The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 17

"Bring back the joyous hopes of youth!

The faith that knew no flaw of doubt!

The spotless innocence and truth That clothed my maiden soul about!

Bring back the grace of girlhood gone, The rapturous zest of other days!

The dew and freshness of the dawn, That lay on life's untrodden ways-- The glory that will s.h.i.+ne no more For me on earthly sea or sh.o.r.e!

"Call back the sweet home-joys of old That gladdened many a Christmas-tide-- The faces hidden in the mould, The dear lost loves that changed or died!

O, gentle spirits, gone before, Come, from the undiscovered lands, And bring the precious things of yore To aching heart and empty hands; Keep all the wealth of earth and sea, But give my lost ones back to me.

"Vain are my tears, my pleadings vain!

O, roses, drifting with the tide, To me shall never come again The glory of the years that died!

Thro' gloom and night, sweet flowers, drift on-- Drift out upon the unknown sea; Into the holy Christmas dawn Bear this impa.s.sioned prayer for me: O, turn, dear Lord, my heart away From things that are but for a day; Teach me to trust thy loving will, And bear life's heavy crosses still."

NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS, A.M., LL.D.

The following sketch is princ.i.p.ally from the Third Volume of Biographical Sketches of Eminent Americans.

"Nathan Covington Brooks, the youngest son of John and Mary Brooks, was born in West Nottingham, Cecil county, Maryland, on the 12th of August, 1809. His education was commenced at the West Nottingham Academy, then under the charge of Rev. James Magraw, D.D., and subsequently he graduated as Master of Arts, at St. John's College, Annapolis, Md. His thesis was a poem on the World's Changes. Diligent and persevering in his studies, his rapid progress and high attainments won the regard of his teachers, while his amiable manners endeared him to his cla.s.smates.

While his princ.i.p.al delight was in the study of the Cla.s.sics, he devoted much attention to mathematics and other studies. Like many other writers, some of his earliest efforts were in verse. Indeed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.'

Though we have no Shakespeares, or Miltons, or Byrons, there is no scarcity of literary amateurs who, in their hours of recreation and dalliance with letters, betake themselves to poetry as an amus.e.m.e.nt for their leisure hours or a solace amid the rude trials of life. High in the rank of these writers of occasional poetry stands Dr. Brooks.

Nature, in all her forms, he has made the subject of close observation and profound reflection, and in looking at Nature, he has used his own eyes and not the spectacles of other writers. He has a keen relish for the beautiful, and a deep sympathy with the truthful and the good. His taste, formed on the finest models, has been ripened and chastened by a patient study of the great monuments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural development of his mind; and his words the unstudied expression of his thoughts. The music of his verse reminds us sometimes of the soft cadences of Hemans, and not unfrequently of the mournful harp of Byron."

In his eighteenth year he was a contributor of prose and poetry to the _Minerva and Emerald_, and _Sat.u.r.day Post_, of Baltimore; subsequently contributed to _The Wreath_, _Monument_, _Athenaeum_, and _Protestant_, of the same city. In 1830 he edited _The Amethyst_, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to _Atkinson's Casket_, and _The Lady's Book_, of which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for _Burton's Magazine_, and _Graham's_, _The New York Mirror_, _The Ladies' Companion_, and the _Home Journal_; and the following annuals, _The Gift_, _The Christian Keepsake_, and _The Religious Souvenir_. He contributed also prose and poetry to _The Southern Literary Messenger_, _The Southern Quarterly_ of New Orleans, _The London Literary Gazette_, and _The London Court Journal_.

In 1837 Marshall, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his religious poems, ent.i.tled "Scriptural Anthology." In 1840, Kay Brothers, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his prose and poetry, under the name of "The Literary Amaranth." Besides these Dr. Brooks has edited a series of Greek and Latin cla.s.sics, has written four volumes on religious subjects, one on "Holy Week," just issued from the press, "The History of the Mexican War," which was translated into German, "Battles of the Revolution," etc.

In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherished as heirlooms in the family, a silver pitcher, for the best prose tale, ent.i.tled "The Power of Truth," and two silver goblets, one a prize for the poem ent.i.tled "The Fall of Superst.i.tion," the other a prize for a poem, "The South-sea Islander," for which fifteen of our leading poets were compet.i.tors.

Though in his leisure moments Dr. Brooks has achieved so much in literature, his profession has been that of an educator, in which he has had the mental training of males and females to the number of five or six thousand. In 1824, he was appointed to the village school in Charlestown, Cecil county, in 1826, established a private school in Baltimore city; in 1831 was elected princ.i.p.al of the Franklin Academy, Reistertown, and in 1834 princ.i.p.al of the Brookesville Academy, Montgomery county, both endowed by the State; in 1839, he was unanimously elected over forty-five applicants as princ.i.p.al of the Baltimore City High School which position he held for nine years, until asked by the Trustees of the Baltimore Female College, in 1848, to accept the organization of the inst.i.tution. The College is chartered and endowed by the State of Maryland, has graduated over three hundred young ladies, and trained and sent forth two hundred teachers. Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, conferred the degree of LL.D., on Professor Brooks in 1859, and in 1863 his name was presented, with others, for the presidency of Girard College. Though Major Smith, a Philadelphian of an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other compet.i.tors. In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia. Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son. The following poems are selected as specimens of his style.

THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY.

The flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, And the pa.s.sing wind, like a spirit, grieves In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves.

The sun will kiss the dew from the rose, Its crimson petals again unclose, And the violet ope the soft blue ray Of its modest eye to the gaze of day; But when will the dews and shades that lie So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye, Be chased from the folded lids, my child, And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild?

The fawn, thy partner in sportive play, Has ceased his gambols at close of day, And his weary limbs are relaxed and free In gentle sleep by his favorite tree.

He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn Will call him forth to the dewy lawn, And his sprightly gambols be seen again, Through the parted boughs and upon the plain; But oh! when will slumber cease to hold The limbs that lie so still and cold?

When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet That bounded my glad embrace to meet?

The birds you tended have ceased to sing, And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing, And, nestled among the leaves of the trees, They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze.

The morn will the chains of sleep unbind, And spread their plumes to the freshening wind; And music from many a warbler's mouth Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south; But when shall the lips, whose lightest word Was sweeter far than the warbling bird, Their rich wild strain of melody pour?

They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more!

When heaven's great bell in a tone sublime Shall sound the knell of departed Time, And its echoes pierce with a voice profound Through the liquid sea and the solid ground, Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep, And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright In the glorious rays of Heaven's own light, The limbs, that an angel's semblance bore, Bloom 'neath living trees on the golden sh.o.r.e, And the voice that's hushed, G.o.d's praises hymn 'Mid the bands of the harping seraphim.

TO A DOVE.

MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH.

The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around.

In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,-- Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves.

But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed.

Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint?

As if thou hadst come from the sh.o.r.eless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude.

Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more?

That the tall and waving gra.s.s defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles?

That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes?

Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard?

That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more?

Dost thou mourn for the h.o.a.ry-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age?

For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom?

For the light of youth quenched in the tomb?

For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay?

That pastor and people have pa.s.sed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew?

Or dost thou mourn that the house of G.o.d Has ceased to be a divine abode?

That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat?

I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss--Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest.

FALL OF SUPERSt.i.tION.

A PRIZE POEM.

The star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile.

No more with harp and sistrum Music calls To wanton rites within Astarte's halls, The priests forget to mourn their Apis slain, And bear Osiris' ark with pompous train; Gone is Serapis, and Anubis fled, And Neitha's unraised vail shrouds Isis' prostrate head.

Where Jove shook heaven when the red bolt was hurled, Neptune the sea--and Phoebus lit the world; Where fair-haired naiads held each silver flood, A fawn each field--a dryad every wood-- The myriad G.o.ds have fled, and G.o.d alone Above their ruined fanes has reared his throne.[A]

No more the augur stands in snowy shroud To watch each flitting wing and rolling cloud, Nor Superst.i.tion in dim twilight weaves Her wizard song among Dodona's leaves; Phoebus is dumb, and votaries crowd no more The Delphian mountain and the Delian sh.o.r.e, And lone and still the Lybian Ammon stands, His utterance stifled by the desert sands.

No more in Cnydian bower, or Cyprian grove The golden censers flame with gifts to Love; The pale-eyed Vestal bends no more and prays Where the eternal fire sends up its blaze; Cybele hears no more the cymbal's sound, The Lares s.h.i.+ver the fireless hearthstone round; And shatter'd shrine and altar lie o'erthrown, Inscriptionless, save where Oblivion lone Has dimly traced his name upon the mouldering stone.

Medina's sceptre is despoiled of might-- Once stretched o'er realms that bowed in pale affright; The Moon that rose, as waved the scimetar Where sunk the Cross amid the storm of war, Now pale and dim, is hastening to its wane, The sword is broke that spread the Koran's reign, And soon will minaret and swelling dome Fall, like the fanes of Egypt, Greece, and Rome.

On other lands has dawned immortal day, And Superst.i.tion's clouds have rolled away; O'er Gallia's mounts and on Iona's sh.o.r.e The Runic altars roll their smoke no more; Fled is the Druid from his ancient oak, His harp is mute--his magic circle broke; And Desolation mopes in Odin's cells Where spirit-voices called to join the feast of sh.e.l.ls.

O'er Indian plains and ocean-girdled isles With brow of beauty Truth serenely smiles; The nations bow, as light is shed abroad, And break their idols for the living G.o.d.

Where purple streams from human victims run And votive flesh hangs quivering in the sun, Quenched are the pyres, as s.h.i.+nes salvation's star-- Grim Juggernaut is trembling on his car And cries less frequent come from Ganges' waves Where infant forms sink into watery graves.

Where heathen prayers flamed by the cocoa tree They supplicate the Christians' Deity And chant in living aisles the vesper hymn Where giant G.o.d-trees rear their temples dim.