The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 2

I stand where in my childhood's days, I often stood before, But nothing meets my altered gaze As in the days of yore.

The trees I climbed in youthful glee, Or slept beneath their shade.

Have disappeared--no trace I see Of them upon the glade.

The school house, too, which stood near by, Has long since ceased to be; To find its site I often try, No trace of it I see.

The road I traveled to and fro, With nimble feet and spry, I cannot find, but well I know It must have been hard by.

The pond where skating once I fell Upon the ice so hard-- I lost my senses for a spell, And hence became a bard--

Is dry land now where grain or gra.s.s Is growing year by year; I see the spot, as oft I pa.s.s, No ice nor pond is there.

A barn is standing on the spot Where once the school house stood; A dwelling on the playground lot, A cornfield in the wood.

I mourn not for these altered scenes, Although it seems so strange That all are changed; I know it means That everything must change.

I mourn the loss of early friends, My schoolboy friends so dear; I count upon my fingers' ends The few remaining here.

In early youth some found their graves, With friends and kindred by; While some beneath the ocean's waves In dreamless slumbers lie;

While many more, in distant lands, No friends nor kindred near, Are laid to rest by strangers' hands, Without one friendly tear.

A few survive, both far and near, But O! how changed are they!

Like the small band a.s.sembled here, Enfeebled, old, and gray.

Strange feelings rise within my soul, My eyes o'erflow with tears, As backward I attempt to roll The flood of by-gone years.

This honored pair we come to greet, For five-and-forty years Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Have worn the nuptial gears.

The heat and burden of the day They honestly have borne, Until their heads are growing gray, Their limbs with toil are worn.

In all the ups and downs of life-- Of which they've had their share-- They never knew domestic strife, Or, if at all, 'twas rare.

They now seem standing on the verge Of that unfathomed sea, Just waiting for the final surge That opes eternity.

When comes that surge, or soon or late, May they in peace depart; And meet within the s.h.i.+ning gate, No more to grieve or part.

THE DONATION VISIT.

The following poem was read upon the occasion of a donation visit by the Head of Christiana congregation to their pastor, Rev. James I.

Vallandigham.

Fair ladies dear, and gentlemen.

I thought not to be here to-day: But I'm a slave, and therefore, when My muse commands, I must obey.

I've struggled hard against her power, And dashed her yoke in scorn away, And then returned, within an hour, And meekly bowed and owned her sway.

I know the ground on which I stand And tremble like an aspen when I see around, on every hand, Such learned and such gifted men,

Who really have been to college, And know the Latin and the Greek; And are so charged with general knowledge That it requires no little cheek

In an obscure and modest bard To meet a galaxy so bright,-- Indeed, I find it rather hard To face the music here to-night.

Dear friends, we've met, as it is meet That we should meet at such a time, Each other and our host to greet,-- Or guest, 'tis all the same in rhyme.

No king nor queen do I revere; The majesty of G.o.d I own.

An honest man, though poor, is peer To him that sits upon a throne.

I long to see the coming day When wicked wars and strifes shall cease, And ignorance and crime give way Before the march of truth and peace.

That welcome day is drawing near; I sometimes think I see its dawn; The trampling of the hosts I hear, By science, truth and love led on.

I see the murderous cannon fused, With its death-dealing shot and sh.e.l.l, For making railway carwheels used, Or civil railway tracks as well.

And small arms, too, will then be wrought Into machines for cutting wheat; While those who used them will be taught To labor for their bread and meat.

G.o.d speed the day,--'tis bound to come, But not as comes the lightning's stroke; But slowly, as the acorn dumb Expands into the giant oak.

Now, reverend sir, I turn to you, To say what all your flock well know; You, as a pastor kind and true, Have led the way we ought to go.

You have rejoiced in all our joys, And sympathised with us in trouble; You have baptized our girls and boys-- And often you have made them double.

With all your gifts and talents rare, You meekly take the servants place, And guard the sheep with jealous care And hold the lambs in your embrace.

In all the ups and downs of life We've found in you a constant friend; You've counselled peace, discouraged strife, And taught us all our ways to mend.

For eight-and-twenty years you've stood A watchman on the outer wall; Repressing evil, aiding good, And kindly watching over all.

Though age may enervate your frame And dim the l.u.s.tre of your eye, No lapse of time can soil your name, For names like yours can never die.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES.

Another star has left the sky, Another flower has ceased to bloom; The fairest are the first to die, The best go earliest to the tomb.

That radiant star, whose cheering ray, Adorn'd her quiet, rural home, Went down, in darkness, at mid-day.

And left that quiet home in gloom.

That lovely flower, admired so much, In all its loveliness, was lost, It withered at the fatal touch Of death's untimely, killing frost.

The mourners go about the street, While children tell their tale of woe To every pa.s.ser-by they meet, In faltering accents, faint and low.

"Dear Mary Hayes is dead," they say, While tears roll down their cheeks like rain, "Her eyes are closed, she's cold as clay,"

And then their tears gush out again.