The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 46

Ah, that our natural wants and best affections Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle!

Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections, Whose derelictions merit such corrections, Must bear the illicit smuggle!

We would it were not so. This compromising, Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden, Of higher natures, with the wants arising From poor humanity--'tis a sympathizing That may not all be hidden.

We both have learned there is a high soul feeling, That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven; And one of us, there is a sad congealing Of sweet affection!--a veil the rock concealing, Where hearts are rent and riven.

Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion; And arbitrary fate is earth's arbiter; The adverse elements of a marvelous union, With counter-currents vex the spirit's pinion, When high intents invite her.

It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing May wring the spirit with a quivering pain; Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring, Is but a momentary, blissful sharing, That flutters back again.

It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow, Or wander withering in the maze of doubt, Antic.i.p.ating scarce a joy to-morrow, Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow-- That will not all go out.

Yes! there are bosom-chords--thanks to the Giver!

The sad, low whisperings of which can never Be all subdued, though they may shake and s.h.i.+ver With death and coldness, if we brave the river With wise and strong endeavor.

O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling!

Of thy refres.h.i.+ngs let my sad heart drink; 'Tis past!--too late--too late, vain trump, your swelling; My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling-- 'Tis pa.s.sing sweet, what these mule wires are telling-- O what a joy to think!

MY COTTAGE HOME.

A VESPER HYMN.

Awake, my harp! a song for thee, While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers; 'Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free-- Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers?

For the day's well spent, And I'm content, Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary; 'Tis a heaven below, The joys to know-- The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery.

The world's all beauteous now and bright, And calm as a cradled infant sleeping, And the chords of love are attuned aright, Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leaping As free and sweet As a brother's greet In a foreign land all strange and dreary; And halls more bright Have less delight, I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery.

My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home!

With its trellised vines around the cas.e.m.e.nt clinging, And the happy strain of that sweet refrain, The gentle tones of loved ones ringing, When the day's well spent, And all content.

What though the o'er-labored limbs are weary?

Our hearts are free And merry, and we Rejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery.

With wants so few, while hearts so true, With a fond concern, are beating near us; We'll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile.

The approving smile of Him to cheer us, Who makes us to know The poor and the low.

Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary, At last will rest With the truly blest-- O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery.

THE MIGHTY ONE.

You have felt his power--you have felt his power-- For a mighty one is he: He is found in the field and is known in the bower And hid in the cup of the tenderest flower, He lurks where you may not see.

He's a sleepless sprite, and at dead of night He'll come with his feathery tread, And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams, And light up your vision with silver beams, Though he leaves you an aching head.

Away, and away, like a thought, he flies, His home in the air and sea; Of all that is earth he claims a birth, And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forth On the breeze's back, unceasingly.

In the sea's great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps, In chambers of coral and gold-- Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weeps O'er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps, And places that never were told--

He is everywhere, and very well known In palace, in court, and cot; Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown, He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne, And his chains are spells of thought.

The maiden has murmured in 'plaint so low, While the tear trickled over a smile, That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till "no,"

Was the heart's quick response, "I would not have him go-- The 'Annoyer' may linger awhile."

He shadows the pages of cla.s.sic lore In the student's loneliest hour, And wakes up a thought that had slept before-- An image is born that can die no more-- The student feels his power.

A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river, A voice in the song of birds; It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiver Of oak, beech and fir-leaf--it speaketh forever In thrilling, mysterious words;

'Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well, His presence you may not shun; For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell, And poets may sing us and sages may tell That Love is a mighty one!

THE SURVIVING THOUGHT.

How long, ah me! this weary heart hath striven With vanity, and with a wild desire!

How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven, While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given, One after one expire?

These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable; And we are all too p.r.o.ne to clutch them fast, Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable, To which a "thread of gossamer is cable--"

They cannot--cannot last!

Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing-- The settlement of proud Belshazzar's doom!

These timely buds must early feel a blighting-- This earthly strife--ah, 'tis a sorry fighting!

The victory--the Tomb!

The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished; The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright-- Are they all gone--forever gone, and perished-- Ev'n the last bud my silent tears had nourished-- Have all been Death's delight?

And will he come and mock me with his booty, And twirl my visions round his bony finger?

And will he tell my heart no other beauty Upon the earth is mine--no other duty, Than for his mandate linger?

Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished, a.s.sert thy heritage--exert thy might; Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished, And pain and wrong's envenomed part out-anguished, One ray breaks through the night.

There is, there is one blessed thought surviving; The heart's sure fulcrum in the saddest strait-- An overture to this unequal striving-- A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving!

Bear up, my heart, and wait.

Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful; A calm must follow each untoward blast; With steady eye look forward to the sequel; The common road will then seem less unequal, That brings us home "at last."

Come trial, pain, and disappointment's s.h.i.+ver, Ye are my kindsmen--brothers of this clay; We must abide and I must bear the quiver A little while, and we shall part forever-- Beyond the surges of that sh.o.r.eless river Ye cannot "come away."

THE WORKING MAN'S SONG.

Toil, toil, toil, Ever, unceasingly; The sun gets up, and the sun goes down, Alike in the city, in field or town, He brings fresh toil to me, And I ply my hard, rough hands With a heart as light and free As the birds that greet my early plow, Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow In gusts of song and glee.

Toil, toil, toil, Early, and on, and late: They may call it mean and of low degree, But I smile to know that I'm strong and free, And the good alone are great.

'Tis nature's great command, And a pleasing task to me, For true life is action and usefulness; And I know an approving G.o.d will bless The toiler abundantly.

Toil, toil, toil-- Glory awaits that word; My arm is strong and my heart is whole, And exult as I toil with manly soul That the voice of Truth is heard.