The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 28

INFLUENCES.

Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever.

Flake follows flake, like sprites, Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realms of mind forever.

Beam follows beam, to cheer The cloud a bolt would s.h.i.+ver; Dream follows dream, and fear Gives way to joy forever.

The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream, Impress the heart forever.

MUSINGS.

Few the joys--oh! few and scattered-- That from fleeting life we borrow; And we're paying, ever paying, With an usury of sorrow!

If a bright emotion, pa.s.sing, Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces, Plodding Time--the envious plowman-- Soon a shadowy furrow traces!

If a hope--ambition-nurtured-- Gilds our future, ere we've won it, Vaunting Time--the h.o.a.ry jailor-- Shuts his somber gates upon it!

If a heart our bosom seeking, With a fond affection woos it, Heartless Time--remorseless reaper-- Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!

Things of earth, all, all, are shadows!

And while we in vain pursue them, Time unclasps his withered fingers-- And our wasted life slips through them.

LINES.

WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE.

Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high, With light-house mingling with the summer sky, How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood, Braving alike the wild winds and the flood?

What howling gales have swept those sh.o.r.es along, What tempests dire have piped their dismal song.

And lightnings glared those towering trees among?

And oft, as now, the summer sun has shed His golden glories round thy mountain head, And tarried there with late and lingering hues, While all below was steeped in twilight dews, And night's proud queen, in ages past, as now, Hung her pale crescent o'er thy beetling brow.

Soft lamp--that lights the happy to their rest, But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast, And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glide In lonely sadness up the mountain side; And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past, Some far off knowledge o'er my senses cast, Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale, And of past ages tell mysterious tale-- Speak of those ages of primeval worth, And all the hidden wonders of thy birth-- Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast, And raised the stately ma.s.ses of thy crest?

Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side, Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride, And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil, To alien shrines upon his native soil.

It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the story That stained the wreath of many a hero's glory; But Nature's mysteries must ever rest Within the gloomy confines of thy breast, Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed, Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed.

MRS. SARAH HALL.

Mrs. Sarah Hall was born in Philadelphia October 30th, 1761, and died in that city April 8th, 1830. She was the daughter of the Rev. John Ewing, D.D., a member of the Ewing family of the Eighth district of this county, and one of the most distinguished scholars and divines of his time, and who was for many years Provost of the University of Pennsylvania and pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia.

Miss Ewing's early education was confined to learning to read and write, and in acquiring a thorough knowledge of housewifery. In 1782 she married John Hall, a member of the Hall family of the Eighth district, and the newly wedded pair came to reside in the house near Rowlandville, formerly owned by the late Commodore Conner, and now occupied by his son P.S.P. Conner.

It was while residing in this old mansion, surrounded by the picturesque scenery of the Octoraro hills, that she wrote the poem ent.i.tled "Sketch of a Landscape," which no doubt was inspired by the beauty of the surrounding scenery and the fine view of the "Modest Octoraro," which may be had from the porch of the old historic mansion in which she resided.

After a residence of about eight years in Cecil county the family removed to Philadelphia, where Mr. Hall successively filled the offices of Secretary of the Land Office, and United States Marshal for the District of Pennsylvania. The family returned to Maryland in 1805, and resided on Mr. Hall's paternal estate for about six years.

Mrs. Hall's literary career commenced with the publication of her writings in the _Port Folio_, a literary magazine published in Philadelphia about the beginning of this century, and of which her son, John E. Hall, subsequently became the editor. She soon attained high rank as a magazine writer, and, until the time of her death, occupied a position second to none of the female writers of this country.

Mrs. Hall is best known in the literary world by her book ent.i.tled "Conversations on the Bible." It was written after she was fifty years of age and the mother of eleven children, and was so popular as to astonish its author by the rapidity of its sale.

SKETCH OF A LANDSCAPE

In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806.

What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet, That unexpected, strike my charmed ear!

They are the Robin's song! This genial morn Deceives the feathered tribe: for yet the sun In Pisces holds his course; nor yet has Spring Advanc'd one legal claim; but though oblique So mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays, Impris'ning winter seems subdued. No dread Of change r.e.t.a.r.ds their wing; but off they soar Triumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring.

Advent'rous birds, and ras.h.!.+ ye little think, Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst.

How soon the blasts of March--the snowy sleets, May turn your hasty flight, to seek again Your wonted warm abodes. Thus p.r.o.ne is youth, Thus easily allured, to put his trust In fair appearance; and with hope elate, And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth, To earn experience in the storms of life!

But why thus chide--why not with grat.i.tude Receive and cherish ev'ry gleam of joy?

For many an hour can witness, that not oft, My solitude is cheered by feelings such, So blithe--so pleasurable as thy song Sweet Robin, gives. Yet on thy graceful banks, Majestic Susquehanna--joy might dwell!

For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores, Or n.i.g.g.ard Winter bind them--still the forms Most grand, most elegant, that Nature wears Beneath Columbia's skies, are here combin'd.

The wide extended landscape glows with more Than common beauty. Hills rise on hills-- An amphitheater, whose lofty top, The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns-- Whose ever-varying sides present such scenes Smooth or precipitous--harmonious still-- Mild or sublime,--as wake the poet's lay; Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense; The gifts of Ceres, or Diana's shades.

The eye enraptur'd roves o'er woods and dells, Or dwells complacent on the numerous signs Of cultivated life. The laborer's decent cot, Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill.

The lowlier hut hard by the river's edge, The boat, the seine suspended, tell the place Where in his season hardy fishers toil.

More elevated on the gra.s.sy slope, The farmer's mansion rises mid his trees; Thence, o'er his fields the master's watchful eye Surveys the whole. He sees his flocks, his herds Excluded from the grain-built cone; all else, While rigid winter reigns, their free domain!

Range through the pastures, crop the tender root, Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out, The welcome herb,--now prematurely sprung Through half-thawed earth. Beside him spreading elms, His friendly barrier from th' invading north, Contrast their s.h.i.+elds defensive with the willow Whose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn.

Before him lie his vegetable stores, His garden, orchards, meadows--all his hopes-- Now bound in icy chains: but ripening suns Shall bring their treasures to his plenteous board.

Soon too, the hum of busy man shall wake Th' adjacent sh.o.r.es. The baited hook, the net, Drawn skilful round the wat'ry cove, shall bring Their prize delicious to the rural feast.

Here blooms the laurel on the rugged breaks, Umbrageous, verdant, through the circling year His bushy mantle scorning winds or snows-- While there--two ample streams confluent grace-- Complete the picture--animate the whole!

Broad o'er the plain the Susquehanna rolls, His rapid waves far sounding as he comes.

Through many a distant clime and verdant vale, A thousand springy caverns yield their rills, Augmenting still his force. The torrent grows, Spreads deep and wide, till braving all restraint Ev'n mountain ridges feel the imperious press; Forced from their ancient rock-bound base--they leave Their monumental sides, erect, to guard The pa.s.s--and tell to future days, and years, The wond'rous tale! Meanwhile, The conqueror flood holds on his course, Resistless ever--sinuous, or direct.

Unconscious tribes beneath his surface play, Nor heed the laden barques, his surface bear; Now gliding swiftly by the threat'ning rocks, Now swimming smoothly to the distant bay.

To meet and bring his liberal tribute too, The modest Octoraro winds his way-- Not ostentatious like a boasting world Their little charities proclaiming loud-- But silent through the glade retir'd and wild, Between the shaded banks on either hand, Till circling yonder meed--he yields his name.

Nor proudly, Susquehanna! boast thy gain, For thence, not far, thou too, like him shall give Thy congregated waters, t.i.tle--all, To swell the n.o.bler name of Chesapeake!

And is not such a scene as this the spell, That lulls the restless pa.s.sions into peace?

Yes. Cold must be the sordid heart, unmov'd By Nature's bounties: but they cannot fill, That ardent craving in the mind of man, For social intercourse,--the healthful play-- The moral gem--the light of intellect-- Communion sweet with those we love!

WITH A ROSE IN JANUARY.

Will you accept this bud my dear, Fit emblem of the coming year: The bud expands, the flower blooms, And gives awhile its rich perfumes: Its strength decays, its leaf descends, Its sweets are gone--its beauty ends, Such is the year.--The morning brings The bud of pleasure in its wings: Hope, health, and fortune, smile their day, And charm each threat'ning cloud away: But gathering ills increase their force, And though concealed--make sure their course.

They come--they press--they stand confest, And disappointment tells the rest.