July 14, 1827. His early life was spent 
 in East Marlborough. In 1850 he married Susan Bancroft, of
 
 JOEL SWAYNE. 223 
 
 Philadelphia, and settled in London Grove Township, where he 
 now resides. His first wife died in 1852. Subsequently he 
 married Jane T. Pennock, daughter of James and Amy Pennock, 
 of West Marlborough. 
 
 He was educated at the public schools, and did not write poetry 
 until late in life. During the last ten years he has been a fre 
 quent contributor to the Village Record. 
 
 WILLIAM MARSHALL SWAYNE. 
 
 WILLIAM MARSHALL SWAYNE, better known as Marshall 
 Swayne, the sculptor, is a brother of Benjamin W. Swayne. He 
 was born in Pennsbury Township, December I, 1828. He was 
 educated at the public schools, the Unionville Academy, and 
 Westtown Friends' School. When about twenty years old, he 
 showed a predilection for the sculptor's art. November 14, 
 1850, he married Mary, daughter of Richard and Hannah Barnard, 
 of Newlin Township. Mr. Swayne accepted a position in one of 
 the departments in Washington under President Lincoln, and 
 while there had the honor of modelling the bust of that distin 
 guished man, and many other eminent public men of the nation. 
 He is a writer of some celebrity, and- an occasional contributor to 
 the Chester County journals. 
 
 EDWARD SWAYNE. 
 
 EDWARD SWAYNE, son of Benjamin and Sarah P. Swayne, and 
 a second cousin of Benjamin and Marshall Swayne, was born in 
 London Grove Township, January 15, 1826, and died November 
 1 8, 1846. He was a genuine poet, and, though comparatively 
 untrained and uneducated, gave evidence of the possession of 
 great talent, which, had time been allowed for its development, 
 would have given him a place among the distinguished writers of 
 his age. Though nearly half a century has elapsed since his 
 freed spirit passed to the light of eternal day, many yet remember 
 the charm of his genial presence and turn with sorrow to their 
 early loss. 
 
 JOEL SWAYNE. 
 
 THE FALL OF MISSOLONGHI. 
 
 " At the siege of Missolonghi, Capsalis (one of the primates) 
 conducted to the powder magazine the weak, the wounded, the 
 sick, the aged, the women, and the children, resolved to bury them 
 alive in its ruins. Mothers there tranquilly pressed their infants to 
 their bosoms, relying on Capsalis. They wept not, they had no
 
 224 JOEL SWAYNE. 
 
 parting to apprehend, death was about to unite them forever. 
 From the size and solidity of the building, the conquerors, sup 
 posing the wealth of the city was there deposited, crowded around 
 it, trying to force the doors, windows, and roof. Capsalis now 
 applied the match, and two thousand Turks perished with the 
 Greeks. The explosion was so violent that houses were thrown 
 down, large chasms produced in the earth, and part of the town 
 inundated by the sea." 
 
 HEN Greece, long slumbering Greece, awoke, 
 And nobly spurned the Turkish yoke, 
 When Ibrahim's fierce and servile band, 
 In hostile squadrons swarm'd the land, 
 
 And when, though long defended well, 
 
 The fated Missolonghi fell : 
 
 A mournful crowd within the tow'r 
 
 Await the dread and fearful hour. 
 
 There stood the stripling, early fired 
 
 By patriot words with glory's flame, 
 
 Who listened till his soul, inspired, 
 
 Planned daring deeds of future fame. 
 
 But now those dazzling dreams are o'er, 
 
 And hope's bright beacon burns no more ; 
 
 He yields him to his darkened fate, 
 
 But still he longs to wreak his hate 
 
 On earth's grim tyrants, one and all, 
 
 And burst oppression's mad'ning thrall. 
 There kneel'd the maiden, young in years, 
 
 But all unmoved by maiden fears. 
 
 A summer's day her life had been, 
 
 A thornless path, a flow'ry scene. 
 
 Scarce on her calm and beauteous face 
 
 One touch of passion could you trace ; 
 
 Scarce had the hand of with'ring care 
 
 Dimm'd one bright tint that blossom'd there. 
 
 A hero woo'd, they breath'd their love 
 
 Beneath the moonlit olive grove.; 
 
 It seem'd to them a holier spell 
 
 Upon that charming landscape fell; 
 
 A softer radiance linger'd there, 
 
 A balmier fragrance fill'd the air. 
 
 But sudden as the dark simoom, 
 
 Spread on their fate a fearful gloom. 
 
 Once more the civil strife is stirr'd, 
 
 Once more the battle-cry is heard.
 
 JOEL SWAYNE. 22$ 
 
 Around the turban'd leaguers pour'd, 
 His country claim'd her hero's sword ; 
 A gallant band around him stood, 
 And bathed their swords in Paynim blood. 
 In that dread hour he fell, he died, 
 And she who should have been a bride 
 By fate was widowed, though unwed, 
 A maid affianced with the dead ; 
 But in her eye and on her brow 
 A frenzied hope is beaming now ; 
 And cherish'd still her virgin faith, 
 She claims a lover's troth in death. 
 
 There bowed the mother o'er her child, 
 With looks and words of anguish wild; 
 Talk'd of its sire's achievements done, 
 The mead of praise his valor won, 
 'Till rapt to calmness o'er her theme, 
 Her eye resumed its tranquil beam. 
 ^ In life's last prayer her babe she blest, 
 ' And strain'd it fondly to her breast. 
 
 There sat the old, whom Moslem ire 
 Had doom'd to torture, rack, and fire, 
 Familiar with a tyrant's rage, 
 And worn with service more than age ; 
 Far readier to demand a grave 
 Than crouch and be again a slave. 
 
 There, too, the wounded warrior lay, 
 Proud victim of that hard-fought day ; 
 And there the lov'd and honor'd dead, 
 Who bravely battled, freely bled ! 
 By faithful friendship thither borne, 
 To save from plunder, insult, scorn. 
 
 Here gathered all whose hearts must mourn 
 The tend'rest ties of Nature torn ; 
 Here gather 'd all else forced to roam, 
 Far from their country, kindred, home ; 
 Here all whose souls the boon disdain'd 
 Of life, by base submission gain'd, 
 And all who would not, could not fly, 
 To shun their desp'rate destiny. 
 There gather'd all that space allow'd, 
 A silent self-devoted crowd ; 
 Here Capsalis, ne'er known to swerve, 
 Stood fix'd in purpose, strong in nerve. 
 
 P
 
 226 BENJAMIN W. SWAYNE. 
 
 Close at his side the torch was seen, 
 And there the full-stor'd magazine / 
 Far off they heard the clash, the jar, 
 The furious shock of savage war ; 
 Far off they saw, with watchful eyes, 
 The Cross descend, the Crescent rise ; 
 Then nearer, clearer, round them rose 
 The eager cry of conq'ring foes. 
 Without was roar and deaf'ning din, 
 But not a whisper stirr'd within. 
 No fait* ring bosom breath'd a sigh, 
 No tears bespoke one failing eye ; 
 No sundering ties had they to fear, 
 No fond adieus were uttered there ; 
 No parting charge to loved ones given, 
 At once they all would wake in heav'n. 
 Two thousand Moslems storm' d without, 
 And raised at once the assaulting shout. 
 The fearful moment now had come 
 To sweep them swiftly to their doom ! 
 Brave Capsalis, with dauntless hand, 
 Now seized and hurl'd the blazing brand, - 
 An instant flash, an awful glare, 
 A shock terrific rent the air ; 
 Bewild'ring havoc, wild and wide, 
 Burst fiercely forth on every side ! 
 The strongest bulwarks crumble down, 
 The troubled sea invades the town ; 
 Messenia shook from shore to shore ; 
 The startled Morea heard the roar, 
 And trembled at the fearful knell 
 That told when Missolonghi fell ! 
 
 BENJAMIN W. SWAYNE. 
 ADDRESS TO THE STARS. 
 
 E twinkling luminaries, swung in space, 
 Upheld and guided by a power divine, 
 Tell me if in your distant realms afar 
 Ye hold communion with your sister stars? 
 Does the same light flash from yon distant orb 
 That show'd to the wise men of Judea
 
 BENJAMIN W. S WAYNE. 
 
 The manger where the infant Christ was born ? 
 
 The seed and substance of the living God, 
 
 And sent to suffer for the sins of men. 
 
 Is there an atmosphere existing there, 
 
 And teeming with vitality like ours? 
 
 Does man there lord it o'er his fellow-man, 
 
 And make, as here, accumulated wealth 
 
 The passport to the higher walks of life? 
 
 Does war and pestilence invade your sphere, 
 
 And storms and earthquakes rock you to the core, 
 
 Volcanoes spurt their hissing, seething mass 
 
 Of fiery vapor to your very skies, 
 
 And shake you up with consternation dire? 
 
 Or are ye, twinkling stars, a paradise 
 
 For souls emancipated from the clay, 
 
 That soar to distant fields of pleasure there, 
 
 And bask forever in eternal joys ? 
 
 Ye stars, that fill infinity of space, 
 
 Boundless, illimitable, none can see 
 
 Nor mind conceive the vastness of the plan 
 
 By which you're guided on your distant course; 
 
 Where countless stars round countless suns revolve, 
 
 System on system, countless worlds extend 
 
 Through the vast realms of nature's broad expanse, 
 
 Control'd by power of Deity supreme. 
 
 Strange, that the erring mortal cannot see 
 
 The handiwork of God in nature's plan ; 
 
 That all the parts of a stupendous whole 
 
 Are but the working of a master mind 
 
 That guides the planets in their mazy flight, 
 
 And holds, as in the hollow of his hand, 
 
 The destiny of nations and of men ! 
 
 When night her sable curtain closes round, 
 
 And worldly cares press on thee as a weight, 
 
 Go out beneath the starry canopy 
 
 And hold communion with thy Maker there.
 
 228 WILLIAM M. SWAYNE. 
 
 WILLIAM M. SWAYNE. 
 ORISON. 
 
 N the earth are we sojourning, 
 
 Only for a little while ; 
 All the treasure worth the earning, 
 All the wealth, and power, and learning 
 
 Come by prayerful, earnest toil. 
 
 When the wine-press we are treading, 
 When the path is steep and rough, 
 Conscious that thy hand is leading, 
 And our souls the travail needing, 
 Grant us grace and strength enough. 
 
 All our ways are in thy keeping 
 
 Lead us, wheresoe'er it be ; 
 Let the sowing and the reaping, 
 E'en the garner, filled to heaping, 
 
 Be an offering to thee. 
 
 On thy bounty still relying, 
 
 May we ever grateful be ; 
 With thy laws divine complying, 
 And the order still descrying, 
 
 Live in harmony with thee ! 
 
 In the faith fore'er abiding, 
 From the largess of thy love, 
 
 For our every need providing, 
 
 In thy promises confiding, 
 Keep us for thy realm above ! 
 
 Where our life on earth, so fleeting, 
 
 Merges in eternity, 
 Ramsom'd spirits, heavenly greeting, 
 Joy supernal, at the meeting, 
 
 In our home beyond the sea ;
 
 WILLIAM M. SWAYNE. 22Q 
 
 There to us thyself revealing, 
 
 All the mystery will be/clear, 
 Divinest love to ours appealing, 
 Swallow up all other feeling, 
 
 "Perfect love cast out all fear !" 
 
 Then with childlike faith commending, 
 
 As directs thy loving hand ; 
 Hope with proffer'd mercy blending, 
 Works of charity unending, 
 
 Ways redeeming, thou hast plann'd. 
 
 Oh, the joy, the bliss of BEING 
 
 In a land with glory bright ! 
 Oh, the ecstasy of seeing, 
 Peace abiding, discord fleeing, 
 
 Doubting banish'd, ALL is LIGHT! 
 
 VAL DELICIA. 
 
 AUTUMNAL DAYS. 
 
 " Val Delicia" Valley of Delight is the name given by the 
 late Richard M. Barnard to the portion of the ancestral tract which 
 he inherited, and whereon he built his residence. By a later sub 
 division another home arose, and from " Alta- Vista," where the 
 family gathering took place, the beautiful valley of Pocopson can 
 be seen in its attractiveness. 
 
 Read at the Barnard family gathering September II, 1889. 
 
 AL DELICIA ! Val Delicia ! 
 
 With the name I thee endow;" 
 And the form of him who gave it 
 Seems to stand before me now ; 
 While his kindly words of greeting, 
 
 Even yet, I seem to hear, 
 And the wisdom of his counsel 
 Yet to linger on my ear. 
 
 Val Delicia, pleasant valley ! 
 
 Where the solidagos bloom, 
 And the lovely purple aster 
 
 Sheds a subtile, shy perfume ;
 
 23O WILLIAM M. SWAYNE. 
 
 While the pleasant autumn seasons 
 
 Cheer the heart the spirits raise- 
 When we meet in glad reunion 
 On memorial natal days. 
 
 From the brow of Alta-Vista, 
 
 Where the tall trees proudly wave, 
 We view the patrimonial acres 
 
 That our staid forefathers gave ; 
 Where cattle in the fields agraze, 
 
 And rustle of the ripening corn, 
 Give token of September days 
 
 With fruitage of the summer born. 
 
 Val Delicia ! Val Delicta ! 
 
 Lying warm in dreamy haze, 
 Radiant in thy robes of autumn 
 
 And the bland October days, 
 While the cherished charms of boyhood 
 
 Deck'd thy fields and crown'd the grove, 
 One that loved thee well pass'd upward 
 
 To a fairer home above. 
 
 Ah, too soon for us, our brother, 
 
 Has thy gen'rous heart been still'd ; 
 Too soon the tireless hands were folded, 
 
 And the teeming brain was chill'd ! 
 Where the firs low moan are making, 
 
 And the song-bird's lay is done, 
 With the willow bowed and weeping, 
 
 Val Delicia mourns her son. 
 
 Val Delicia ! Val Delicia ! 
 
 We who linger on our ways 
 Yet sweet memories fondly cherish 
 
 Of some bright November days. 
 Still the ripples of Pocopson, 
 
 Flowing on, will chant thy praise; 
 Still the cups of joy and sorrow 
 
 Mingle with thy autumn days. 
 
 But we seek a fairer valley, 
 Just beyond our mortal sight, 
 
 And a happier reunion, 
 
 In a home of love and light ;
 
 EDWARD SWAYNE. 23! 
 
 Where the spirit, here sojourning 
 In its frame of earthly mould, 
 
 Stays the measure of its yearning, 
 And the joys of heaven unfold. 
 
 From the night of dissolution, 
 
 In the arms of angels borne, 
 Where, on plains of life elysian, 
 
 Dawns our resurrection morn ; 
 And the brightness of the glory 
 
 All the boundless realm illumes, 
 There "the Lily of the valley," 
 
 And "the Rose of Sharon," blooms. 
 
 EDWARD SWAYNE. 
 
 THE OCTORARO. 
 
 JHE forest trees bend o'er thee, stream of my 
 
 song ! 
 Where light mimic billows are bounding 
 
 along ; 
 
 The laurel and cedar in triumph have made 
 A sylvan enchantment, with evergreen shade. 
 
 Their murmurings tremble upon their green leaves, 
 When ev'ry bright bubble with breathing upheaves ; 
 Flow, fair Octoraro, flow gently along, 
 " I love thee, I love thee !" thou stream of my song. 
 
 The fairest of flowerets bloom by thy side, 
 And blush at their images down in thy tide ; 
 The fair water-lily is nursed by thy wave, 
 Thou rock'st it an infant, and finds' t it a grave. 
 
 Yet not did thy bosom entomb it in vain ; 
 
 It riseth and bloometh a lily again ; 
 
 The wild roses greet thee, the flags are unfurl'd, 
 
 Thy vale, Octoraro, 's a beautiful world.
 
 232 EDWARD SWAYNE. 
 
 They tell me of streams that are far from thy shore, 
 Where Scotia's wild waters in cataracts roar; 
 They tell me of rivers surpassingly fair, 
 The swift "rushing Dee" and the "bonny bright 
 Ayr!" 
 
 Yet none would I ask, could they come at my call, 
 
 For thou, Octoraro, art dearer than all ; 
 
 'Mid fragrance and beauty flow gently along, 
 
 " I love thee, I love thee !" thou stream of my song. 
 
 A moss-covered rock, that unconsciously lends 
 A charm to thy margin, is one of my friends ; 
 It laughs when I laugh, in my joy takes a part, 
 And echoes the language you lisp to my heart. 
 
 In fairy-like grandeur by this is my seat, 
 Where oft in the shadows of eve I retreat ; 
 When Phoebus, beneath thee, his brilliance unfurls, 
 And sports in thy eddies, like thousands of pearls. 
 
 When o'er thee the blackbirds their wild revels keep, 
 The turtle-dove moans to a lover asleep ; 
 The ring-plover's melody floats in the breeze ; 
 The red-breasted warbler enchants from the trees. 
 
 The lark gayly sings in his circles above, 
 The musical thrush in thy curtained alcove ; 
 When ev'ry sweet songster's attuned from on high, 
 Then heaven's glad minstrelsy swells to the sky. 
 
 Endear'd Octoraro, if ever I stray, 
 With sirens of fortune, from thee far away, 
 On sleep's dreamy pinions I'll visit thy shore, 
 And fancy I hear in the breezes thy roar. 
 
 Then murmur thee onward, far onward from me, 
 And bear the proud ship on the waves of the sea; 
 'Mid fragrance and beauty move gently along, 
 " I love thee, I love thee !" thou stream of my song.
 
 THE THROPP SISTERS. 233 
 
 THE THROPP SISTERS. 
 
 MARY ELOISA, Amelia, and Catharine Rose Thropp, daughters 
 of Isaiah and Anna Virginia (Workizer) Thropp, and great-grand 
 daughters of Christian Workizer, an accomplished German gentle 
 man and officer in the English army under General Wolfe at the 
 storming of Quebec, are natives of the village of Valley Forge. 
 
 MARY ELOISA THROPP (CONE). 
 
 MARY ELOISA, the eldest daughter, began to write poetry while 
 a pupil at school in Philadelphia, where she received the tuition 
 of Rev. Mr. G. Mainwaring and other distinguished teachers. 
 She commenced her literary career as zprottgl of the Hon. Joseph 
 R. Chandler, editor of the United States Gazette, who was the 
 first to publish her name in connection with her writings. Her 
 early poems were published in the New York Knickerbocker, 
 Graham's Magazine, Godey's Lady's Book, and other literary 
 journals. 
 
 In 1860 Miss Thropp opened a select school for young ladies at 
 No. 1920 Spruce Street, Philadelphia, which she subsequently re 
 moved to the northeast corner of Nineteenth and Chestnut Streets, 
 where many of the young ladies of the first families of the country 
 were educated. In April, 1865, Miss Thropp, in connection with 
 two other ladies of Philadelphia, was appointed by the United 
 States Sanitary Commission to transport and distribute surplus 
 hospital stores among the sick and wounded soldiers in Richmond. 
 The ladies reached Richmond via the Potomac, Chesapeake Bay, 
 and James River, being the first ladies from the North to reach Rich 
 mond after the fall of the defunct Confederacy. They were em 
 inently successful in their mission, and after their return Miss 
 Thropp published a graphic account of their journey in the Phila 
 delphia Inquirer. 
 
 On the 1st of October, 1868, Miss Thropp was married to Hon. 
 Andrew Cone, at that time proprietor and publisher of the Oil 
 City Times. In April, 1873, Mr. Cone was appointed by Gov 
 ernor Hartranft a State Commissioner to the Vienna World's Ex 
 position, and, accompanied by his wife, went to Vienna soon 
 afterwards. After discharging his official duties at the Exposition, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Cone travelled through Austria, Germany, Italy, 
 Switzerland, France, and Great Britian, Mrs. Cone writing letters 
 meanwhile as the correspondent of l\\e Philadelphia Inquirer and 
 the Oil City Derrick. In 1876, Mr. Cone was appointed United 
 States consul at Para, Brazil, by President Grant. After serving 
 three years at Para, Mr. Cone was made consul at Pernambuco by 
 President Hayes, where he served two years, and until his health, 
 which had long been delicate, became so bad that he returned
 
 234 THE THROPP SISTERS. 
 
 home on leave of absence. He died, leaving his widow incon 
 solable for his loss, November 7, 1880. 
 
 Early in 1887, Mrs. Cone was induced by some of the leading 
 citizens of Chester County, among whom were the late Judge J. 
 S. Futhey, Hon. James B. Everhart, and Henry Armitt Brown, 
 to interest herself in behalf of the erection of a monument in 
 memory of the Revolutionary heroes whose remains lie neglected 
 at Valley Forge, and for two years, assisted by her sister, Miss 
 Amelia Thropp, she labored incessantly in furtherance of the project, 
 by holding meetings and calling attention to it through the medium 
 of the press. 
 
 AMELIA THROPP. 
 
 AMELIA THROPP was educated in Philadelphia. Like her 
 sisters, she began to write in childhood while at school, but did 
 not publish much until about ten years ago, since which she has 
 published extensively in the Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and 
 Southern periodicals. Though possessed of much poetic ability, 
 she has chosen to cultivate her gifts as a writer of prose, in which 
 she excels. She visited her sister, Mrs. Cone, while the latter 
 resided fit the consulate at Pernambuco, and while there wrote a 
 series of articles entitled the " Brazil Papers," which were pub 
 lished in a Philadelphia journal, and were extensively copied 
 throughout the country. 
 
 CATHARINE ROSE THROPP (PORTER). 
 
 CATHARINE ROSE THROPP received her entire education at her 
 sister's seminary in Philadelphia. Her first poem was written 
 when she was only ten years of age. At the age of fourteen she 
 published her first prose sketch, entitled " Winfred Wayne," in 
 the Knickerbocker Magazine. She still continues to write both 
 poetry and prose, though she greatly excels in the former, and has 
 published in the Cleveland Leader, Union Signal, Norristown 
 Herald, and the Oil City and Philadelphia journals. 
 
 When quite young she married Mr. George Porter, of Oil City, 
 and is the mother of two charming little girls, who seem to 
 have inherited much of her literary talents. Her beautiful oallad, 
 entitled " Christian Workizer's Steed," was written expressly for 
 this book. 
 
 The Thropp sisters are esteemed wherever they are known, not 
 only on account of their brilliant poetical genius, but, for their 
 high Christian character and the sweet unselfishness of their dis 
 positions. Refined, cultivated, and accomplished, they are en 
 dowed with that admirable poise of mind which enables them to act 
 with discretion and self-possession on all occasions. Being singu 
 larly modest and unassuming, much of the good they have done 
 will forever remain shrouded in oblivion.
 
 MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 235 
 
 MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 
 THE WILD FLOWERS OF VALLEY FORGE. 
 
 LEST be the flowers that freely blow 
 
 In this neglected spot, 
 Anemone, with leaves of snow, 
 
 And blue forget-me-not. 
 God's laurels weave their classic wreath, 
 
 Their pale pink blossoms wave 
 O'er lowly mounds, where rest beneath 
 
 Our martyrs in their grave. 
 
 In white and gold the daisies shine 
 
 All o'er Encampment Hill '; 
 There wild rose and the columbine 
 
 Lift glistening banners still. 
 Here plumy ferns and emerald fringe 
 
 Adorn our stream's bright way; 
 And soft grass whence the violet springs, 
 
 With fragrant flowers of May. 
 
 Oh, there's a spell around these blooms 
 
 Owned by no rarer flowers ; 
 They blossomed on our soldiers' tombs, 
 
 And they shall bloom on ours. 
 To us, as to our sires, their tone 
 
 Breathes forth the same glad strain, 
 "We spring to life when winter's gone, 
 
 And ye shall rise again." 
 
 Uncultured round our path they grow, 
 
 And smile before our tread, 
 To cheer us as long time ago 
 
 They cheered our noble dead. 
 Arbutus in the sheltering wood 
 
 Sighs, " Here he came to pray." 
 And Pansies whisper, "Thus we stood 
 
 When heroes passed away."
 
 236 MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 
 
 Thus every wild-flower's simple leaf 
 
 Breathes in ray native vale, 
 To conscious hearts, some record brief, 
 
 Some true and touching tale. 
 Wealth's gay parterre in glory stands : 
 
 I own their foreign claims, 
 Those gorgeous flowers from other lands, 
 
 Rare plants with wondrous names. 
 
 Ye blossomed in our martyr's field 
 
 Beneath the warm spring's sun, 
 Sprung from the turf where lowly kneeled 
 
 Our matchless Washington. 
 Ye in our childhood's garden grew, 
 
 Our sainted mother's bowers: 
 My grateful heart beats high for you, 
 
 My own wild valley flowers ! 
 
 VALLEY FORGE CENTENNIAL POEM. 
 
 \Vritten at the United States Consulate, Para, Brazil, and read 
 at the Valley Forge Centennial celebration, June 19, 1878. 
 
 ITHIN my window, opening to the sea, 
 
 I stand afar and muse alone, 
 Not on Brazilian scene of wave and shore, 
 
 But on the valley of my home. 
 Above, in graceful rainbow curves, 
 
 The banner freedom won, 
 Of lily, rose, and starry blue, 
 Floats in the morning sun. 
 
 Before me spreads the flashing sea, 
 
 Cradling the white-winged ships to rest, 
 Circling fair Amazonian isles, 
 
 In their rich tropic beauty drest : 
 The beauty of the changeless years, 
 
 Where winters never come, 
 Touched by their artist's matchless hand, 
 
 The equatorial sun.
 
 MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 
 
 Oh ! gazing from this arch of palms, 
 
 O'er silver reach of shining bay, 
 My senses wrapt in beauty's dream, 
 
 My truant thoughts are far away, 
 Not on the glory of this summer land, 
 
 Not on this sky of sapphire blue, 
 Ah, no ! my longing heart, dear friends, 
 
 Is all at home with you. 
 
 Brazilia's wilds, with flowers aflame, 
 
 Brazilia's wastes sublime, 
 Her broad savannas and her boundless floods, 
 
 In all their flush of prime, 
 Superb the setting, but the gem 
 
 Is dross, compared with thee, 
 In virtue firm, in wisdom great, 
 
 Thou land of liberty ! 
 
 Far up 'mid Pennsylvania's hills 
 
 . Ye gather now, brave Boys in Blue, 
 
 Who guarded with your lives the land 
 
 Our fathers left to me and you. 
 Hast'ning with honor, laurels, love, 
 
 Ye come from farm and busy mart, 
 I come not, but, half trembling, send 
 
 The tribute of my grateful heart. 
 
 Oh, loyal men, who conquering came, 
 
 Late from the lurid fields of war, 
 Bringing the Ark of Union home 
 
 On your victorious car, 
 'Tis meet that you, brave kindred souls, 
 
 Should seek each patriot mound, 
 With reverent feet, and grateful heart, 
 
 Our country's holy ground ! 
 
 Men o'er the ocean fought for kings, 
 
 But ye, brave sire and son, 
 To make these States "the promised land" 
 
 For all beneath the sun, 
 Ye rushed to battle, eager, brave, 
 
 And fought the nation's pride 
 True sons of martyred sires, who erst 
 
 Endured, and starved and died.
 
 238 MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 
 
 Sublime in suffering, waiting was to do, 
 
 Oh, holy men of long ago ! 
 Starving in cold and frozen camp, 
 
 Praying on blood-stained snow ; 
 Till weary with the hope deferred, 
 
 Some waited not the coming day, 
 But overtaxed, by suffering spent, 
 
 The silver cord gave way. 
 
 They prayed and fought, endured and died, 
 
 For all the race of time ; 
 And ye, their peers, through paths of death 
 
 Bore Union Ark to freedom's shrine. 
 Oh, could their raptured souls return, 
 
 How would they bless their sons ! 
 Mingling with triumph, songs of praise 
 
 And solemn orisons. 
 
 Rejoice ! the veil of centuries is rent ; 
 
 A hundred years sublime 
 Lie like the waves, ere winds arise, 
 
 Along the shores of time. 
 Blest vale, so fair that Paradise, 
 
 Revived for man again in thee, 
 Blest sunny slopes and favoring skies, 
 
 That cradled first young Liberty ! 
 
 Oh, could thy child's enraptured story 
 
 Tell the great deeds erst done in thee, 
 Her verse proclaim but half thy glory, 
 
 Till every human eye might see, 
 How would mankind adore thy hills, 
 
 Bless every mound thou bearest, 
 And kiss, with reverent lore, the hem 
 
 Of blood-bought robe thou wearest ! 
 
 Renowned thy chieftain's soul of truth, 
 
 Thy Prussian's martial lore, 
 Thy Marquis, ALL the lion hearts 
 
 Who led in freedom's war. 
 Our grateful hearts beat high to them, 
 
 But oh, they yearn to-day 
 O'er those whose strong, heroic souls 
 
 In silence passed away.
 
 MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 239 
 
 How oft in hero-worship there 
 
 I've knelt and kissed the sod, 
 O'er men who through that ordeal grew 
 
 Great as the sons of God ! 
 Oh, feet that pressed these green-redoubts, 
 
 Worn feet, this camping-ground, 
 Your work among these holy hills 
 
 Is felt the wide earth round ! 
 
 For this successive races fought, 
 
 Swiss, Greek, and Roman bled ; 
 Ye wrought at Freedom's forge the steel 
 
 To strike oppression dead ! 
 One power is reaping her reward, 
 
 Sole nation, in advance, 
 To welcome heaven-born freedom in, 
 
 The friendly land of France. 
 
 In war-tried Europe nations fall, 
 
 But thou, oh, fair and young ! 
 Now that the clouds of slavery flee, 
 
 That o'er thy morning hung, 
 Thy sun must rise, while theirs declines, 
 
 Shedding o'er all " Hope's" ray serene; 
 Dispelling heart-ache, want, and woe, 
 
 Where'er its peaceful glories beam. 
 
 The Union safe, thy loyal sons 
 
 Press proudly 'round thee now, 
 Who lifted slavery's rnalison 
 
 From Freedom's suffering brow. 
 She mourns her unreturning brave, 
 
 Lost in our country's night of woe, 
 While yet the tide of civil war 
 
 O'er breaking hearts surged to and fro; 
 
 And, Christ-like, on the mountain yearns 
 
 To gather young and old, 
 In pitying love, till her white wings 
 
 Shall ail mankind enfold. 
 Land of my love ! God guard thee well, 
 
 Thou hope of every clime ! 
 And guide thee, blessing man and blest, 
 
 Thou fairest-born of time !
 
 24O MARY E. THROPP (CONE). 
 
 Oh, keep our fair Columbia pure, 
 
 Brave brothers, tried and true ; 
 Guard well her honor, and the right, 
 
 Our hopes are all with you ! 
 Then round her brow for evermore 
 
 Shall stars of freedom shine 
 That know no zenith of increase, 
 
 No nadir of decline. 
 
 Now blest with Union, Freedom, Peace, 
 
 Give all the praise to God, 
 And consecrate anew, this day, 
 
 Our land, our lives to God. 
 Then shall His benison descend 
 
 On harvest and on store, 
 And, ocean-like, o'er all the land 
 
 Flow ever, evermore ! 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the martial tread of hosts, 
 
 The faint, far roll of drum, 
 The refrain of the mighty dead, 
 
 Across the ages come ! 
 Unseen, but, "ministering spirits" still, 
 
 The deathless heroes pass, 
 In long, august procession, 
 
 Through memory's magic glass. 
 
 Grand armies ! glorious then and now, 
 
 That, left to face the foe, 
 This, victor comes, united, free, 
 
 To honor those of long ago. 
 March, brothers, march at set of sun, 
 
 Your graceful homage given, 
 And let your paeans, as you go, 
 
 Roll o'er the hills to heaven.
 
 AMELIA THROPP. 24! 
 
 AMELIA THROPP. 
 
 HEAVENWARD. 
 
 N the meadows by the woodland, 
 Rosy, dimpled feet, and bare, 
 Wandering in the dawn of childhood, 
 Free from blight of cank'ring care. 
 
 Light, I caught the passing sunbeams, 
 Through my waxen fingers fair, 
 
 Toss'd them back upon the meadows, 
 Threw them on the scented air. 
 
 By my side and ever watchful, 
 Lest my infant feet should stray 
 
 To some dark and miry pitfall, 
 A loving mother led my way. 
 
 Angel-like she prayed and guided, 
 Checking oft my wilful ways, 
 
 Till the hours of childhood glided, 
 Like a magic scroll, away. 
 
 With advice so fondly heeded, 
 Quick the happy moments flew, 
 
 Like the shower of golden sunshine, 
 That my frail bark floated through. 
 
 Life's short dreams forever over, 
 And her works pronounced well done, 
 
 O'er the crystal sea they've borne her, 
 To the land beyond the sun. 
 
 Lo ! the gates of gold gleam yonder 
 In the light beyond the blue, 
 
 And bewild'ring is the splendor 
 Of the glory shining through. 
 
 When I come to lay my burden 
 
 By the golden gates ajar, 
 Weary, footsore, sad, and laden, 
 
 Having journeyed from afar, 
 q 21
 
 242 CATHARINE R. THROPP (PORTER). 
 
 May I then, Lord, Thou permitting, 
 Lay life's cruel crosses down, 
 
 And, through merit of my Saviour, 
 Wear the everlasting crown. 
 
 CATHARINE R. THROPP (PORTER). 
 
 These poems are dedicated to the memory of my mother, Mrs. 
 Anna V. Thropp, of Valley Forge. 
 
 BRIGHT vision of my earliest years, 
 
 Oh, sainted mother, fair and sweet, 
 With aching heart, through blinding tears, 
 
 I lay this chaplet at thy feet. 
 
 The perfect life that set so soon, 
 
 When all its fruits were ripening fair, 
 
 That faded e'er the afternoon 
 Had flung a shadow on the air. 
 
 THE DYING DRUMMER-BOY. 
 
 A TRUE INCIDENT OF THE LATE WAR. 
 
 DRUMMER-BOY in the long ward, 
 A lad, who scarce twelve years had told, 
 
 Lay waiting for the messenger 
 That comes alike to young and old. 
 
 The hero soul in that slight form, 
 Throbbing behind its prison bars, 
 
 Brought the young eaglet from its nest 
 To die beneath the stripes and stars. 
 
 Beneath a forehead crowned with curls, 
 Some mother's pride in happier days, 
 
 From starry depths the deep blue eyes 
 Shone with a wistful far-off gaze. 
 
 A lady sat beside his couch, 
 
 One of those angels Christ sent forth, 
 With loving heart and purpose high, 
 
 To nurse the wounded of the North.
 
 CATHARINE R. THROPP (PORTER). 243 
 
 She read from out the Book of Life 
 That lovely psalm, the twenty-third ; 
 
 The low, sweet music of her voice 
 
 Through all the mists of death was heard. 
 
 " Please read that psalm again," he said ; 
 
 " I learned it at my mother's knee 
 In the dear home so far away : 
 
 ' I shall not want, they comfort me.' ' 
 
 Slowly she read the message o'er ; 
 
 The dull ears drank their music in ; 
 Then asked if she should place the book 
 
 So he could read the words within. 
 
 " I cannot read at all," he said ; 
 
 " It grows so dark I cannot see ; 
 Would you mind placing on the lines 
 
 My fingers, for they comfort me?" 
 
 She placed his hand upon the page ; 
 
 A smile shone o'er the pallid face; 
 The radiance of the Southern sun 
 
 With splendor lit the dreary place. 
 
 The breath of roses filled the breeze 
 
 That floated through that home of pain j 
 
 Across long, level wastes of sand 
 Came the low sobbing of the main. 
 
 " I'm weary now, I want to sleep ; 
 
 But when you write again," he said, 
 " Tell, mother we will meet in heaven, 
 
 And not to mourn when I am dead. 
 
 " The night is coming all too soon ; 
 
 Please place the book upon my breast, 
 With those home words close to my heart ; 
 
 They'll cheer me as I go to rest." 
 
 The little soldier closed his eyes ; 
 
 She left him in the angels' care, 
 But when again she sought his cot 
 
 She found a statue, cold and fair.
 
 244 CATHARINE R. THROPP (PORTER). 
 
 Clasped closely in his little hands, 
 The well-worn Bible mother gave 
 
 To guide the poor boy's wandering feet 
 Through the dark valley of the grave. 
 
 And all the air was filled with peace ; 
 
 No ripple where that bark went down ; 
 Only upon the cold, still brow 
 
 Lay the bright shadow of a crown. 
 
 CHRISTIAN WORKIZER'S STEED. 
 
 Colonel Christian Workizer, great-grandfather of the Thropp 
 sisters, fought under General Wolfe as aide-de-camp on the Plains 
 of Abraham. On the death of his commander he retired from 
 the English army, married, and located in Chester County, where 
 the following incident occurred. 
 
 N the radiant light of the autumn morn, 
 Through fruitful orchards and fields of corn, 
 From the riverside to the highway brown, 
 The English army came marching down. 
 
 Through Chester vale to the city of Penn, 
 Marched thousands of bronzed, red-coated men : 
 Like a horde of locusts they onward stray, 
 Bearing the spoils of the year away. 
 
 Close to the edge of a straggling wood 
 The dwelling of Christian Workizer stood ; 
 They plundered his dairy, his farm-yard, all, 
 The cattle were driven from manger and stall. 
 
 And Bessie, a maiden of scarce ten years, 
 Ran out with her blue eyes filled with tears ; 
 And sobs from the childish heart broke through 
 When " Black Prince," the war-horse, was taken too. 
 
 To Pickering's mill her father had gone 
 With a load of wheat in the early dawn ; 
 With anger the colonel's broad bosom stirred 
 When at eve the pitiful story he heard.
 
 CATHARINE R. THROPP (PORTER). 24$ 
 
 For, next to his children, next to his wife, 
 He loved the good steed that once saved his life : 
 Bess told her tale as he rocked her to rest, 
 And sobbed out her woes on his manly breast. ' 
 
 To the British commander a message with speed 
 Was sent by the colonel, demanding his steed. 
 The general was drinking ; he read the broad page ; 
 "The insolent rebel !" he cried, in his rage : 
 
 " For the one he demands I'll send back a score. 
 Mount, troopers, and ride to his threshold once more, 
 And there you can forage and burn as you will, 
 Perhaps through disasters he'll learn to keep still." 
 
 At the call of the bugle they started abreast, 
 From the turbulent camp, to the home in the west ; 
 The church-bells were ringing from steeple and spire, 
 As they thundered along on their errand of fire. 
 
 Rapine and murder, and fierce lust were there, 
 As the lion enraged springs forth from his lair; 
 Into the door-yard, with clatter and clash, 
 With sabres unsheathed, the bold troopers dash. 
 
 In the door stands the colonel, alone, undismayed, 
 With the scabbard drawn off from his keen, trusty 
 
 blade : 
 
 As the rock proudly flings back the billows' wild flow, 
 He stood there undaunted, awaiting the foe. 
 
 "Who's this?" cried the captain, with swift, sharp 
 
 rebound. 
 "Why, colonel, old comrade!" he springs to the 
 
 ground. 
 
 " Why, comrade, you know we fought side by side 
 On the plains of Abrah'm, where gallant Wolfe died." 
 
 They clasped each other in a fond embrace, 
 With tears and smiles on each bearded face ; 
 While memories bitter and sweet thronged fast 
 On the surging waves of the glorious past : 
 
 Two of the heroes who scaled the height 
 That guards Quebec, at the dead of night, 
 
 21*
 
 246 CATHARINE R. THROPP (PORTER). 
 
 When the sentinel stars shone softly down 
 
 On the spires and roofs of the quaint old town. 
 
 A table was spread for the soldiers with care, 
 With costly viands and vintage rare ; 
 Old stories were told, old ballads were sung 
 Of the joyous days when their lives were young. 
 
 They lingered together till twilight flowed 
 
 O'er the dusky line of the winding road ; 
 
 Then the soldiers rode through the moon's pale rays 
 
 To the distant city and camp-fire's blaze. 
 
 Next morn, while the shadows still lay asleep, 
 On grassy upland and woodland deep, 
 As the sun was rising o'er river and dale, 
 From the Quaker City beyond the vale, 
 
 A messenger came o'er the mountain brow 
 To Colonel Workizer from General Howe. 
 The letter he bore spoke in words most fair 
 Of a warrior's respect for the warrior there. 
 
 Expressing regret, and with courtesy fine 
 For the loss he had suffered, he sent, as a sign, 
 A chain of rich gold all studded with pearl, 
 To bind the bright locks of his fair little girl. 
 
 But more precious than gems in his master's sight, 
 By the messenger's side in the morning light, 
 Under the apple-trees, down the lane, 
 Black Prince came trotting with flowing mane. 
 
 Saddled and bridled, he arched his neck 
 And whinnied with glee at the colonel's beck ; 
 'Gairfst his shoulder he rubbed his glossy head, 
 And pawed the ground with his airy tread. 
 
 Master and charger have mouldered away 
 To dust, in the grave of a by-gone day, 
 And the old home stands in the valley green, 
 Watching unchanged o'er the peaceful scene. 
 
 The winds breathe their requiem, soft and low, 
 
 O'er the nameless mounds where the wild flowers blow.
 
 BAYARD AND EMMA TAYLOR. 
 
 Brave martyrs who perished at Liberty's shrine, 
 Like stars in the zenith, immortal shall shine. 
 
 Their names on our country's bright record of fame, 
 Who died for the heritage grand that we claim ; 
 On Valley Forge hills in that far-off morn, 
 In throes of anguish, our nation was born. 
 
 BAYARD AND EMMA TAYLOR. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR, son of Joseph and Rebecca (Way) Taylor, 
 was born in Kennet Square, at the corner of State and South 
 Union Streets, January II, 1825. He was named for James A. 
 Bayard, United States Senator from Delaware, and in early life 
 sometimes wrote his name J. Bayard Taylor, but ceased to use 
 the J. when he reached maturity. He received his early educa 
 tion at a private school taught by Ruth Ann Chambers, a short 
 distance north of Kennet Square, and not far from Cedat croft, 
 where the family then resided. His teacher was a writer of verses, 
 some of which he copied with great delight in his early child 
 hood. This, no doubt, had much to do with calling into life the 
 germs of poetic genius and imagination which in after-life made 
 him famous as a poet. Subsequently he went to Samuel Martin's 
 school, in a little stone house on the road leading from Kennet 
 Square to Toughkennemon, and to the boarding-school in Union- 
 ville, in which, while he was a student, he also acted as assistant 
 teacher. His life until he was eighteen years of age was mostly 
 passed upon his father's farm, except when he was at school ; but 
 he showed no aptitude for farming, which was distasteful to him, 
 and in 1842 he was apprenticed to Henry E. Evans, proprietor 
 and publisher of the Village Record, to learn the printing busi 
 ness. But his restless spirit could not brook the restraint of a 
 printing-office, and, after working at the business a year or so, 
 he purchased the remainder of his time from Mr. Evans ; and 
 having formed a connection with the New York Tribune, travelled 
 over Europe and published a series of letters as the correspondent 
 of that journal. These letters were so interesting and popular 
 that in 1846 he published them, under the title of " Views Afoot; 
 or, Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff." After his return 
 from Europe, Mr. Taylor, in connection with E. E. Foster, pub 
 lished the Phoznixville Pioneer, which he desired to make a lit 
 erary journal of a high order ; but not receiving the encourage 
 ment he thought the enterprise deserved, he severed his connection 
 with the Pioneer, and connected himself with the New York Tri 
 bune, of which he became one of the co-proprietors and editors in 
 1849. Soon after the discovery of gold in California he visited
 
 248 EMMA TAYLOR (LAMBORN). 
 
 that State in the capacity of editorial correspondent, and returned by 
 way of Mexico. After his return he published his second volume of 
 travels, entitled " Eldorado." Subsequently, in 1851, he travelled 
 over much of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and after traversing more 
 than fifty thousand miles, returned home in 1853. He also visited 
 the East Indies and spent two years there, returning home in 1858. 
 His books of travel, of which there are eight volumes, are well 
 written and very popular. 
 
 On the 24th of October, 1850, he married Mary Agnew, his 
 early school-mate, to whom he had long been engaged. She was 
 then upon her death-bed, and died in the following December. 
 Many years after the death of his first wife Mr. Taylor married 
 Marie Hansen, daughter of Professor Hansen, a distinguished 
 German astronomer, who, with their daughter Lillian, is now 
 residing in Germany. 
 
 In 1862, Mr. Taylor was appointed Secretary of the American 
 Legation at the Court of St. Petersburg, and in 1863 performed 
 the duties of charge d'affaires at that city. In 1878 he was ap 
 pointed United States Minister to Germany, and died while acting 
 in that capacity at Berlin, December 19, 1878. His remains 
 reached New York, March 13, 1879, and two days later were in 
 terred at Longwood, near Kennet Square. 
 
 Mr. Taylor was the author of three novels, " Hannah Thurs- 
 ton," "John Godfrey's Fortune," and "A Story of Kennet," 
 which are well written and quite popular. Mr. Taylor wrote 
 poetry at an early age. His first poem that was published ap 
 peared in The Saturday Evening Post in 1841. It was called 
 " Soliloquy of a Young Poet." Mr. Taylor was the author of 
 many beautiful poems, and it has been well said of him by his 
 friend, the poet George H. Boker, that " poetry was the literary 
 element in which he lived and moved and had his being; to 
 which all other ambitions were subjected, as vassals to a sovereign ; 
 and to success in which he gave more thoughtful labor, and held 
 its fruits in higher esteem, than all the world and all the other 
 glories thereof." While his dramatic poems and his translation 
 of Goethe's Faust give evidence of the highest order of poetical 
 ability, he is better known as the poet of the people, who, to use 
 the language of a brother poet, the late James B. Everhart, he 
 " leads through the ivory gate of dreams into the ideal land, into 
 the world of airy forms, through galleries of graces and vistas of 
 delight, amid vivid pictures and obvious passions, instructive 
 fancies and attractive shows, all harmonious as reality." 
 
 EMMA TAYLOR (LAMBORN). 
 
 MRS. EMMA TAYLOR LAMBORN is the youngest daughter of 
 Joseph Taylor and Rebecca (Way) Taylor, and sister of the late 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 She was born in East Maryborough Township, Chester County. 
 Her early years were passed with her parents and in attending 
 schools in Kennet Square, and in 1856 she went to Europe with
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 249 
 
 her brother and spent a year in study in Germany and Switzer 
 land. 
 
 At the close of the war, in 1865, she was married to Colonel 
 Charles B. Lamborn, an officer of a volunteer regiment from 
 Pennsylvania, and in the following year she went with her hus 
 band to St. Louis, Mo. Colonel Lamborn was at that time secre 
 tary of the Kansas Pacific Railway Co., and he was afterwards 
 connected with other railroad companies in Colorado and the 
 Northwest. His family resided for eight years in Missouri, and 
 then in Colorado Springs, a charming town at the base of the 
 Rocky Mountains in Colorado. In 1882 he became Land Com 
 missioner of the Northern Pacific Railroad Company, and Mrs. 
 Lamborn, with her two young daughters, removed to St. Paul, 
 Minn., where they have since made their home. 
 
 Mrs. Lamborn is now in middle life. She is a woman of 
 liberal culture, scholarly tastes, and of decided poetic gifts. Like 
 her distinguished brother, she possesses a genial and sunny tem 
 perament, and her domestic life has been a very happy one. She 
 has felt the broadening influences of the varied experiences of 
 the years spent among the vigorous and hopeful people of our West 
 ern frontier, and she has travelled much, with her husband, both 
 in this country and abroad. They recently visited Alaska, on the 
 Pacific coast, and Egypt and the Nile country, in the Orient ; 
 and subsequently, in company with her daughters, made an ex 
 tended visit to Italy and Germany. 
 
 Mrs. Lamborn has been an occasional contributor of short 
 stories in prose, and of poems, to Eastern journals and magazines 
 during the past five years. 
 
 The poems published by Mrs. Lamborn have been rhymed son- 
 nets'of fourteen lines each. This form of verse is a difficult one, 
 and in the use of it she has shown much artistic skill and deep 
 poetic feeling. No complete collection of her scattered publica 
 tions has been made, but in 1887 some of her sonnets were 
 printed for private circulation in a pretty little brochure entitled 
 " Ember Days." 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 Published by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 ROM the desert I come to thee 
 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire. 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love but thee, 
 
 With a love that shall not die
 
 25O BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars grow old, 
 And the leaves of the judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion and my pain ; 
 I lie on the sands below, 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 ^And the stars are old, 
 'And the leaves of the judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 My steps are nightly driven 
 By the fever in my breast, 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart, 
 
 And open thy chamber door, 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY AN INCIDENT IN THE CRIMEAN WAR. 
 Published by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 IVE us a song !" the soldiers cried, 
 The outer trenches guarding, 
 
 When the heated guns of the camps allied 
 Grew weary of bombarding.
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
 Lay grim and threatening under ; 
 
 And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
 No longer belched its thunder. 
 
 There was a pause. A guardsman said, 
 " We storm the forts to-morrow ; 
 
 Sing while we may, another day 
 Will bring enough of sorrow." 
 
 They lay along the battery's side, 
 
 Below the smoking cannon ; 
 Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 
 
 And from the banks of Shannon. 
 
 They sang of love, and not of fame ; 
 
 Forgot was Britain's glory : 
 Each heart recalled a different name, 
 
 But all sang "Annie Lawrie." 
 
 Voice after voice caught up the song, 
 
 Until its tender passion 
 Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, 
 
 Their battle-eve confession. 
 
 Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
 
 But, as the song grew louder, 
 Something upon the soldier's cheek 
 
 Washed off the stains of powder. 
 
 Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
 
 The bloody sunset's embers, 
 While the Crimean valleys learned 
 
 How English love remembers. 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 Rained on the Russian quarters, 
 
 With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
 And bellowing of the mortars ! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
 For a singer, dumb and gory ; 
 
 And English Mary mourns for him 
 Who sang of "Annie Lawrie."
 
 252 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
 Your truth and valor wearing ; 
 
 The bravest are the tenderest, 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 HASSAN TO HIS MARE. 
 
 Published by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 OME, my beauty ! come, my desert darling ! 
 
 On my shoulder lay thy glossy head ; 
 Fear not, though the barley sack be empty, 
 Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread: 
 
 Thou shall have thy share of dates, my beauty ! 
 
 And thou know'st my water-skin is free : 
 Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, 
 
 And my strength and safety lie in thee. 
 
 Bend thy forehead now to take my kisses ; 
 
 Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye : 
 Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle, 
 
 Thou art proud he owns thee : so am I. 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, 
 
 Prancing with their diamond-studded reins ; 
 
 They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness 
 When they course with thee the desert-plains ! 
 
 Let the Sultan bring his famous horses, 
 Let him bring his golden swords to me, 
 
 Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his harem; 
 He would offer them in vain for thee. 
 
 We have seen Damascus, oh, my beauty ! 
 
 And the splendor of the pashas there ; 
 What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not 
 
 Take them for a handful of thy hair ! 
 
 Khaled sings the praises of his mistress, 
 And because I've none he pities me; 
 
 What care I if he should have a thousand 
 Fairer than the morning? I have thee.
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 253 
 
 He will find his passion growing cooler, 
 Should her glance on other suitors fall ; 
 
 Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my darling, 
 Fail to answer at thy master's call. 
 
 By and by some snow-white Nedjid stallion 
 Shall to thee his spring-time ardor bring ; 
 
 And a foal, the fairest of the desert, 
 
 To thy milky dugs shall crouch and cling. . 
 
 Then, when Khaled shows to me his children, 
 I shall laugh, and bid him look at thine ; 
 
 Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress me, 
 With thy glossy neck laid close to mine. 
 
 THE WAY-SIDE DREAM. 
 
 Published by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 HE deep and lordly Danube 
 
 Goes winding far below ; 
 I see the white-walled hamlets 
 
 Amid his vineyards glow, 
 And southward, through the ether, shine 
 
 The Styrian hills of snow. 
 
 O'er many a league of landscape 
 Sleeps the warm haze of noon ; 
 
 The wooing winds come freighted 
 With messages of June, 
 
 And down among the corn and flowers 
 I hear the water's tune. 
 
 The meadow-lark is singing, 
 
 As if it still were morn ; 
 Within the dark pine-forest 
 
 The hunter winds his horn, 
 And the cuckoo's shy, complaining note 
 
 Mocks the maidens in the corn. 
 
 I watch the cloud-armada 
 Go sailing up the sky, 
 22
 
 254 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Lulled by the murmuring mountain grass 
 
 Upon whose bed I lie, 
 And the faint sound of noonday chimes 
 
 That in the distance die, 
 
 A warm and drowsy sweetness 
 
 Is stealing o'er my brain ; 
 I see no more the Danube 
 
 Sweep through his royal plain ; 
 I hear no more the peasant girls 
 
 Singing amid the grain. 
 
 Soft, silvery wings, a moment 
 Have swept across my brow ; 
 
 Again I hear the water, 
 
 But its voice is sweeter now, 
 
 And the mocking-bird and oriole 
 Are singing on the bough. 
 
 The elm and linden branches 
 Droop close and dark o'erhead, 
 
 And the foaming forest brooklet 
 Leaps down its rocky bed ; 
 
 Be still, my heart ! the seas are passed, 
 The paths of home I tread ! 
 
 The showers of creamy blossoms 
 
 Are on the linden spray, 
 And down the clover meadow 
 
 They heap the scented hay, 
 And glad winds toss the forest leaves, 
 
 All the bright summer day. 
 
 Old playmates ! bid me welcome 
 
 Amid your brother-band ; 
 Give me the old affection, 
 
 The glowing grasp of hand ! 
 I seek no more the realms of old, 
 
 Here is my fatherland ! 
 
 Come hither, gentle maiden, 
 
 Who weep'st in tender joy; 
 The rapture of thy presence 
 
 Repays the world's annoy, 
 And calms the wild and ardent heart 
 
 Which warms the wandering boy.
 
 EMMA TAYLOR (LAMBORN). 255 
 
 In many a mountain fastness, 
 
 By many a river's foam, 
 And through the gorgeous cities, 
 
 'Twas loneliness to roam; 
 For the sweetest music in my heart 
 
 Was the olden songs of home. 
 
 Ah, glen and grove are vanished, 
 
 And friends have faded now j 
 The balmy Styrian breezes 
 
 Are blowing on my brow, 
 And sounds again the cuckoo's call 
 
 From the forest's inmost bough. 
 
 Fled is that happy vision, 
 
 The gates of slumber fold ; 
 I rise and journey onward 
 
 Through valleys green and old, 
 Where the far, white Alps announce the morn, 
 
 And keep the sunset's gold. 
 
 EMMA TAYLOR (LAMBORN). 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 (B. T.) 
 I 
 [HEN wandering through the woods in early 
 
 spring 
 
 To find the pale and odorous violet, 
 The path I seek doth such remembrance bring 
 Of one whose dearest memory thrills me yet. 
 He comes no more ; with each returning spring, 
 When hawthorns bloom, and stately tulip-trees 
 Their golden blossoms shed, and April's breeze 
 Stirs dry, dead leaves, and warms each creeping thing, 
 And wakes to life the sleeping hearts of flowers ; 
 The meadows, pink with clover buds, the bee 
 Soon finds, and sips the sweets in morning hours : 
 Un plucked, I leave the flowers that once for thee 
 I sought. This budding season brings dull cheer j 
 Life's not the same, since thou no more art here.
 
 256 EMMA TAYLOR (LAMBORN). 
 
 CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 In accordance with her own instructions, the body of Mrs. 
 Helen Hunt Jackson was laid to rest on the side of Cheyenne 
 Mountain, Colorado, in a lonely but charming spot, which she had 
 often visited with her friends, and which, from its profusion of 
 wild flowers, she called " My Garden." 
 
 JOW could we know, on that fair April day, 
 That death, sad messenger, would soon be 
 
 sent ! 
 That glad, sweet day we climbed the steep 
 
 ascent, 
 
 And followed where thy footsteps led the way, 
 And heard thy glad, exultant shout : " This way, 
 Dear friends ; the haunts of mountain flowers to me 
 Are known ; here blooms my loved anemone. 
 This is the spot ! Our steps here let us stay 
 Beneath these sheltering pines." Now thou liest here. 
 Look down once more with heavenly eyes, and tell 
 The secrets hid in God's own garden, dear. 
 We follow, follow where thou lead'st so well ; 
 Too blind to see, too deaf thy voice to hear ; 
 On Cheyenne mountain lone, dear friend, farewell. 
 
 MOUNT EDGECUMBE. 
 
 Mount Edgecumbe is an extinct volcano, situated on the outer 
 most island of the Sitkan archipelago. Its symmetrical cone, 
 rising three thousand feet above the ocean, is covered with per 
 petual snow, and serves as a noted landmark for vessels at sea. 
 It is one of the most beautiful mountain peaks in Alaska. 
 
 I HEN first I saw thy snow-crowned, shining 
 
 dome, 
 
 Rising majestic from an Arctic sea, 
 In Arctic night, more fair than day to me, 
 Methought no lamp to light the traveller home 
 Could fairer be than thou, snow mount Edgecumbe !
 
 J. WILLIAMS THORXE. 257 
 
 Mid forest islands of primeval pines 
 (Whose shadows lengthen into darker lines) 
 Thou risest free and clear to all who come, 
 And sailors sailing on their lonely quest 
 Watch not the rise of moon, nor stars, nor sun, 
 Content to know their beacon light is one 
 Of whitest, purest snow upon thy breast. 
 And come the ebb and flow of rushing tides, 
 This steadfast Pharos shines and surely guides. 
 
 What smouldering fires within thy breast are bound ? 
 What sudden passion burst and rent thy crest 
 In ages gone, where now in quiet rest 
 Brave spirits in their happy hunting ground ? 
 The moon grows pale and hides her sickly face, 
 The stars blink coldly in the icy sea, 
 And ravens soar and croak incessantly, 
 But thou art cold and silent in thy place ! 
 
 So runs the legend of the Sitka race, 
 " That brother unto sister spirit calls," 
 When hoarse the raven's doleful voice is heard. 
 He pecks the fresh green herb from rocky walls, 
 And never more from out the darkened space 
 Of Edgecumbe's heart comes answer to the bird. 
 
 J. WILLIAMS THORNE. 
 
 JOSEPH WILLIAMS THORNE, son of Joseph and Margaret 
 (Williams) Thorne, was born in Sadsbury Township, on Christmas 
 Day, 1810. He is a second cousin of the late Dr. Ann Preston, 
 and also of Miss Annie Dickinson. His education was obtained 
 at the common schools, at Westtown, and at a school taught by 
 Enoch Lewis in New Garden. 
 
 Mr. Thorne went to North Carolina in 1869 and remained there 
 fourteen years. In 1875 ^ e was elected to represent Warren 
 County in the lower house of the Legislature, from which, after 
 serving two months, he was expelled, ostensibly for " having ad 
 vocated and promulgated a most blasphemous document, subver 
 sive of the principles of the constitution of North Carolina and 
 of sound morality ;" but really on account of his radical Republi 
 canism. Mr. Thorne is a member of the Society of Progressive 
 Friends : the document referred to in the resolution was a pam 
 phlet published by him in reply to a lecture delivered in Coates- 
 r 22*
 
 J. WILLIAMS THORNE. 
 
 ville, Chester County, by Joseph Barker, with the doctrines advanced 
 in which Mr. Thome did not agree. In the August following 
 his expulsion he was elected a member of the Constitutional Con 
 vention, and one year later was chosen to represent Warren 
 County in the State Senate. Just five years after his expulsion the 
 House of Representatives, by a unanimous vote, expunged the ex 
 pelling resolution from the record. 
 
 Mr. Thome from his earliest youth was charmed with poetry, 
 and memorized much of it without effort. He began to write 
 verses in his seventeenth year. His first efforts were published in 
 the Register and Examiner, in West Chester, and in the National 
 Inquirer, an anti-slavery paper edited by Benjamin Lundy. 
 
 NATURE PROMPTING TO DEVOTION. 
 
 UR heavenly father, kindly wise, 
 
 Has spread before our sight 
 The loveliness of earth and skies, 
 
 To claim our praise aright, 
 
 That while our eyes with rapture see 
 
 Each good and pleasant thing, 
 Our tender gratitude may be 
 
 An unfeigned offering. 
 
 The blossomed shrubs that charm the grove, 
 
 The streamlets flowing there, 
 And songs of wild birds as they rove 
 
 In the soft vernal air, 
 
 Were they not given to raise our hearts 
 
 To Him who reigns above? 
 Whose ever bounteous hand imparts 
 
 Such unasked gifts of love? 
 
 Is not the earth with plenty filled ? 
 
 Do not the fields o'erflow, 
 And almost without culture yield 
 
 Whate'er the clime can grow? 
 
 And shall our stubborn hearts refuse 
 
 The grateful song to raise ? 
 And while each pleasant gift we use 
 
 Neglect the giver's praise ?
 
 EMMALINE WALTON. 259 
 
 
 
 Do not the gales that round us breathe 
 
 Fresh fragrance as they rove, 
 The flowers that careless blow beneath, 
 
 And the blue heavens above, 
 
 The rivers as they ceaseless run, 
 
 The restless ocean's flow, 
 And the still burning quenchless sun, 
 
 Their. heavenly author show? 
 
 Do not the stars that shine so bright, 
 
 In the deep wilds of space, 
 Seem as the Maker's guiding light 
 
 To our last resting-place ? 
 
 And while we in these orbs of fire 
 
 His holy hand descry, 
 Do they not tender hopes inspire 
 
 Of immortality? 
 
 Then let us praise him and adore 
 
 In early youth's fresh bloom, 
 Nor cease till life's pulse beat no more, 
 
 And the last summons come. 
 
 Devotion's fires, so purely bright, 
 
 Shall cheer our lives along, 
 "And he who was our morning light 
 
 Shall be our evening song." 
 
 EMMALINE WALTON. 
 
 EMMALINE WALTON, daughter of Lewis and Elizabeth H. 
 Walton, was born in the eastern part of what was then West Fal- 
 lowfield, but is now Highland Township, August 10, 1834. She 
 was educated at the public schools near her home, and at the 
 Kennet Square Seminary of Samuel Martin. All her life, except 
 a few years, has been spent in Chester County. She has written 
 much poetry for amusement and recreation, some of which, through 
 the partiality of friends, has been published in the Friends' 
 Intelligencer.
 
 26O EMMALINE WALTON. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON RECEIVING A BOX OF TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 OR thy fond gift thou canst not know the 
 
 feeling 
 
 That stirs my heart to-night, 
 The memories of the past that jcome revealing 
 Their cherished treasures bright. 
 
 The years are many I have trod earth's pathway, 
 
 And of life's lessons learned, 
 Since first, like thee, to find the sweet Arbutus, 
 
 The forest leaves I turned. 
 
 But while within my eyes love's tear-drops glisten, 
 
 As nature brings anew 
 The robes of spring, its bud, and leaf, and blossom, 
 
 And welcome song-bird too ; 
 
 As tender love recalls a late fond presence 
 
 Of dear departed worth, 
 The gladness of thy heart, I know, is tempered 
 
 By early sorrow's birth. 
 
 A parent's praise seems meet to own thy offering, 
 
 In fondness that he knew ; 
 A "silver cord" had reached beyond earth's borders 
 
 Since last year lowly grew 
 
 The sweet Arbutus, trailing in the woodland, 
 
 Where thou hast found with care 
 These lovely flowers, and sent thy kindly offering 
 
 That we might have a share. 
 
 Thou canst not know the peace beyond the river 
 
 Our loved ones there may know ; 
 But calmly trust that God, the Allwise giver, 
 
 Knew best when they should go. 
 
 Thanks for these flowers of beauty and of fragrance, 
 
 And for thy love sincere, 
 That prompted thee to kindly send them to us, 
 
 Our burdened hearts to cheer.
 
 EMMAL1NE WALTON. 26 1 
 
 They come with verdure from my native woodland, 
 
 My native woods and thine, 
 For all the childhood pathways thou art pressing 
 
 In early life were mine. 
 
 Sweet flower's, so beautiful and humbly creeping, 
 
 Truly of modest birth, 
 Just where, our Heavenly Father bid them grow 
 
 And blossom low on earth. 
 
 In nature's groves no lofty place they needed, 
 
 True worth is often found, 
 Its modest, good, and generous gifts bestowing, t 
 
 On quiet, stable ground. 
 
 Here both are sought by many an earnest seeker, 
 
 Their worth is free to all ; 
 The rich, the poor, the old, the young, may gather, 
 
 For palace, hut, or hall. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Be good and kind, and may thy life be happy, 
 
 And by its sweetness known ; 
 A harvest blessed be thine in time of reaping, 
 
 From good seed early sown. v 
 
 Though thou shouldst seem to dwell in lowly places, 
 
 Remember, God is love ; 
 No forest shade can hide His glorious sunlight 
 
 From hearts that look above. 
 
 VACANT PLACES. 
 " Who are left to fill the vacant places ?" 
 
 by one the kind and gentle, loving spirits 
 
 glide away, 
 Who have done their life-work nobly, who 
 
 have labored while 'twas day. 
 Kindred hearts are bowed in sorrow, these are missed 
 
 from Friendship's band, 
 
 Missed where they were wont to mingle, loved and 
 mourned on every hand.
 
 262 LILLIAN WEAVER. 
 
 Voices silent, faces absent, that have given love and 
 
 light, 
 With their cheerful, kindly greeting, walking sweetly in 
 
 the right. 
 " Who will fill the vacant places," who the fallen mantle 
 
 wear ? 
 Who will cheer where they have gladdened, who like 
 
 them the cross will bear ? 
 
 Who will give the bread and water with a free and gen 
 erous hand? 
 
 Who will minister glad tidings, love and peace through 
 out the land ? 
 Oh, tiiese lives, so good and useful, all so full of love 
 
 and truth, 
 Who have well fulfilled their mission, from the dawning 
 
 of their youth ; 
 And have left us, passing meekly, 'neath the Father's 
 
 chastening rod, 
 Their example still may teach us deeper love and faith 
 
 in God. 
 
 He alone can fill the places of the laborers called aside ; 
 Ere the fields are white for harvest, He can won- 
 
 drously provide. 
 From the ranks we least may reckon standard-bearers 
 
 may arise, 
 While more humble duties others must perform, but 
 
 not despise. 
 Let us then not mourn too sadly, but, in spite of doubt 
 
 and fear, 
 Strive to make our lives a blessing, while in faith we 
 
 tarry here ; 
 And, like them, 'til life is ended, calmly, peacefully 
 
 await, 
 Knowing there is joy and gladness just beyond the 
 
 heavenly gate. 
 
 LILLIAN WEAVER. 
 
 THIS writer is the only child of Rev. William and Susan 
 Catharine (Painter) Weaver. She was born in I'hoenixville, July 
 16, 1860, and received her early education at her home ; and at the 
 age of eleven years she was sent to Ivy Institute, I'hoenixville, 
 which she attended for some years and showed great proficiency
 
 LILLIAN WEAVER. 263 
 
 in learning. While attending school she showed a decided taste 
 for verse making, and wrote her weekly compositions in rhyme, 
 " because it was easier." She was prevented from entering college 
 by the fragile condition of her constitution, and finished her edu 
 cation under the tuition of the Rev. F. C. C. Kahler,.who was at 
 that time pastor of the Lutheran Church in Phcenixville. Her 
 favorite studies are the English and German languages. Of the 
 latter she has an accurate and extensive knowledge, and has made 
 herself familiar with the writings of a large number of the most 
 celebrated German authors, many of whose poems she had trans 
 lated into English verse. Some of her translations from the 
 German and a number of her original poems have been pub 
 lished in The Lutheran. She is also a regular contributor to 
 several periodicals published in Boston.* 
 
 A VILLANELLE. 
 
 TO A BUNCH OF FADED VIOLETS. 
 
 IOLETS withered and dry, 
 
 Blossoms of long, long ago, 
 Why did I keep you, oh, why? 
 
 Well I remember when I 
 
 Saw you as white as the snow, 
 Violets withered and dry. 
 
 Some one with tenderest sigh 
 
 Gave you to me then, and oh ! 
 Why did I keep you, oh, why? 
 
 Surely 'twere better to die 
 
 Beautiful, than thus to grow, 
 Violets, withered and dry. 
 
 Did a romance near you lie? 
 
 He is since married, and so 
 Why did I keep you, oh, why? 
 
 No tender memories cry 
 
 I loved another, I know 
 Violets, withered and dry, 
 Why did I keep you, oh, why? 
 
 * While this book was going through the press we learned that 
 Miss Weaver was married, February 21, 1889, to Rev. Ernest R. 
 Cassaday, a Lutheran minister of Philadelphia, in which city she 
 now resides with her husband.
 
 264 LILLIAN WEAVER. 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 RAILING ARBUTUS, so dainty and sweet, 
 Blushing whene'er the sun's glances you meet, 
 As a shy maiden, half loath to discover 
 That her warm friend has changed to a lover, 
 
 Hiding with modest coquetry so rare, 
 Knowing dead leaves make your beauty more fair, 
 Gayly I pluck you with light, eager fingers, 
 While close beside me caressingly lingers 
 
 Some one, whose glance is to me like the sun, 
 Yet, as Arbutus, his gaze I would shun. 
 Ah, little May flower, you are half human 
 The form of a flower the heart of a wonan ! 
 
 A BALLADE. 
 
 NOWEST thou, oh, rippling stream, 
 As thou singest on thy way, 
 
 That the sun, whose golden gleam 
 Woos thee all the summer day, 
 Is a thief, whose warmest ray 
 
 Steals the most of life from thee, 
 And would win thee to delay 
 
 From thy goal the boundless sea? 
 
 Knowest thou, the clouds, which seem, 
 As they lower, dark and gray, 
 
 With thy very life-blood teem, 
 And that thou wouldst fall a prey 
 To the hot sun's cruel sway, 
 
 As thou windest o'er the lea, 
 If the clouds would let thee stay 
 
 From thy goal the boundless sea ? 
 
 Rippling streamlet, dost thou dream, 
 When thy breast with gold is gay, 
 
 That the sunlight's burning beam 
 Is a foe, and clouds are they,
 
 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 265 
 
 Who fight for thee in the fray, 
 And impel thee e'er to flee, 
 
 Lest death keep thee by decay 
 From thy goal the boundless sea ? 
 
 i 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Friend, thy stream of life soon may 
 Flow where time has ceased to be : 
 
 Let not gold woo thee to stray 
 From thy goal the boundless sea. 
 
 A LEAF FROM NATURE. 
 
 |lTH science, through long nights and weary 
 
 days, 
 
 Wise men have striven to unravel life, 
 And, while they vex their finite minds in 
 
 ways 
 
 Too complex for a God, around them, rife 
 With simple lessons, nature lies to teach 
 
 The plan of her Creator. Lo ! His laws 
 Control the earth beneath us, and they reach 
 
 Through us to heaven and angels. Let us pause, 
 And look how nobly lower life than ours 
 
 Obeys His mandates. Plants and blossoms turn 
 By instinct to the sun, nor doubt its powers 
 Because its rays too countless are to learn. 
 As well the flowers might deny the light, 
 As we should doubt our God in all His might ! 
 
 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 
 
 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, son of William and Rebecca (Keehmle) 
 Whitehead, was born in Neve York City, August 17, 1807, and 
 died in West Chester, April 24, 1886. In consequence of the 
 death of his parents his early life was spent with relatives in Phil 
 adelphia. In youth he learned the trade of chair-making in West 
 Chester, and in 1832 became connected with the National Repub 
 lican Advocate of that town. Two years later he disposed of his 
 interest in the Advocate, and engaged in teaching school. Later 
 M 23
 
 266 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 
 
 in life he studied and practised dentistry, and still later engaged 
 in merchandizing. In 1860 he was elected a justice of the peace, 
 in which capacity he served with great acceptability for many 
 years. In 1839 he married Lucretia Fleming. They were the 
 parents of five children. He joined the Presbyterian Church in 
 early life and remained an exemplary member of it until his death. 
 Mr. Whitehead was the author of a large number of fine poems, 
 which compare favorably with the writings of the best poets of 
 Chester County. In 1872 he published a small volume entitled 
 " Etoile and Other Poems," which was well received by the public. 
 
 THE SABBATH BELL. 
 
 HE Sabbath bell, the Sabbath bell, 
 
 I bless the welcome sound ; 
 Around my heart its echoes swell, 
 
 And o'er the hill-tops bound. 
 'Tis sweeter than the morning bird 
 
 That hails the sparkling dawn ; 
 It speaks of faith's sublimest word, 
 
 A Sabbath newly born. 
 
 The Sabbath bell, the Sabbath bell, 
 
 Like that sweet voice of yore, 
 That still'd the ocean's angry swell, 
 
 And taught upon the shore, 
 Has hushed the tumult of my heart 
 
 And green'd the desert there ; 
 And from the sloth of sin I start, 
 
 To breathe the secret prayer. 
 
 Oh, many feet shall tread the aisle 
 
 Of Zion's house to-day, 
 And many hearts unstained with guile 
 
 There bless the narrow way ; 
 And happy they that hear to live, 
 
 When God the heart shall claim, 
 And love's diviner feeling give 
 
 Life's deeds an upward aim ! 
 
 I've wander'd by the grassy mound, 
 Where battle's conflict roll'd, 
 
 O'er Marathon's historic ground, 
 Enrich'd with human mould;
 
 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 267 
 
 Where men's ambitious prowess died 
 
 On stern Plsetea's day, 
 And monuments of manly pride 
 
 Have bow'd to time's decay. 
 
 I've stood beside the pyramid 
 
 On Egypt's lonely waste, 
 Above her temples and her dead, 
 
 By sterile sands embrac'd ; 
 Upon the wild Carnatic shore, 
 
 Where Brahma's children die, 
 I've watch'd the pyre that slowly bore 
 
 The widow's faith on high ! 
 
 But not a sound came there to bless, 
 
 Of mercy or of love ; 
 No word revived the wilderness, 
 
 No blessings beamed above ; 
 Naught but a sad remembrance swept 
 
 Across the battle plain, 
 And mouldering temples echoed yet 
 
 The tread of ruthless men. 
 
 I love the spot where blessings come, 
 
 And paths are lit with peace ; 
 They're brighter than where glory shone 
 
 Upon the hosts of Greece. 
 The vales where hymns of praise ascend, 
 
 And man forgets his pride, 
 Are nobler than the deeds that blend 
 
 With old Scamander's tide. 
 
 There is a charm where Memnon greets 
 
 The morn's ascending beam, 
 And stirring memory backward sweeps 
 
 Upon the Nile's swift stream ; 
 But desert solitudes can give 
 
 The pilgrim's path no ray ; 
 The hermit heart may o'er them grieve, 
 
 But find no upward day ! 
 
 My heart is with my native land, 
 The meads that childhood roam'd ; 
 
 And when upon the spot I stand, 
 That long affection own'd ;
 
 268 WILLIAM WHITEHEAD. 
 
 I love them more for Sabbaths giv'n, 
 For prayers that humbly swell, 
 
 The faith that lifts the eye to heav'n, 
 The holy Sabbath bell ! 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR AND COLONEL FRED TAYLOR IN LONG- 
 WOOD CEMETERY. 
 
 READ kindly ! nor with listless air 
 
 Pass by the brother's cold remains ! 
 There is a warrior resting here, 
 
 And resteth one whose lyre had strains 
 
 To be remembered by his land ; 
 And we, who muse upon the past, 
 Beside the spot where Death has cast 
 The dull mortality, no more 
 Glowing with life's mysterioys power, 
 
 Will not forget the one whose hand 
 Was raised to stay the traitor's course, 
 Nor him who breathed immortal verse. 
 
 Slain ! slain ! O dweller of the tomb ! 
 
 Ere life had known the pulse of fame 
 Slain that the ages yet to come 
 May give to man a nobler aim, 
 
 A high and holier page to time. 
 Thy sword may never flash again 
 Where stern invasion swept the plain : 
 'Tis justly thine, the laurel bloom, 
 That honors all thy early doom, 
 
 And leaves a light on earth to shine; 
 Death, too, was hallowed by the deed 
 That answered to thy country's need. 
 
 And thou, dear bard, whose harp had won 
 
 The fervor of all hearts to thee, 
 We mourn that 'neath life's noonday sun 
 
 Thy song was never more to be 
 Thy minstrelsy an ended strain.
 
 BRINTON W. WOODWARD. 269 
 
 Expectants of a future store, 
 
 We lose thy richer, deeper lore, 
 
 When thoughts their brightest garland wreathe, 
 
 And souls maturer harvests give 
 
 Than springtide days can ever claim : 
 O Fame ! though green thy laurels be, 
 Death stays no garnering hand for thee ! 
 
 But not alone with rhythmic grace 
 
 Wert thou content thy muse should soar ; 
 
 Thy thoughtful footsteps sought to trace 
 Historic path'ways by the shore 
 
 Where nations met the avenger's rage. 
 
 To thee on Egypt's sterile plain 
 
 The voices of the ages came ; 
 
 And Arctic wilds, whose terror-broods 
 
 Won thee within their solitudes, 
 
 And taught thee of the Runic age : 
 
 With gems of lore thy mind was stored 
 
 From every page thy search explored ! 
 
 Funereal yews may lend their shade 
 
 To sadden o'er thy silent rest ; 
 No eye to light where beauty played, 
 No lips to soothe a heart oppressed, 
 
 And trembling harp-strings charm no more ; 
 Yet blessed they who leave on earth 
 Some tokens of enduring worth ; 
 Whose days breathed forth sweet psalms of life 
 To smooth the rugged ways of strife ; 
 
 Thus shall their memory soar, 
 And from the cerements of the tomb 
 The beautiful forever bloom. 
 
 BRINTON W. WOODWARD. 
 
 
 
 BRINTON WEBB WOODWARD, son of Caleb and Mary Webb 
 Woodward, was born in East Marlborough Township, February 
 14, 1834. He was educated at Union ville Academy, and taught 
 school in West Fallowfield, at Birmingham, and in Lancaster 
 County. 
 
 Early in 1855 ne removed to Kansas Territory, locating at Law- 
 
 23*
 
 2/O BRINTON W. WOODWARD. 
 
 rence, and took an active part in the fiery struggle which resulted 
 in making Kansas a free State. He engaged in the drug business 
 in Lawrence, and his establishment is one of the oldest in the 
 State. He has taken an active part in the promotion of education, 
 and for many years was president of the City Board of Education ; 
 and also served as regent and vice-president of the State Uni 
 versity of Kansas. Travelling extensively, at home and abroad, 
 he has made a collection of American and foreign paintings, and 
 has at his home, Brynwood, Lawrence, the only private picture- 
 gallery in the State. 
 
 Much of his time of late years has been devoted to literary pur 
 suits. His writings, which have been published in Western papers 
 and reviews, are chiefly in prose, and devoted to subjects of art, 
 history, travel, and literary criticism ; but he is also a poet, and 
 has written and published many fine poems of great merit. 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 N San Augustine's moss-grown wall 
 The tides of ocean rise and fall : 
 As lapping of the tides, Time sees 
 The course of empires, dynasties; 
 They rise, they fall, and who shall say 
 Save Time, who knoweth yesterday, 
 To-day, and shall to-morrow know, 
 Whether the ceaseless ebb and flow 
 Shall bear our Nation's fortunes on 
 To " heights of glory yet unwon," 
 Or, late or soon, the Right defied, 
 Shall crumble every mount of pride, 
 And whelm her in Oblivion's tide? 
 
 Here throng the memories of her reign, 
 Once monarch of the land and main, 
 Queen of two hemispheres, proud Spain 1 
 The centuries have come and gone, 
 Claiming her conquests one by one. 
 In all the shore we tread upon 
 This coast that lies beneath the sun, 
 One massive fort of fnouldering stone 
 Preserves her memory one alone, 
 San Marco, now Fort Marion. 
 ****** 
 
 Without command, or tap of drum, 
 Phantoms in armor, rayless, dumb,
 
 BRINTON W. WOODWARD. 27! 
 
 How fancy's thronging legions come ! 
 It needs no captain, troop, nor gun 
 To give the Old Fort garrison. 
 
 Lone figure from thronged History's page,, 
 
 Last watch-tower of the Middle Age, 
 
 An outpost of a force withdrawn ; 
 
 A lingerer, who waits alone, 
 
 Unconscious of his comrades gone ; 
 
 A sentinel, with ward to keep, 
 
 That slept the centuries' dreamless sleep, 
 
 Still standing thus, so silent, grim, 
 
 As Sleep and Death were one to him : 
 
 Twixt waters blue and meadows green, 
 
 Thus stands thy Fort St. Augustine ! 
 
 IN BOYHOOD. 
 
 N fancy, still as glad as then, 
 I seek each thicket, glade, and glen, 
 Where woodsy odors, wild and sweet, 
 Rise up at every crush of feet ; 
 Where waves the plumy fern, and dank, 
 Green mosses carpet rock and bank. 
 On knolls that boast "the Barrens" name, 
 The mountain-pink, a sheet of flame, 
 In distance burns ; but, glowing near, 
 Azalea's trumpets fill the air 
 With pungent perfume blown afar. 
 
 The kalmeas waxen clusters spread 
 On rocky slopes, while overhead 
 The dogwood drops its petal snows, 
 And, fragrant with each wind that blows, 
 By roadside blooms the sweetbrier rose. 
 ****** 
 
 Far down along the forest glades, 
 Upspringing 'mid the woodland shades, 
 With graceful, true, and tapering lines 
 As California's sugar-pines, 
 The Liriodendron skyward showers 
 A thousand glorious tulip flowers.
 
 272 BRIXTON W. WOODWARD. 
 
 Tinted with orange, green, and gold, 
 Its cups a honeyed nectar hold, 
 Where bee and humming-bird in tune 
 Make glad the lightsome airs of June. 
 Each cup amid the glistening leaves 
 A largess to the summer gives, 
 For dews of heaven it receives, 
 Queen of all forests yet to me, 
 The Pennsylvania tulip-tree ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Nor one of all the thousand rills, 
 
 Amid the everlasting hills, 
 
 Dashing from rock to rock their spray, 
 
 Or stealing silently away ; 
 
 From Ammonoosuc's windings shy, 
 
 To Mercede's sources, far and high, 
 
 Where sharp Sierras pierce the sky : 
 
 Not one, or all of these whose praise 
 
 Poets sing in tuneful lays. 
 
 Shall quicken pulse of mine in joy 
 
 Like that one brook I knew as boy ! 
 
 The rill that all the livelong day, 
 
 With rocks and pebbles smooth at play, 
 
 Made everlasting roundelay ! 
 
 Where oft I paddled "barefoot" feet, 
 
 Built my mills, and sailed my fleet, 
 
 Just where the woods and meadows meet. 
 
 On sweeter stream I ne'er shall look 
 
 Than that little nameless brook, 
 
 Whose springs of life were near to mine,- 
 
 The brook that ran to Brandywine ! 
 
 CHESTER COUNTY. 
 
 F all life's memories, none so near 
 As childhood's scenes, no joys more dear ! 
 To me, while wandering East or West, 
 Where Nature spreads her choicest, best, 
 No mounts a fairer prospect show 
 Than thy north fields, East Marlboro' ; 
 Whence Bradford towns, and "Laurel" woods, 
 And Newlin's meadows, wet with floods,
 
 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN. 2/3 
 
 But heighten th" opposing scene 
 Where plains of Fallowfield lie green, 
 With Doe Run Valley spread between ; 
 And westward rise, like sloping lawn, 
 The hills of Highland and of Cain ! 
 
 How oft, in boyhood's early day, 
 I viewed those hills, ten miles away, 
 And longed for all the world unknown, 
 That lay beyond their purple zone ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 That world unknown has come to me 
 From Eastern hills to Western sea. 
 In manhood sought, the horizon shifts 
 Its purple glamour fades and lifts. 
 Onward ! the glamour lifts and fades, 
 Till age draws on with twilight shades. 
 
 Haply if, when no more for me 
 Earth's glamour rests on land or sea, 
 To eye of faith the glory lies 
 On world unknown beyond the skies. 
 
 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN. 
 
 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN, daughter of Carleton and Mary Mather 
 Passmoie, and wife of John Marshall Yeatman, was born in 
 Philadelphia. Her father, a graduate of Westtown School, and a 
 fine classical scholar, with his wife, who was an accomplished 
 musician, conducted a large seminary there. In 1828, when their 
 children were quite small, they removed to the old Passmore home 
 stead in Kennet Township. Her home education, with the use of 
 a good public library which her father was instrumental in found 
 ing in the village of Fairville, gave her advantages in acquiring 
 knowledge rarely enjoyed at that time. When about twelve years 
 old she wrote a poem " To a Robin," which pleased her father so well 
 that he sent it to the editors of the Village Record,\\\ which paper, 
 and also the Saturday Evening Post, her earlier writings appeared. 
 
 Having descended through eight generations of Friends from 
 " gentle Thomas Carleton," the persuasive Quaker preacher, a 
 friend of George Fox, Mrs. Yeatman embodied her faith in 
 " Edith," a poem of three thousand lines, which was published by 
 Lippincotts, Philadelphia, in 1882. Of this J. G. Whittier writes, 
 " This beautiful poem is pervaded, through and through, with 
 the spirit of Quakerism."
 
 2/4 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 " A welcome lightly give when joy is with thee." 
 
 IHERE'S a step on the valley, a smile on the 
 
 hill; 
 There's a sound cometh up from the leap of 
 
 the rill ; 
 
 There's a voice on the zephyr that floateth along, 
 It whispers of gladness, it telleth of song ; 
 And the harps of the wind-spirits joyously ring 
 To the glee of thy coming, spring, beautiful spring ! 
 
 There's a cadence that wakes on the soft, dreamy air, 
 'Mid the glow of the twilight it revelleth there ; 
 In the flush of the morning, the shade of the night, 
 It speaketh of joyance, of love, and of light ; 
 The nymphs of the forest-dells laughingly sing 
 To thy harmonized anthem, spring, -beautiful spring ! 
 
 There's a hue on the sky ; there's a hue on the cloud 
 As it circles the azure vault soft in its shroud ; 
 There's a glow on the forest, the valley, the mount, 
 Pure, fresh as the ripple of Siloam's fount ; 
 The sylphs of the rainbow triumphantly bring 
 Their bright tints to greet thee, spring, beautiful spring ! 
 
 Up, up from the forest-dells stealeth the breath 
 
 Of the starry-eyed gems of the song, and the wreath, 
 
 With a fragrance as rich as that breathed in the thrall 
 
 Of the magical gift of the bright Npurmahal ; 
 
 As the Genie of air from their sweet censers fling 
 
 Their incense around thee, spring, beautiful spring ! 
 
 Oh, bright at thy bidding, the air and the earth 
 Hath started to gladness, hath wakened to mirth, 
 And richly thy frolic-hand round us hath cast 
 The gems of the present linked sweet with the past ; 
 And up from our hearts, too, the chorus shall ring, 
 All hail to thy coming, spring, beautiful spring ! 
 
 So changeful, so fair, thou art here with us now, 
 With the dew on thy lip, and the bud on thy brow;
 
 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN. 2/5 
 
 With the flush of thy beauty, so brilliant and wild 
 That the glad soul springs up with the glee of a child, 
 And gazes on thee as some magical thing, 
 With a conjurer's gorgeousness, beautiful spring ! 
 
 And oh ! in thy glory, as lightly along 
 
 In thy birthright of promise thou glidest in song, 
 
 Still be thy light footstep, wherever it rests, 
 
 An earnest of hope, and of peace to the breast, 
 
 Till the wearied in spirit, rejoicing, shall sing, 
 
 Hail, hail to thy promise, spring, beautiful, spring ! 
 
 QUAKER MEETING. 
 
 From " Edith," by permission. 
 
 |N the quiet Quaker meeting, 
 Sitting silently and calm, 
 While the soft, low breeze, 'mid the shading 
 
 trees, 
 
 Whispers a faint, sweet psalm, 
 So soft and low that the spirit, athirst, 
 Heareth and drinketh its balm. 
 
 Out-door the voice of singing bird 
 
 Unrolls a listening pleasure, 
 While the hush and hum of the bee's low thrum 
 
 Seeking her waxen treasure, 
 All speak of the joy surrounding life 
 
 In nature's stintless measure. 
 
 Within, with mild, collected face, 
 
 And hands in meekness folded, 
 While downcast eyes and reverent grace 
 
 Feel " God is in His holy place, 
 Be ye devoutly moulded," 
 
 Sit maid and matron, sire and son, 
 Before the great all-seeing One. 
 
 How deeply falls the silence, 
 The calm, submissive silence, 
 The hushed, deep, waiting silence, 
 Of the Quaker meeting-house.
 
 2/6 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN. 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 " Watch ye unto prayer." 
 
 [LL down the dark blue western slope the linger 
 ing sunflame dies, 
 And Venus breaks in beauty on her star-path 
 
 through the skies, 
 And the surging wind-voice whispers through the pines, 
 
 aweary, slow, 
 
 Waking a deep, deep aftertone from the heart of long 
 ago. 
 
 The long ago how strangely sad its memories crowd 
 
 and come, 
 As soft through onward distance falls the light which 
 
 signals home, 
 And to-night each warm remembrance, calling back the 
 
 roll of time, 
 Folds, with closer fold, as nearer draws the old year's 
 
 parting chime ! 
 
 We may not read the future, but the past is all our 
 
 own, 
 As we trace its stormy reaches by the light of love 
 
 alone ; 
 For the Master only slumbered when the waves rolled 
 
 wild of will, 
 And the fishers' barque moored smoothly 'neath His 
 
 low rebuke, "Be still." 
 
 So with his changeless record, and his balanced ledger 
 
 filled, 
 The phantom of the old year stands beside me stolid, 
 
 stilled, 
 And many an unmarked chapter, where life's noblest 
 
 lessons lay, 
 Unprinted by my hand and thought, are lost forever 
 
 and aye. 
 
 To us the chance is given, and its first light is the 
 
 best, 
 The father loves acceptance of the spirit-word confest ;
 
 LAV1NIA P. YEATMAN. 
 
 And the dear Lord smiles in blessing, though our lines 
 
 may weakly fall, 
 As the sunshine of His presence fills, and guides and 
 
 governs all. 
 
 Soft the sobbing night-wind passes, and the pine-trees 
 
 stir and sway, 
 With a rustle and a startle, ere the air-wave glides 
 
 away, 
 Throwing back a mild rebuking, stealing o'er each 
 
 vain regret, 
 " Life is full of noblest meaning, and its path is on 
 
 ward yet, 
 And a grand retrieving power within its unfilled leaves 
 
 is set." 
 
 All enwrapt in icy sparkle, glides the old year from our 
 
 sight, 
 Down through clouds of fleecy beauty drops the moon's 
 
 exultant light, 
 While I breathe the deep sad prayer, " Fill, O Christ ! 
 
 the New Year's page, 
 And build in all these hearts of ours anew thy 
 
 heritage." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM "EDITH." 
 
 Published by permission of the J. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
 AKES there a chord of joy that we miss 
 From the perfect whole of a June day's bliss, 
 When the heart hath garnered no undue care ? 
 Oh ! to lie in the outer air, 
 On the velvety green by the new-mown hay, 
 Watching the cloud-folds gathering play, 
 With the reapers rattle just faint away, 
 
 Alone, in the luscious month of June : 
 When the dark leaves sway in an anthem alway, 
 
 While the shadows lie hushed on the noon, 
 And the old oak tells to the poplar bells 
 
 What the whispered spells intune, 
 While the luminous air grows rich and rare 
 With the weight of mystic rune. 
 24
 
 278 LAVINIA P. YEATMAN. 
 
 Oh, the tale they whisper hath notes as strange 
 As the wings of Perii, who mount, and range 
 
 Away to the dim empyrean blue. 
 The honey-bee lurks on the wild-rose stem, 
 
 While the purpling shadows fall dimly through ; 
 She listens, and bears the story from them, 
 While the leaf and the tree are telling to me 
 The song of the beautiful mystery.
 
 OTHER POETS. 
 
 IN addition to those persons whose poems appear in 
 the preceding pages, many of those mentioned in this 
 chapter, all of whom have written in measure and in 
 rhyme, are no doubt justly entitled to places in the 
 body of this book. But for many imperative reasons, 
 among which may be mentioned the impossibility in 
 some instances of obtaining any of their writings, and 
 in others the failure to get those which were afterwards 
 obtained with great difficulty at the proper time, it 
 was impossible to give their poems the positions which 
 under other circumstances they would have occupied. 
 For these reasons, and in order that the contents of 
 the book might conform as nearly as it was practicable 
 with the title, this chapter has been added. 
 
 James L. Futhey, brother of the late Judge Futhey, 
 wrote poems in early life. 
 
 Mrs. S. A. Taylor, a native of New Castle County, 
 Del., but for some years a resident of Southern Chester 
 County, has published many fine obituary poems. 
 
 Annie J. Christman, of Pughtown, wrote poems in 
 early life. 
 
 Mrs. E. W. Cutler, of Unionville, has written 
 some fine poems. 
 
 J. O. K. Robarts, editor of the Phccnixville Mes 
 senger, is the author of an ode that was sung at the 
 Valley Forge Centennial celebration, June 19, 1878. 
 
 Rev. Samuel Pancoast, a native of Delaware 
 County, Pa., but who removed to Chester County in 
 early youth, and was a fellow-pupil of Bayard Taylor 
 at Unionville Academy, and who in 1844 became a 
 
 279
 
 28O OTHER POETS. 
 
 member of the Philadelphia Methodist Episcopal Con 
 ference, and subsequently, in 1888, was pastor of the 
 Methodist Episcopal Church of Avondale, is the author 
 of many fine poems, which he contemplates publishing 
 in book form. Mr. Pancoast went to Iowa in 1857, 
 and remained in that State for ten years ; subsequently 
 he made a tour through the principal European coun 
 tries, and at present resides in Chester, Pa. 
 
 Mr. Pancoast is the author of the following poem, 
 entitled " Decoration Poem," which he read at Union 
 Hill Cemetery, Kennet Square, May 30, 1887. 
 
 DECORATION POEM. 
 
 E'VE met within the church-yard, boys, 
 
 Where sleep our honored dead, 
 With hands all filled with flowers of spring, 
 Upon their graves to spread. 
 
 The solemn past comes back to-day, 
 
 And scenes of wild alarms, 
 Which broke in echoes long and loud, 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! To arms ! 
 
 It broke from every mountain-side, 
 
 It swept o'er every plain, 
 And reached the ears of every man 
 
 Throughout this vast domain. 
 
 At Sumpter's dark and frowning height, 
 
 'Mid cannon's fearful roar, 
 The pent-up fires of war broke forth, 
 
 And flashed from shore to shore. 
 
 A million men the echo heard, 
 
 And answered to the call ; 
 They shook their starry banners out, 
 
 And hung them on the wall.
 
 OTHER POETS. 28 1 
 
 The glowing camp-fires brightly shone 
 
 Upon a thousand hills, 
 And snowy tents were pitched beside 
 
 A thousand rippling rills. 
 
 And freedom's music rilled the air, 
 
 Amid the circling camps, 
 And freedom cheered their hearts, amid 
 
 The evening dews and damps. 
 
 And every man, with courage brave, 
 
 Marched to the field of strife, 
 And pledged his honor and his blood 
 
 To save the nation's life. 
 
 They came from Maine's dark wooded hills, 
 
 Upon Atlantic's shores, 
 And where the Rocky Mountains' slopes 
 
 Poured forth their golden stores. 
 
 They came from silvery mountain's lake, 
 
 And from the prairies wide, 
 And joined themselves in solid ranks, 
 
 Like brothers side by side. 
 
 The woodman dropped his axe and left 
 
 His timber still unhewn ; 
 The ploughman left his furrowed field 
 
 While yet with seeds unstrewn. 
 
 These men, unused to war, began 
 
 The use of arms to learn, 
 And how to form the battle-line 
 
 And victories to earn. 
 
 From these recruits the veterans came 
 
 Who never knew defeat ; 
 The bugle blasts to which they marched 
 
 Did never sound retreat. 
 
 With Meade they fought at Gettysburg, 
 
 And gained his victory; 
 They bore the flag in Sherman's march 
 
 Through Georgia to the sea. 
 
 24*
 
 282 OTHER POETS. 
 
 And through the dark, dark Wilderness 
 They pressed from day to day, 
 
 And to their great commander's voice 
 They listened to obey. 
 
 They marched with true and steady steps 
 
 To danger and to death, 
 And true to country and to God, 
 
 They yielded up their breath. 
 
 And still their great commander pressed 
 
 His strong and fearful foe, 
 Until he made his latest stand 
 
 By James's sluggish flow. 
 
 Then, unperceived, an angel bright 
 
 Did hover o'er that scene, 
 And breathed upon the foeman's hearts 
 
 And made them all serene. 
 
 And while they stood a shout was heard, 
 
 It rolled o'er all the field ; 
 Soon, soon it broke from ev'ry lip, 
 
 They yield ! They yield ! They yield ! 
 
 Then merry music filled the air, 
 
 Because the war was o'er, , 
 
 And every boy in blue who lived 
 Could reach his home once more. 
 
 O'er all the land our grand old flag 
 
 In triumph once more waved, 
 For treason crushed and dying lay, 
 
 The nation's life was saved. 
 
 The soldiers turned from sunny South, 
 
 Their arms to put in stores, 
 And for their feet wide open flew 
 
 Ten thousand open doors. 
 
 A brighter day then dawned upon 
 
 The land from sea to sea, 
 For by the war four million slaves 
 
 Were made forever free.
 
 OTHER POETS. 283 
 
 No bondman raised his shackled arm 
 
 Upon Columbia's soil, 
 No fettered slave was forced to serve 
 
 In unrequited toil. 
 
 The wondrous truth which always did 
 
 Our bill of rights adorn, 
 That every man of every clime 
 
 Was free and equal born, 
 
 Should be the heritage of all 
 Who make this land their home, 
 
 And our broad flag should shelter him 
 Wherever he should roam. 
 
 The men who bought with their own blood 
 Their rights, to which we cling, 
 
 Are in these graves on which we strew 
 The early flowers of spring. 
 
 We've decked their graves a score of years, 
 
 With hands of love and care ; 
 We prize the good by them secured, 
 
 And in their blessings share. 
 
 And soon these men who gather here 
 
 Will all have passed away, 
 Just as their comrades passed before, 
 
 Who in the church-yard lay. 
 
 And the Grand Army will be gone 
 
 Who did the Nation save, 
 And by the stern decree of death 
 
 Shall find an honored grave. 
 
 But your brave deeds will still live on 
 
 When all your work is done, 
 And through all future years shall shine, 
 
 Illustrious as the sun. 
 
 And generations yet to come 
 
 Will rise and call you blest, . 
 
 And loving hands will deck the tombs 
 
 Where your remains shall rest.
 
 284 OTHER POETS. 
 
 Marshall Fell, son of Joseph and Ann (Laraborn) 
 Fell, was born in Penn Township, not far from West 
 Grove, March n, 1822. When he was about ten years 
 of age his father removed to Ohio, where the subject 
 of this sketch continued to reside for twenty-five years, 
 when he returned to Chester County and settled at 
 Marshallton. His early life was spent in farming and 
 shoemaking in the employ of his father. Except one 
 winter's tuition from his life-long friend and cousin, 
 Thomas M. Harvey, at his school near Jennerville, his 
 education was obtained at the public schools. His 
 ancestors for many generations having been members 
 of the Society of Friends, as was very natural, he took 
 a lively interest in the anti-slavery cause. One of his 
 earliest poems, written when he was about fifteen years 
 of age, was suggested by the death of Elijah P. Lovejoy, 
 the noted abolitionist, who was killed in a riot in Alton, 
 Illinois, in 1837. March 12, 1846, Mr. Fell married 
 Rebecca Hirst, of Harrisville, Ohio, who died January 
 14, 1851. Subsequently, on February 8, 1855, he 
 married Hannah F. Thomas, of Milltown, Chester 
 County. Mr Fell's early poems were written for amuse 
 ment ; but for some years past he has contributed a 
 number of poems, of a moral and religious character, 
 to the columns of the Chester County journals, and 
 The Friend. 
 
 FUNERAL FLOWERS. 
 
 N festive hall, 
 Where all are crowned with joyousness and 
 
 mirth, 
 
 Exquisite flowers, which beautify the earth, 
 May please and profit all. 
 
 But bowed in grief 
 
 As those who weep, and those who mourn their loss, 
 Their presence is but pain, they find "the Cross" 
 
 Their only sure relief. 
 
 Dear friends and kind, 
 
 Whose minds are moved by tenderest sympathies, 
 Your sober presence has more power to ease 
 
 And soothe the troubled mind
 
 OTHER POETS. 285 
 
 Than lilies fair, 
 
 .Whose spotless beauty often decks the bier 
 Of those who wist not wished not tarriance here, 
 
 Amidst life's sin and care. 
 
 Serious, solemn thought 
 
 Pervades my mind. Death comes to all ! Am I 
 Prepared to give account yield up and die 
 
 Inherit blessings bought ? 
 
 Christ died for all, 
 
 And in his sovereign will and boundless care 
 He would that all mankind might live, and share 
 
 Redemption from the fall. 
 
 John Townsend, a local poet of some celebrity 
 in his lifetime, is believed to have been born in West- 
 town Township, about the year 1780. When about 
 thirty years of age he married Hannah Warner, and 
 settled in New Garden Township. In 1844 he re 
 moved to Adams County, Pa., but after spending a few 
 years there, returned to New Garden, and lived with a 
 married daughter until the time of his death, which 
 occurred in 1864. 
 
 He was the author of the subjoined poem on Patrick 
 Henry. The William C. Preston mentioned in the 
 poem was a grand-nephew of Patrick Henry. He 
 was United States Senator from South Carolina, and 
 opposed the policy "of John C. Calhoun in regard to 
 nullification, in 1832, in which year this poem is be 
 lieved to have been written. 
 
 PATRICK HENRY. 
 
 CHILD of nature from his birth, 
 And cradled in the storm, 
 
 His country knew his sterling worth 
 In days of dread alarm.
 
 286 OTHER POETS. 
 
 The first to strike the spark of war, 
 The first to break the charm, 
 
 And like the son of Hamilcar, 
 The first to breast the storm. 
 
 When Britain poured her minions forth 
 
 In myriads o'er the flood, 
 True as the needle to the north, 
 
 Firm as a rock he stood. 
 
 His powerful eloquence was heard 
 
 Upon the council floor, 
 Nor sword, nor death, nor gibbet feared, 
 
 But dared the lion's roar. 
 
 Nor did he falter on the way 
 
 Until the work was done, 
 The tyrant owned His powerful sway, 
 
 And trembled on his throne. 
 
 His eloquence possessed a charm 
 To change the heart of stone, 
 
 All opposition to disarm, 
 And force of reason own. 
 
 Ye patriots, where's that spirit now, 
 That braved the fire and flood ? 
 
 In Preston's eye a spark doth glow, 
 And for his country's good. 
 
 Roger H. Kirk, who was born in East Nottingham 
 Township, March 16, 1815, and died in Oxford, 
 November 4, 1889, was for many years of the latter 
 part of his life a contributor of poems to the Oxford 
 Press. 
 
 William S. Brinton, brother of T. E. Brinton, 
 whose poems appear in this book, was born in Birming 
 ham Township, in 1835. He has resided in Grafton, 
 111., for many years, and is the author of a number of 
 short poems.
 
 OTHER POETS. 287 
 
 John Workizer, son of Colonel Christian Work- 
 izer, the ancestor of the Thropp sisters, whose poems 
 are published in this book, was one of the earliest 
 poets of Chester County, and in the early part of the 
 present century was a frequent contributor to the 
 Philadelphia journals. The following poem, written on 
 the death of his wife, which occurred in 1811, is the 
 only specimen of his poetry extant. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF MY WIFE. 
 
 HE look that she gave when she bade me 
 
 adieu, 
 The sigh that escaped when she said " We 
 
 must part," 
 
 Her hand as I pressed it, while slow she withdrew, 
 Still live in my mem'ry, still thrill in my heart. 
 
 Her tear-moistened handkerchief, waving farewell 
 From this life, too cruelly swift in its course, 
 
 Her signs, as if still she had something to tell, 
 Each moment return, and return with new force. 
 
 For who could forget who remember, unmoved, 
 Such charms as indifference idly might trace ? 
 
 Who that once loved like me, like me was beloved 
 By goodness and gentleness, virtue and grace. 
 
 She loved me ! how sweet, how transporting the theme ! 
 
 Though far and forever she's gone from my sight ; 
 It suns each reflection, it brightens each dream, 
 
 And even gives absence a tinge of delight. 
 
 Ne'er to see her again, how cruel the thought ! 
 
 Time, distance, their power unavailing will prove ; 
 Though heavy between us the lengthening chain, 
 
 'Twas forged by esteem and is fastened by love. 
 
 Is she absent ? Oh, no, still her image appears ; 
 
 My soul dwells entranced on the vision divine ; 
 Her voice of affectionate music I hear, 
 
 In the accents of angels it says, " I am thine."
 
 288 OTHER POETS. 
 
 William E. Baily, born in West Goshen Town 
 ship, September 9, 1850, published a small volume of 
 poems, entitled " Modern Rhymes," in 1879. He is a 
 printer, and for some years was employed in the office 
 of The Daily News in West Chester, but at present 
 resides in Chicago, 111. 
 
 Mrs. Amanda Pyle Michener, the mother of 
 Frances Lavina Michener, is a writer of ability, and 
 has recently published an interesting poem entitled 
 " Naphtali ; or, The Young Bondman," in a hand 
 some little volume of a hundred and sixty-one pages, 
 from the press of J. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
 John Jackson, a member of the family of that 
 name, the founder of which settled in London Grove 
 Township early in the last century, was fond of scien 
 tific research, and did much to advance the intelligence 
 of the people of the neighborhood in which he lived, 
 by the establishment of a library on the Franklin plan, 
 and by improving the schools and promoting the love 
 for flowers. The following poem, entitled "Morning 
 Meditations," was written in 1787. Mr. Jackson died 
 in 1821, aged seventy-five years. 
 
 MORNING MEDITATIONS. 
 
 MILING vernal season come, 
 
 With thy bright attendant train ; 
 
 This, my morning orison, 
 
 Sings thee welcome here again. 
 
 Come, ye southern gales, and blow 
 On the garden of my heart, 
 
 That her spicy gifts may flow 
 
 When the north hath done its part. 
 
 Gentle fanning zephyrs blow ; 
 
 Bring your soft ethereal showers, 
 Driving hence the frost and snow, 
 
 And refresh the plants and flowers.
 
 OTHER POETS. 289 
 
 Hark, the turtle's voice I hear, 
 And her notes' mellifluous power; 
 
 May her resting-place be near, 
 In this grove and shady bower. 
 
 So shall I, delighted, hearken 
 To her melting, moving strain, 
 
 And assist her to awaken 
 
 Other songsters of the plain. 
 
 That with voices of thanksgiving 
 We may join in choral lays, 
 
 Since there is none but the living 
 That can give accepted praise. 
 
 George W. Roberts, who was born in East 
 Goshen Township, October 2, 1833, and was killed in 
 the battle of Stone River, Tennessee, December 31, 
 1862, while serving as brigadier-general under Major- 
 General Sheridan, was a poetical writer of much ability. 
 He was a graduate of Yale College, and a member of 
 the Chester County bar. 
 
 Mrs. Annie M. Darlington, wife of Francis J. 
 Darlington, of Westtown Township, is the author of a 
 number of well-written poems. She is a native of 
 Cecil County, Md., where most of her poems were 
 written in her girlhood. Some of her poems may be 
 found in the " Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Md." 
 
 Rev. William Newton, D.D., pastor of the Re 
 formed Episcopal Church of West Chester, is a poet 
 of much ability, and the author of a number of books 
 upon religious and scientific subjects, and three vol 
 umes of poems, as follows : " Immortality and Other 
 Poems;" "Human Life;" "The Morning Star and 
 Other Poems;" and "Gleanings from a Busy Life." 
 
 N t 25
 
 290 OTHER POETS. 
 
 Emma Alice Browne, who died at her home in 
 Danville, 111., February 6, 1890, in the fifty-fourth 
 year of her age, though a native of Cecil County, Md., 
 was the daughter of Rev. William A. Browne, who was 
 born in Elk Township, near where the village of Lewis- 
 ville now stands, in the early part of the present cen 
 tury. He died more than half a century ago, when 
 the subject of this sketch was only about eight years of 
 age. Emma spent some time in attending a select 
 school in West Chester, in the autumn of. 1854, and 
 while there continued to write poetry, some of which 
 was published in the Chester County newspapers. Her 
 father, though a man of limited education, was fond of 
 poetry, and taught his little daughter to recite some 
 of the popular lyrics of that day when she was a child 
 upon his knee. It is a fact that she lisped in numbers 
 when only four years of age, and wrote and published 
 poems at ten. She was one of the most chastely bril 
 liant and beautiful writers of her time, having few equals 
 and no superiors as a writer of fugitive poems. George 
 D. Prentice, the gifted editor of the Louisville Journal, 
 who was among the first to recognize her ability, pro 
 nounced her the most brilliant genius of her time, for, 
 said he, " if she can't find a word to suit her purpose, 
 she makes one." She was a cousin of the editor of 
 this book, was twice married, and leaves a husband and 
 three sons, one of whom seems to have inherited much 
 of her poetic ability, for, though only about twelve 
 years of age, he has contributed creditable poems to 
 the New York Ledger, to which his mother was a reg 
 ular contributor for thirty-two years. Her poems that 
 were published in the Ledger were copyrighted, and 
 will shortly be published in book form. Her life, ex 
 cept about three years of her early girlhood and ten 
 years of her married life, which were spent in her 
 native State, was passed in Missouri and Illinois. She 
 died in the faith of the Catholic Church. Owing to 
 the fact that most of this chapter was in type when the 
 tidings of her death reached us, we have been unable 
 to obtain any of the poems she wrote in Chester County, 
 and in lieu thereof insert the following poem, which 
 has been published in many of the leading literary 
 journals of this country.
 
 OTHER POETS. 29! 
 
 MEASURING THE BABY. 
 
 E measured the riotous baby 
 
 Against the cottage wall : 
 A lily grew at the threshold, 
 
 And the boy was just so tall ; 
 A royal tiger lily, 
 
 With spots of purple and gold, 
 And a heart like a jewelled chalice, 
 
 The fragrant dews to hold. 
 
 Without the blue birds whistled, 
 
 High up in the old roof trees ; 
 And to and fro at the window 
 
 The red rose rocked her bees; 
 And the pink fists of the baby 
 
 Were never a moment still, 
 Snatching at shine and shadow, 
 
 That danced on the latticed sill ! 
 
 His eyes were wide as blue-bells, 
 
 His mouth like a flower unblown, 
 Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, 
 
 Peept out from his snowy gown ; 
 And we thought, with a thrill of rapture, 
 
 That yet had a touch of pain 
 When June rolls around with her roses 
 
 We'll measure the boy again ! 
 
 Ah me ! In a darkened chamber, 
 
 With the sunshine shut away, 
 Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain, 
 
 We measured the boy to-day ! 
 And the little bare feet, that were dimpled, 
 
 And sweet as a budding rose, 
 Lay side by side together, 
 
 In the hush of a long repose ! 
 
 Up from the dainty pillow, 
 
 White as the rising dawn, 
 The fair little face lay smiling 
 
 With the light of heaven thereon !
 
 OTHER POETS. 
 
 And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 
 
 Dropt from a rose, lay still, 
 Never to snatch at the sunshine 
 That crept to the shrouded sill ! 
 
 We measured the sleeping baby 
 
 With ribbons white as snow, 
 For the shining rose-wood casket 
 
 That waited him below ; 
 And out of the darkened chamber 
 
 We crept with a childless, moan : 
 To the height of the sinless angels 
 
 Our little one had grown ! 
 
 For reasons beyond the control of the editor or 
 printer the following poems, by Rev. Dr. Matthias 
 Sheeleigh, were omitted from their proper place, and 
 for that reason are inserted here. 
 
 WHITEMARSH CENTENNIAL. 
 
 Written to commemorate the first centenary of Washington's 
 occupation of Whitemarsh in the autumn of 1777, after the battle 
 of Germantown, and before retiring to winter-quarters at Valley 
 Forge. The spot lies thirteen miles directly north of the State 
 House, or the centre of Philadelphia. 
 
 EW fairer scenes of vale and height 
 May charm with loveliness the sight, 
 Though far we turn our wandering feet, 
 Than here around our homesteads meet. 
 
 But not for sake of scene alone, 
 With all its riches round us strown, 
 Prize we this region of content, 
 Hemmed in by circling firmament. 
 
 These fields and skies, these woods and streams, 
 More loudly speak than tongues of dreams ; 
 Old sights and sounds now wake these hills, 
 Till every heart in answer thrills.
 
 OTHER POETS. 293 
 
 Whitemarsh, thy name, securely set 
 'Midst those which patriots ne'er forget, 
 Comes welcomed to these living ears 
 O'er all the past one hundred years. 
 
 That name shall aye a link remain 
 In the well-cherished golden chain 
 Of date, and place, and valorous deed, 
 In times that saw this Nation freed. 
 
 Though now with joy we greet the scene 
 Resting in peace these hills between, 
 A dark-winged cloud once o'er it lay, 
 The deeper gloom ere break of day. 
 
 The Fort upon th" uplifted crest 
 With silent speech doth still attest 
 The perils that, with shades profound, 
 Once girt the cause of Freedom round. 
 
 Familiar names about us here 
 Salute in martial tone the ear ; 
 Eastward, Camp Hill o'erlooks the vale, 
 Militia Hill to West we hail. 
 
 The trenches here in circle bent, 
 Thrown round the war-worn soldier's tent,- 
 Thanks to the sons of patriot sires, 
 Still mark where glowed the camping-fires. 
 
 Here many who, to break in twain 
 Oppression's harsh and heavy chain, 
 Themselves to Freedom's service gave 
 Rest in the soldier's nameless grave. 
 
 Yonder the pilgrim turns him where, 
 Close skirted by the hill-side there, 
 The ancient dwelling boldly stands 
 Whence issued Washington's commands. 
 
 To South the city's gate appears, 
 Where Chestnut Hill its brow uprears, 
 Whose thither front witnessed the smoke 
 That o'er contending armies broke. 
 
 25*
 
 294 OTHER POETS. 
 
 The lifted eye takes in at will 
 The farther ridge of Barren Hill ; 
 There pious hands the spire have set 
 Where guard was held by Lafayette. 
 
 Northward across this vale of rest 
 The shattered ranks for safety pressed, 
 Till, reassured, they turned the face, 
 The line of marching to retrace. 
 
 Then see them, with unshaken hopes, 
 Returned from Skippack's distant slopes, 
 Here through the lapsing weeks to wait 
 What duty next might indicate. 
 
 No sinecure 'twas here to lie 
 In scope of wary foeman's eye, 
 Where it became true wisdom well 
 Each stealthy movement to repel. 
 
 A thinned and foot-sore band at most, 
 That men would scarce pronounce a host, 
 Long beaten, driven, here and there, 
 Still knew not of the word despair. 
 
 What though the anguish of defeat 
 
 Was met in each late battle-heat, 
 
 At Brandywine and Germantown, 
 
 That might faint hearts have broken down ? 
 
 What though their chiefest city now 
 Is humbled by th' exultant Howe, 
 And mocking foes defile the ground 
 Where late the bell woke freedom's sound? 
 
 When hence those patriots pass, what though 
 Their feet leave blood-stains on the snow ; 
 And suffering sore, by mount and gorge, 
 Make winter drear at Valley Forge ? 
 
 A throb from Liberty's great heart 
 Again shall men and chieftain start, 
 To wrest from foe at priceless cost 
 The boon afar accounted lost.
 
 OTHER POETS. 
 
 Long past that day, and long at rest 
 The hearts for them and us distressed, 
 We seat us here in calm repose, 
 Unharmed, unawed, unsought, by foes. 
 
 On ground once trod by soldier-feet 
 
 In temples of the Lord we meet, 
 
 And unto Him lift up our song 
 
 Who smiles on right and frowns on wrong. 
 
 May we who 'mid these scenes abide 
 Hold fast the prize with grateful pride, 
 For which our fathers challenged fear, 
 Nor held their lives a price too dear. 
 
 Steadfast as stand these hill-tops all 
 Each sending back another's call 
 True as the Wissahickon's flow, 
 Be all who here shall come and go ! 
 
 Through deeds that lighten history's page, 
 Ours is a goodly heritage, 
 That, long to us in mercy spared, 
 We'll pass to others unimpaired. 
 
 With praiseful hearts we look on high, 
 To God, who rules the earth and sky, 
 To Him commit, in patriot zeal, 
 The future of our country's weal. 
 
 CARVING A NAME. 
 
 BOY once by a beech-tree stood, 
 To carve his name on the giant wood, 
 Supposing it might bring him fame 
 On the beechen bark to trace his name. 
 
 A few years passed, and the bark grew o'er, 
 And almost hid the name it bore ; 
 Then a woodman came with axe one day, 
 And hewed the old beech-tree away. 
 
 The boy, meantime, had wiser grown 
 Than to seek for fame on wood or stone, 
 But fixed his name in the deathless love 
 Of the good below, and of God above.
 
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 5U8 The poets and 
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