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The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland by Various

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In all the glorious sweets of song
That thrill from soul to soul aflame,
And die the barren hills among
From whence the summer carols came.

All day the leafless monarchs wave
Their hoary branches high in air,
And white-winged spirits guard the grave
Where late they laid the Autumn fair.

A sterner nature marks the land,
The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep,
The Summer trips it, hand in hand,
With Autumn o'er the distant deep.

Where lift the dim, perpetual isles
Their purple ensigns of the youth
That ever dimples, romps and smiles
Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth.

And deep within the wooded lane
The oak and pine, in plaintive call,
Unto the wintry tide complain,
As leaves and brown nuts constant fall.

They wait their crowns, the naked kings!
And down the avenues of night
The frosty god, December, brings
Them glistening diadems of white.

White petals of the virgin snow,
With sprigs of ivy here and there,
They deck the forest monarch's brow,
While breezes whistle through his hair.

A sterner nature marks the soul,
Men's lips draw near the cup of life,
They wait to hear the centuries' roll
That bring the kingly crowns of strife.

The spring-time months and summer years
Beside the Autumn days are laid,
Beneath the grave of conquered fears,
Beneath the sloping hill-side's shade.

And deeper joy, serener faith,
Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp,
While death, the monarch, gently lay'th
Upon their brows a kinglier clasp.

They wait no more the golden crown;
Men, trees, the careless days of strife,
Drift onward to the far, sweet town,--
God's kingdom of eternal life.


I walk not by the sounding sea;
I dwell full many leagues from shore
And still an echo drifts to me
Of the eternal, constant roar
Of waves, that beetle past the crags
And moan in weary flights of song
Where wet sea moss and coral drags
The shiny lengths of sand along.

I see beyond the friendly vales,
And grand old hills that guard my home,
To where the seaward petrel sails
And storm winds of the Northland moan.
I live again in brighter days,
New-born from dreams of the dead past,
When she and I stood there to gaze
At sparkling hull, and spar, and mast

Of some staunch sea-craft bound amain
At will of wayward wind and fate,
Deep plunging in the waves to gain
Some northern isle, or rich estate
Of palm and pine in southward clime,
Where all day long the playful air
Pranks with the grizzled beard of time
And paints his hoary visage fair.

Within the dim, old forests here,
I wander now long leagues from shore,
And still the old song haunts my ear,
The century singing ocean's roar;
And now I know, fond soul of love;
Why still the murmurous echoes live,
And sound for aye the hills above
That back to earth the music give;

She, too, walked there in dreams with me,
In love's sweet unity we trod
The moon-bathed sands, and swore to be
Forever true before our God.
I see it still, her pale, calm face,
With angel love-light in her eyes,
And ever there, beside such grace,
A dim, sweet token of surprise.

Oh, tender touch of one soft hand!
I held it then in simple trust,
Alas, ye waves that lick the sand!
How long has that hand lain in dust?
I see her soul in yonder star,
I see the soft lines of her face,
And could God so unkindly mar
That angel beauty and its grace?

Roll, murmuring echoes of the sea!
Repeat thy sweet, immortal moan,
Drift ever inland unto me
Within my sunny Southern home;
And it shall be a tender dream--
Thy plaintive music thrilling me,
And her star face above--shall seem
Like other days beside the sea
When our lips touched eternally.


The sea winds blow from western isles,
From isles where fancy dwells and peace.
Where summer sunshine softly smiles
And perfumes of the far off east
Float over waves white-capped with foam
That glisten in the pale sweet light
Shed from the far eternal dome
Where fair star faces paint the night.

Life must have rest sometime, somewhere,
On land or wave its peace shall be,
And I have found my life's fond share
In yon fair isle of Hebride;
In yon fair isle where all day long
The sunlight shadows drift and float
And all the world seems bathed in song
Borne trembling from the skylark's throat.

O! isle of peace, the waves that kiss
Thy beaches all the centuries through,
Flow from mysterious founts of bliss
From founts o'er run with sunny dew,
And o'er thy tree-tops lazily
The perfumed breezes come and go
With odors from that far countree
Where eglantine and jessamine grow.

Fair isle of summer, isle of love,
Where souls forget their bitter strife
And mingled sadnesses that move
In tempests o'er the sea of life;
I kiss thy fair shore with my knee,
And lift a thankful heart to God,
For perfect joy comes unto me
Where thy trees' blossomed branches nod.

Thy long sea waves float in beyond
The dim blue lines of sunlit sky,
Where films of cloudy lacework frond
The billows tumbling mountain high;
And shoreward in the still sweet eve
The low songs of the mermaids drift,
As in some coral grot they weave
Their seaweed robes, and sometimes lift

Their long, strong, tangled lengths of hair
Above the bosom of the wave,
While 'mid its golden meshes fair
The distant sunbeams stoop to lave.
Sweet isle of fancy, far beyond
The dark dim vales of human woe,
My bark of love sails o'er the fond
Blue waves that ever shoreward flow.

My bark sails on the unknown sea
Led by a large, pale star alone,
That star wherein her face may be,
Who to that better land hath gone.
O, never turn, brave white-sailed ship,
Again towards that barren shore
But bear me on the waves that dip
And kiss yon isle forevermore.

Sweet day of rest when toil is past,
When hearts can lay their burdens by
And feel the peace God's angels cast
In isleward flights from his fair sky!
Sweet isle of love where fancy dwells,
And nature knows no pang of care,
I hear the music of its bells
Far floating on the evening air.

I hear the lonely shepherd's song
Flow down the green and mossy vale,
And westward all the calm night long
The restless sea gulls sail.
I sometimes turn towards the stars
With sudden shock of glad surprise,
And half believe these island bars
Are but the gates to Paradise.


I stood one summer, friend, beside
The foam waves of a distant sea
That muttered all the summer through
A low sweet threnody.

A mournful song was ever on
The lips that it were death to kiss,
A song for those who died as died
The brave at ancient Salamis.

A thousand graves lay in the trough
Of that great ocean of the East,
A thousand souls fled through its foam
Towards the starlit land of peace.

And for each ship-wrecked soul that slept
Beneath the dark inconstant waves
The wind gave songs in memory
Of men true-hearted, pure and brave.

But I have stood, sweet-singer, by
Thy lonely, unmarked grave to-day,
And all the songs thy memory got
Came from the branches in their sway.

Ah, peace! ah, love! ah, friendship true!
No wreath rests here wove by your hands
To mark the Poet's silent tomb.
As tombs are marked in other lands.

But in my noon-day dream there came
From the fair bosom of the hills
The voice of some sweet psalmist, thus--
"'Tis so God wills, 'tis so God wills."


I care not for the life that is,
I think not of the things that are;
I live, oh! soul of tenderness,
Beneath an angel blessedness
That draws its light from one small star.

I know not if the world be ill,
I care not for its throb of pain,
I live, oh heart, in fellowship
With other hearts that rise and dip
In the great sea that floods the main

From east to west with tides of love--
The ocean of Eternal Life,
Whose waves flow ever free and warm
From land of snow to land of palm
And heal the naked wounds of strife.

I only know God's law is just,
And that is all we need to know,
I live down creeds of hate and spite,
I build the nobler creeds of right
That beautify our beings so.

The days are brief that come apace,
When morn wakes up and night sinks down,
But far beyond the hills of jet
The glory of the sweet sunset
Lights all the steeples of the town

Within whose walls no sadness lives,
No broken hearts, no simple strife,
For that I live, oh soul of faith,
For that whereof the Master saith
"Here find eternal love and life."


Mrs. Rosaliene Romula Murphy, daughter of John and Hannah Mooney, was
born in Philadelphia, May, 1, 1838, and married Thomas H.P. Murphy, son
of John C. and Ann Rothwell Murphy, and grandson of Hyland Price, of
Cecil county, on the 18th of May, 1858. Her education was obtained at a
school taught by the Sisters of Mercy, and at the public schools of her
native city.

Immediately after her marriage Mrs. Murphy came to Cecil county, and for
ten years resided near the head of Bohemia river; subsequently she has
resided in Middletown, Delaware, in Chester county, Pennsylvania, and
for the last ten years in Philadelphia. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are the
parents of eight children, four of whom are now living.

From early childhood Mrs. Murphy has shown a remarkable aptitude for
literary work, and when quite a little girl at school, frequently took
the highest average for composition. She commenced to write for the
press at an early age and while in this county contributed poetry to the
columns of the local newspapers and some of the journals of Wilmington
and Philadelphia.


Woman has certain rights I own,
That none will dare deny;
No king nor senate can destroy
Her claims,--nor will they try.
'Tis hers to smooth the homeward path
Of age,--her strength their stay;
To guide their feeble footsteps here,--
To brush life's thorns away.

'Tis hers to make a sunny home,
To cherish and support
With love, the one who claims her heart,
Through good and bad report.
To watch the tiny sleeping babe,
Just nestling in her breast,
To shield it with her mother-love,
And guard it in its rest.

To watch in vigils of the night,
The fever-tossed frame;
To cool the dry, and parched lips,
And ease the racking pain.
To close the eyes when all is o'er,
To weep with those who weep;
To help the weary in their task,
Keep guard whilst others sleep.

To love and cherish, guard, protect,
Make home a sunny spot--
Keep ever pure her mother name,
A name not soon forgot!
To win and wear her husband's love,
As an honored, cherished crest;
To hold her children's hearts, so "they
Will rise and call her bless'd."

To nobly share the widow's woe,
To dry the orphan's tears,
To pray for strength for hearts oppress'd,
And help allay their fears;
To reach a helping, loving hand,
To those who go astray,
And woo them back again to God,
As they faint along the way.

She claims but loving trusting hearts!--
Let all their wealth be shown!--
No law can take, nor ballot give
The jewels of her crown!
These, these, are all a woman's rights--
Quite easy to attain--
For most she governs, it is said,
"When least she seems to reign."


My way was stopped, as I hurried on,
A carriage pass'd--and again 'twas clear,
But my glance took in the tiny box,
And the mourners bending near.
"Only a baby"--was lightly said--
As I safely crossed the street,
But my heart went with the little group,
With their darling at their feet.

"Only a baby,"--God but knows
The mother's bleeding heart;
And the father's white, sad face would tell,
How hard it is to part.
"Only a baby!" what a void,
In a merry, cheery home;
An empty cradle, a half worn shoe;
And a mother's broken tone.

"Only a baby!" the aching eyes
Look out on the busy street,
And fall on other laughing babes,
And the silent form at her feet.
"Only a baby!" a desolate home,
Those stricken hearts will know,
When they lay their darling down to rest,
'Neath the willows bending low.

"Only a baby!" how cold it seemed
To speak of the angel near,--
My heart went after the snowy form.
For its parents I breathed a prayer:
"Only a baby!" ah, the weary day
And the sleepless night,
The feverish longing--the aching heart--
For the baby gone from sight!

"Only a baby!" the heart sobs out,
What hopes lie shatter'd here,
The broken bud--the tiny frame,
An angel hovering near.
"Only a baby!"--the years creep by--
'Twill ever be, tho' locks be gray;
Growing no older--only their babe;
As years before it passed away.



You plucked a grey hair from my head,
To-day, as you stood near me:
There's plenty more, that are deftly hid
By wavy crimps,--I fear me.
'Tis many years since last I wrote,
With fun, and spirits plenty;
But now my fourth son has a vote,
And my babe's not far from twenty.
Ah! so it goes; old time strides on,
Nor cares for years, and worries,
But knocks us here; and hits us there,
As past us quick he hurries;
We still are friends, and have our fun,
In spite of years, and trouble;
We've planted, reaped, and had our day.
And now we're in the stubble.


Rachel Elizabeth Patterson, better known as Lizzie Patterson, is the
daughter of William Patterson and Sarah (Catts) Patterson, and was born
in Port Deposit, February 2, 1820. She is also the granddaughter of an
Englishman who settled on Taylor's Island, in Chesapeake Bay, where he
owned considerable property, which by some means seems to have been lost
by his family.

Her father at one time kept a clothing store in Port Deposit, where he
died when the subject of this sketch was quite young, leaving a family
of helpless children, who were soon scattered among strangers. Elizabeth
was placed in a family residing a short distance south of the village of
Rising Sun. While in this family she was seized with a violent illness,
which confined her to bed for many months and from which she arose a
cripple and a sufferer for life.

Her poetic talent began to manifest itself in those early days of
suffering, and during subsequent years of confinement she found solace
and recreation by composing her "Songs in Affliction," which about
thirty years ago, in accordance with the advice of her friends, she
published in a small volume bearing that name. The first edition
consisted of eight hundred, and was so well received as to warrant the
publication of another one of five hundred copies. In 1872 she published
another small volume, entitled "The Little Streamlet," which contained
some poems written since the publication of the first volume. Miss
Patterson at present and for many years past has resided in Baltimore.


How, poor frail and erring mortal,
Darest thou judge thy fellow-man
And with bitter words and feelings,
All his faults and frailties scan?

Why rake out from time's dull ashes,
And before the world display
Deeds, it may be, long repented
And forgiven, ere this day?

Canst thou search his secret feelings?
Canst thou read his inmost soul?
Canst thou tell the hidden motives
Which his actions here control?

Is he erring? seek in kindness,
Then, to win him back to peace;
Is he weak? oh try to strengthen;
Sad? then bid his sorrows cease!

Lay thou not a heavier burden
By an unkind look or word,
On a heart which may by anguish
To its inmost depths be stirred.

O! forbear thy hasty judging!
Should thy righteous God demand
Half the justice which thy brother
Is receiving from thy hand,

What, oh what would be thy portion,
Though more righteous thou than he,
Would not the glad gates of mercy
Soon their portals close on thee?


I do not wish thee worldly wealth--
For it may flee away;
I do not wish thee beauty's charms--
For they will soon decay.

I do not wish for thee the joys
Which from earth's pleasures spring;
These give at best a fleeting bliss,
And leave a lasting sting.

I do not wish thee mortal fame--
This, like a meteor bright,
Gleams but a moment on the sky,
And leaves behind no light.

I wish for thee that richer wealth,
No earthly mines reveal,
"Which moth and rust cannot corrupt,
And thief can never steal."

I wish for thee the sweeter joys,
Which from religion flow;
These have the power to soothe and bless,
In hours of deepest woe.

I wish for thee the honor pure,
Descending from on high;
To lift thy soul away from earth,
And raise it to the sky.

I wish that peace through all thy life,
May on each step attend;
May rapture crown its closing hour,
And perfect bliss its end.


How oft when youthful skies are clear,
And joy's sweet breezes round us play,
We dream that as through life we steer,
The morrow shall be like to-day.

We paint each scene with rainbow hues,
And gaily sail on stormless seas,
While hope, through life's bright future, views
The port she thinks to make with ease.

But ah! how soon dark clouds of woe
Spread o'er those skies a deepening shade,
And waves of sorrow overflow,
And all the rainbow glories fade.

'Tis thus earth's hopes, however bright,
Expire and vanish, one by one,
E'en as the shore recedes from sight,
When glides the free bark swiftly on.

Yet the redeemed, with anchor firm,
Time's swelling billows shall outride,
And far beyond the raging storm
Shall make the port on Canaan's side.

Oh, may this bright and blissful hope
Fill my poor heart with joy and peace,
Bid me 'mid all life's storms look up
To yon blest land, where storms shall cease.

And when with life's last gale I've striven,
And all its raging waves have pass'd,
Oh, may I, in the port of heaven,
My anchor Hope securely cast.


Callander Patterson was born near Perryville, Cecil county, May 6, 1820.
His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood.
Many years ago he went to Philadelphia, where he studied dentistry,
which he has since practiced in that city. Mr. Patterson commenced
writing poetry when quite young, but published nothing until upwards of
forty years of age. His poetry--of which he has written much--seems to
have been of a religious character.

Owing to causes beyond our control, the following poem is the only one,
adapted to this book, that we have been able to obtain.


Our God is great! and to his arm
I'll trust my destiny;
For what in life or death can harm
The soul that leans on thee?

Thine arm supports the universe,
For by thy might alone
The blazing comets speed their course,
Revolving round thy throne.

They go and come at thy command
To do thy sovereign will;
Each one supported by thy hand,
Its mission to fulfill.

Through boundless space, 'mid shining spheres,
Those wingless heralds fly;
Proclaiming through the lapse of years
That God still reigns on high.

And all those burning suns of night
That light the distant space,
Declare thy power infinite,
Thy wisdom and thy grace.

We try to scan those regions far
Till vision fades away,
And yet beyond the utmost star
Are plains of endless day.

And when we earthward turn our gaze,
With wonder and delight,
We marvel at the lightning's blaze
And tremble at its might.

And yet, thy hand is in it all,
For there thy love is seen:
By it the rain is made to fall,
And earth is robed in green.

The cyclone on its path of death
That rises in an hour,
The fierce tornadoes' wildest breath,
But faintly show thy power.

And though the laws are yet unknown
That guide them in their path,
They are the agents of thy throne
For mercy, or for wrath.

Thus I behold thy wondrous arm
And own thy works divine:
Then what in life or death can harm
So long as thou art mine?


Tobias Rudulph, the subject of this sketch, was the third person of that
name and was the grandson of the Tobias Rudulph, who was one of four
brothers who emigrated from Prussia and settled in Cecil county early in
the eighteenth century. For many years the family took a conspicuous
part in public affairs.

Tobias Rudulph's uncle and his uncle's cousin Michael, the son of Jacob,
and the uncle of Mrs. Lucretia Garfield, very early in the Revolutionary
war joined a company of Light Horsemen, which was recruited in this
county and served with great bravery and distinction in Light Horse
Harry Lee's Legion in his Southern campaigns. They were called the Lions
of the Legion.

John Rudulph won the title of "Fighting Jack" by his courage and
audacity, both of which essential requisites of a good soldier he seems
to have possessed in a superabundant degree.

Tobias, the subject of this sketch, was born in Elkton, in the old brick
mansion two doors east of the court house, on December 8, 1787. He was
the oldest of four children, namely: Zebulon, a sketch of whose life
appears in this volume; Anna Maria, who married James Sewell; and
Martha, who married the Reverend William Torbert.

Anna Maria is said to have been a poetess of no mean ability, but owing
to the state of literature in this county at the time she wrote, none of
her poetry, so far as we have been able to learn was published, and
after diligent search we have been unable to find any of her manuscript.

Tobias studied law with his mother's brother, James Milner, who resided
in Philadelphia, where he practiced law,--but who subsequently became a
distinguished Presbyterian minister and Doctor of Divinity--and was
admitted to the Elkton Bar and practiced his profession successfully
until the time of his death which occurred in the Fall of 1828. He was a
man of fine ability and amused himself when he had leisure in courting
the Muses, but owing to his excessive modesty published nothing now
extant except "Tancred, or The Siege of Antioch," a drama in three acts,
which was printed in Philadelphia, in 1827. Owing to the fact that
simultaneously with its publication, a drama of the same name by another
author appeared as a candidate for literary favor, Mr. Rudulph--though
his work was highly commended by Joseph Jefferson the elder, then in
the height of his dramatic career, through the foolish fear that he
might he accused of plagiarism--suppressed his drama and never allowed
it to be introduced upon the stage.

Mr. Rudulph married Maria Hayes. They were the parents of four children,
Amelia, James, Anna Maria and Tobias. The two first mentioned are dead,
the others reside in Elkton. Until a very recent period the family
spelled the name Rudulph, which spelling has been followed in this work,
though the name is now generally spelled Rudolph.


Tancred was the son of the Marquis of Odo, surnamed the good, and
Emma, the sister of Robert Guiscard who figured conspicuously in the
wars which distracted Europe just previous to the first Crusade,
which occurred under the leadership of Peter, the Hermit, and
Walter, the Penniless, in A.D. 1096. The scene of the drama is laid
at Antioch in 1097. A historian of the Crusades in speaking of the
siege of Antioch, says that the wealth of the harvest and the
vintage spread before them its irresistible temptations, and the
herds feeding in the rich pastures seemed to promise an endless
feast. The cattle, the corn and the wine were alike wasted with
besotted folly, while the Turks within the walls received tidings of
all that passed in the crusading camps from some Greek and Armenian
christians to whom they allowed free egress and ingress. Of this
knowledge they availed themselves in planing sallies by which they
caused great distress to the Crusaders. The following extract
comprises the third scene of the first act and is laid in the camp
of the Crusaders--the chiefs being in council.


_Godfrey_ of Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine.
_Alexius_, Emperor of Greece.
_Bohemond_, Prince of Tarentum.
_Raymond_, Count of Thoulouse.

The truce being ended, I propose, my friends,
To-morrow we should storm the walls of Antioch--
What say my worthy allies?--

If any here so base and cowardly,
As to give other counsel, let him speak.--

I have known those, who foremost to advise,
Were yet the last to venture on the battle.--

What means the Count of Thoulouse?--

Ray. Simply this;--
That some men thoughtlessly sit down to eat,
Without having first obtained an appetite.--

By the Holy Sepulchre I swear,
That knight must have some stomach who maintains,
What you have just now utter'd--

[Throws down his gauntlet.]
There lays my guage--
If you will wear my glove, choose with what arms
We shall decide this quarrel.--

[Raymond advances to take up the glove.]

Hold, Thoulouse, let it lay.--
I do impeach Bohemond of Tarentum of base wiles,
And treachery most foul, to knighthood's cause--

Why then take you the glove.--

In mine own cause I do accept the challenge.--

[Takes up the glove.]

Is our league dissolv'd, and shall the holy cause
For which embattled Europe is in arms,
Be idly given to the scorn of men,
To gratify our passions and vile feuds?--
But speak Lorraine, for you have heretofore
Been held the mediator in these jars--
Upon what quarrel do you thus arraign
Bohemond of Tarentum?--

A gorgeous canopy, a present from
The gov'nor of Armenia I have lost--
By what base means, Bohemond best can tell.--

True he can tell--and briefly thus it is--
I won the silken bauble in a fight,
And claim it as my spoil.--

You basely stole
The treasure of a friend--Pancrates had
The conduct of the present to my camp;
You coward-like surprised him on the way,
And robb'd him of my prize.--

Boh. (Contemptuously) Well be it so--
I stole it, and will keep it--
You may keep the glove.--

Christians, forbear, the Infidels will laugh,
To know a silken toy has broke our league,
And sav'd the Sepulchre--It must not be,
My friends, that private discord shall cut short
The work we have begun--Bohemond, no--
Restore the treasure to its rightful Lord,
And my pavilion shall replace the spoil.--

I do consent--provided Godfrey will
Return my glove to the brave Count of Thoulouse--

That's nobly done Bohemond--but the war
'Twixt you and Thoulouse, is a war of words--
Like two pert game cocks picking at a straw,
You doubt each other's courage--then make proof
Upon the Paynim forces if you please,
Which is the braver man--To-morrow's field
Will afford ample scope to try your blades
Upon the common enemy of each,
And leave unscathed his ally--I propose,
That he who first shall scale the citadel,
And plant the Red-Cross banner on the walls,
Shall be rewarded with the victor's prize,
And hold the government of Antioch--
What says the council?--

All the Chiefs.
We are all agreed.--

(Bohemond and Raymond advance and shake hands in apparent token of

[Enter a Greek Messenger.]

The Persian succors are but one day's march,
Beyond the Orontes.--

Why let them come and help to bury then,
Their Paynim brothers.--Friends, I give you joy--
Curse on my fortune, I do much regret
The iv'ry tushes of that ruthless boar,
Will keep me from the contest for fair fame.--
Bohemond, you shall lead my Frisons on--
And doubt not but you'll win the prize from Thoulouse.--

I thank your grace.


Zebulon Rudulph was the second son of Tobias Rudulph, an account of
whose family is given elsewhere in this volume. He was born in Elkton,
June 28, 1794. Though well remembered by some of the older residents of
the place of his nativity who knew him when they were young, but little
is known of his early life except that he was possessed of a kind heart
and an affable disposition; and appears to have been more given to the
cultivation of his literary tastes, than to the practice of those
utilitarian traits which had they been more highly developed, would have
enabled him to have reaped a richer pecuniary harvest than fell to his
lot from the cultivation of the others.

For a time in early manhood Mr. Rudulph was engaged in merchandising in
Elkton, and subsequently became the first agent of the Philadelphia,
Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company in that town, which office he
held from the time the company commenced business in 1837, until 1840 or
'41, when he removed to Memphis, Tennessee, where in 1847 he published a
small volume of 247 pages entitled "Every Man's Book; or, the Road to
Heaven Staked Out; being a Collection of Holy Proofs Alphabetically
Arranged as a Text Book for Preachers and Laymen of all Denominations."
Mr. Rudulph was a Universalist, and the object of the book was to
inculcate the tenets of that denomination.

Mr. Rudulph remained in Memphis for a few years and subsequently removed
to Izard county, Arkansas, where he died a short time before the
commencement of the war of the rebellion. He was a voluminous writer,
and the author of a large number of fugitive poems, many of which are
said to have been quite humorous and possessed of much literary merit.
Very few of his poems have been preserved, which is much regretted for
the reason that it is highly probable that those extant do not fully set
forth the poetical ability of their author. The following poems except
the one entitled "Thoughts on the Death of his grandchild Fanny," were
published in _The Elkton Courier_ nearly half a century ago.


At twilight one ev'ning, a poor old man,
Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days,
(That now were dwindled to the shortest span:)
Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze
Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys:
Whose hoary locks should e'er protect from scorn,
One who had ceased to court earth's fading joys,--
Knock'd at a door, thus lonely and forlorn.

A pilgrim's staff supported his frail form,
Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door;
And feeble tho' he seemed, he feared not harm,
For 'neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore.
A menial came, and thus he spoke:--'Away!
Old man, away! seek not to enter here:
We feed none such as you: so hence! I say:--
Perhaps across the street you'll better fare.'

In broken accents now the pilgrim plead--
'Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad;
And bear a message from the absent dead,
To one who dwells in this august abode.
Thy mistress,--fair Beatrice,--dwells she here?
If so, quick, bring me to her instantly;
For I have speech that fits her private ear
Forthwith: none else my words shall hear but she.'

Now, ushered thro' the spacious hall, he passed
Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone,
Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast
Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan.
'Be seated, aged father;' thus she said:
'And tell me whence you are, and why you seek
A private conf'rence with a lonely maid
Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek.

'If true it is, from distant lands you come,
Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way;
If so, be silent, be forever dumb,
Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say,
That all is well with one most dear to me,
Who, two long years ago, forsook his home,
And now forgets his vows of constancy,
For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.'

As if to dash a tear, he bends his head,
And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks:
'Alas! my words are few,--thy friend is dead!'--
As monumental marble pale, she shrieks,
And falls into the aged pilgrim's arms;
Who, justly filled with terror and dismay,
In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms,
As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day.

But, slowly she revives--when, quick as light,
His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by--
And what is that that greets her 'wildered sight?
Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?--
Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned,
Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:--
And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned,
He vow'd to her, he never more would rove.



And all wept and bewailed her: but He said, weep not; she is not
dead, but sleepeth.

--Luke 8:52.

Oh true, "she is not dead, but sleepeth--"
Her dust alone is here;
The spirit pure that Heavenward leapeth,
Hath gone to bliss fore'er.

'Twas but a fragile flower that lent
Its sweets to earth a day;
From Heaven's parterre 'twas kindly sent,
But 'twas not here to stay.

Weep not, fond mother, that lost one;
'Tis clasped in angel's arms--
From earth's dread trials passed and gone,
'Tis decked in seraph's charms.

See how it beckons thee to come,
And taste its rapture there;--
No longer linger o'er that tomb--
To join it let's prepare.


And the king said, bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before
the king. And the king said, divide the living child in two, and
give half to the one, and half to the other. Then spake the woman
whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned
upon her son, and she said, O my lord give her the living child, and
in no wise slay it.

--I Kings 3:24-36.

Hark! did you not hear that loud shriek?
Ah! do you not see that wild eye?
List--do you hear that mother speak
For her son that is doom'd to die?

Behold the eloquence of love!
A mother for her child distress'd:
A gush of feeling from above
Invades and fills her yearning breast.

That flood of tears,--those wringing hands,
Mark her abandonment of soul,
As, list'ning to the king's commands,
Her grief refuses all control.

My child! my child!--(tho' she betray it,)
"The living child" give to my foe!
'Where is my child?--Oh! do not slay it!
Let me my arms around it throw!'

Thus nature's impulse bursting forth,
Reveals the mother's kindred blood,
And stamps upon her claim the truth:
Whilst foil'd the guilty claimant stood.

Such love breathes not in courts, where meet
Soft, studied ease and pamper'd vice:
As soon you'll find the genial heat
Of nature's sun in fields of ice!

And that fond soul was one like she
Who bathed the Saviour's feet with tears:
And hers, like Mary's ecstasy,
Flows from the influence of prayers:

For, Solomon had sought of God
Not hoards of wealth, nor "length of days:"
But holy unction from His rod,
The bright indwelling of Truth's rays.


And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down
upon the earth, and put his face between his knees. And said to his
servant, 'Go up now, look towards the sea.' And he went up, and
looked, and said, 'There is nothing.' And he said, Go again seven
times. And it came to pass at the seventh time, that he said,
behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's

--I Kings 18:42,41.

Up Carmel's wood-clad height an aged prophet slowly creeps,
And sadly drags his weary limbs o'er rocks and mossgrown steeps.
He bows himself upon the earth, "his face between his knees,"
And thus he to his servant speaks, beneath the lofty trees.

"Go further up this craggy steep, and seaward look, I pray--"
His faithful servant goes, and strains his vision towards that way,
But says "there's nothing."--"Go sev'n times," the prophet says "for me,--"
And on the seventh time, behold! arising from the sea,

A little cloud, as 'twere, no bigger than a human hand,--
But swiftly, darkly spreading o'er the parched, thirsty land,
It widely displays its threatening armies thro' the sky,
Its lurid lightnings flash in forked streaks upon the eye.

Like countless fiery serpents thro' the troubled air,
Whilst loud the roaring thunder bursts amid the flaming glare;
And rage the winds, uprooting mountain oaks before the view,--
Refreshing show'rs descend, and quick the fainting earth renew.

Scarcely could Israel's monarch in his chariot reach his court,
Ere nature's pent up elements broke forth in airy sport,
And to earth (which for three long years had known nor rain nor dew,)
The long desired drops, their welcome downward course pursue.

Once more Samaria's people gladly tune their harps and sing
The praises of Jehovah, God, the everlasting King:--
Once more, the voice of gladness sounds where naught but anguish dwelt;
There, once again, the gush of rapture, absent long, is felt!


Mrs. Alice Coale Simpers was born in the old brick mansion known as
"Traveler's Repose," a short distance south of Harrisville, in the Sixth
district of Cecil county, on the first day of December, 1843.

The Coale family of which Mrs. Simpers is a member, trace their descent
from Sir Philip Blodgett, a distinguished Englishman, who settled in
Baltimore shortly after its foundation, and are related to the Matthews,
Worthingtons, Jewetts, and other leading families of Harford county. On
her mother's side she is related to the Jacksons, Puseys, and other
well-known Friends of Chester county, Pennsylvania, and Wilmington,

Mrs. Simpers' early education was received at Waring's Friends' School,
near the village of Colora, which was kept up by a few families of
Friends in the neighborhood. She also attended the State Normal School
in Baltimore, and qualified herself for teaching in the public schools
of the State, in which she taught for about ten years in Cecil county,
and also in Dorchester county. She also taught school in the State of
Illinois with great acceptability and success.

When Mrs. Simpers was quite young her father removed his family to the
banks of the romantic Octoraro, near Rowlandville, and within less than
two miles of the birth-place of the two poetic Ewings and the late John
Cooley, and the romantic spot where Mrs. Hall lived when she wrote the
poems which are published in this volume. The soul-inspiring beauty of
this romantic region seems to have had the same effect upon her mind as
it had upon the other persons composing the illustrious quintette, of
which she is a distinguished member, and when only seventeen years of
age she began to write poetry. At the solicitation of her friend, E.E.
Ewing, she sent the first poem she published to him, who gave it a place
in _The Cecil Whig_, of which he was the editor and proprietor.

In 1875 Mrs. Simpers began to write for the New York _Mercury_, which
then numbered among its contributors Ned Buntline, Harriet Prescott,
George Marshall, George Arnold, Bayard Taylor, W. Scott Way, and many
other distinguished writers with whom she ranked as an equal in many
respects, and many of whom she excelled as a brilliant satirist and
pathetic painter of the quaint and the beautiful.

For ten years she continued to contribute letters, essays, stories and
poems to the _Mercury_, and to advocate the claims of her sex to the
right of suffrage, in which she still continues to be a firm believer.
Mrs. Simpers has also contributed largely to the _Woman's Journal_ and
other periodicals.

Though possessed of a brilliant poetic genius, Mrs. Simpers is best
known as a writer of prose; and, in addition to the large quantity of
matter she has contributed to the newspaper press, is the author of a
story of about two hundred pages illustrative of the principles and
practices and exemplifying the social life of the Friends, for which she
received a prize of two hundred dollars. This story was highly spoken of
by Dr. Shelton McKenzie, with whom she was on terms of intimacy for some
years immediately before his death, and also by many other distinguished

On the 22d of February, 1879, the subject of this sketch married Captain
John G. Simpers, who served with distinction in the Second Regiment
Delaware Volunteers in the war of the rebellion. They, at the time of
writing this sketch, reside near the summit of Mount Pleasant, and
within a short distance of the birth-place of Emma Alice Browne.


The miller leaned o'er the oaken door,
Quaint shadows swung on the dusty floor,
The spider toiled in the dust o'erhead,
With restless haste, and noiseless speed,
Like one who toils for sorest need--
Like one who toils for bread.
"Ha!" says the miller, "does he pause to hark--
Hark! Hark! Hark!
To the voice of the waters, down in the dark--
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Turning the lumbering, mumbling wheel;
Which moans and groans as tho't could feel?"
"Ha!" laughed the miller, "he pauses not and why--
In the sunshine pausing and musing I?
When the spiteful waves seem to repeat--
Repeat! Repeat! Repeat!
The hateful word deceit--
Deceit! Deceit! Deceit"
"Nay," mused the miller, "their musical drip--
Drip! Drip! Drip!
Is like to naught but the trip--
Trip! Trip! Trip!
In the dance of her fairy feet,
Or her rippling-laughter cool and sweet!"

* * * * *

Once more,
The miller leans o'er the oaken door.
Still play the shadows upon the floor,
Still toils the spider overhead;
Like one who toils for daily bread--
"Since the red lips unto me have lied
The spell hath lost its power,
For never a false heart brings my bride
Whatever else her dower!"
And louder yet the waves repeat
Their burthen old, deceit, deceit!

* * * * *

In flocks of brown, the leaves haste down,
And floods, in the wild March weather;
While the mill, the miller, and the miller's love dream,
Have all grown old together!


We shall see the daylight breaking,
Watch the rosy dawn awaking;
We shall see the twilight fading--
Adown the path the elms are shading,
For the last, last time.

We shall see the blossoms swelling,
Watch the spring-bird build his dwelling,
See the dead leaves downward sailing,
While the Autumn winds are wailing,
For the last, last time.

We shall hear the song of pleasure,
Join the dance's merry measure;
Shrink and dread the form of sorrow,
Which may meet us on the morrow,
For the last, last time.

We shall feel hates' venomed dart
Aimed to pierce the inmost heart;
We shall know love's sweet caressing,
Breathed from lips our own are pressing,
For the last, last time.

But in that land where we are going,
Where the skies are ever glowing;
In that fair and fadeless clime,
Never comes the last, last time.


And this is the end of it all!
It rounds the years completeness,
Though only a walk to the stile
Through fields a-foam with sweetness.
Only the sunset light,
Purple and red on the river,
Only a calm "good night,"
That means good bye forever!

I can only go back to my simple ways--
To my homely household cares;
And yet,--and yet--in after days
I shall think of you in my prayers.
We can bear so much in youth;
Who cares for a swift sharp pain?
The two-edged sword of truth
Cuts deep, but leaves no stain,
And over the ways we have trod together,
My foot shall fall as lightly,
As though my heart were a feather.

Only a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep;
Patient when children cry,
Soft to lull them to sleep;
Glad when another delving hand
Finds a gem to wear on the breast,
While hers found only sand;
Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come,
The peach with its waxen pink,
The waving snow of the plum;
I shall think how I used to wait
And watch--so happy to see you pass,
I could almost kiss your shadow
As it fell on the dewy grass.
A love is but half a love,
That contents itself with less
Than love's utmost faith and truth
And love's unwavering tenderness.

Only this walk to the stile--
This parting word by the river;
It seems to me whatever shall go or come--
Memory shall hold forever!
Sweetheart, good bye, good bye,
After all--drear poverty and toil
For the rich, red flower of love to grow,
Were but a cold and barren soil:
And so, good bye, good bye!



"Warden, wind the clock again!
Mighty years are going on
Through the shadows, joy and pain,
And the happy hearted dawn."

High within Time's temple hoar
Doth this mystic timepiece stand,
And when'er twelve moons have vanished
The clock is wound by unseen hand;
But we hear the pinions rushing
Through the storied air o'erhead,
And our hearts grow sick and silent
With throbs of fear and dread;
For the temple seemeth crowded
With still forms all white and shrouded,
Like the pale, uncoffined dead;
Stirs the startled soul within
With a grief too deep for tears,
Bowing with a mighty anguish--
O'er our dead and wasted years.

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!"
O'er the horologe's mystic dial,
Watch the sweep of shadowy ages
Ere the pens of seers and sages
Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages.
But lo! the warden winds again--
And see yon radiant star arise
Flaming in the Orient skies;
Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing,
Which the joyous hosts are singing,
To the humble shepherds, keeping
Patient watch, while kings are sleeping!
See the wise men in the manger,
Bow before the Heavenly stranger!
Lowliest born beneath the sun!
Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish,
And the sword and sceptre vanish,
Ere His given work be done!

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!"
But in vain the charge is given,
For see the mighty Angel stand,
One foot on sea, and one on land,
Swearing with uplifted hand,
Nevermore in earth or heaven
Shall the mystic key be found
Or the mighty clock be wound!



He'ah dat ole gray sinna
H's jes brimful o' gas,
Singin' dat tomfool ditty
As he goes hobblin' pas'!
He betta be prayin' and mebbe
H'll git in de fold at las'!
Yes, he's gwine to de grabe up yonder
By de trees dar on de hill,
Where all alone by hisself one day
He buried po' massa Will!
You see dey war boys togedder;
To-day dey'd cuss an' fight;
But dey'd make it up to-morrow
And hunt fur coons at night.

It wasn't much ob a massa,
Ole missus made you see!
Folks sed, "dem Walden niggas
Mought about as well be free."
Once dey went fur de turkeys,
Dat's Rube and Massa Will,
Wid roastin' ears fur stuffin',
Made a barbecue behind de mill!
But dey couln'd keep it secret,
Ole missus found 'm out,
An' she vow'd to sell dat nigga--
He was a thievin' lazy lout,
He was a ruinin' Massa Willum;
Dat fac', she said, was plain;
She'd sell him! On her plantation
He'd never set his foot again.

An' suah befo' de sun next day went down.
To take dat nigga Reuben
A trader had cum from town.
I guess she was glad to sell 'm
Fur she needed de money bad,
An' meant to spen' it mos'ly
In de schoolin' ob her lad!
But jes as dat ole trader
Had slipt de han'cuffs on,
We sees young massa cumin'
Ridin' cross de lawn;
He stopped right dar afore 'm,
His face was pale as death,
With all his might he shouted,
Soon as he got his bref:
"Take dem right off dat nigga!
(and jerkin' his pistol out)
Take 'em off I tell you!
An' min' what you're about;
Or I'll send you to de debil
Faster dan you 'spec to go."
Den massa trader dusted
And he didn't trabbel slow.

* * * * *

Ah me! dem times seems like a dream,
It was so long ago!
Ole missus died next year,
De war cum'd on at last
And all de Souf lan' echoed
With de joyful freedom blast.
We lef' de ole plantation,
We trabbled de Norf lan' thro;
Chilled by de winds in Winter,
In Summer drenched wid dew;
But we neber cum to Canaan,
Nor found de promised lan',
And back to de ole plantation
We cum a broken ban'.
But Rube had stayed heah faithful,
Stayed by his massa's side,
And nussed him in de fever
Till in his arms he died;
But de freedum star in Hebben,
It brightens year by year,
An' our chillun has foun' de Canaan,
Oh yes! des foun' it here;
So I don't care what you call us,
De tribes ob Sham or Hem,
Dat blessed lan' o' promise,
Has come right home to dem.


Shaded lights were burning low--
Muffled bells swung to and fro--
Solemn monks were chanting slow--
Chanting of the Crucified;
When the good St. Bavon died.

Oft had he trod the jeering street,
With bare and bleeding feet;
Leaving crimson-flecked the snow
In memory of his Master's woe;

With grief closed lips, sat he apart,
The comrade of the dead man's heart;
At last the chanting throng were gone
And he was with th' dead alone;

When the bare uncurtained room
Grew still and ghastly like a tomb,
On the icy neck he fell
And begged the death-sealed lips to tell

If one deed were left undone,--
That in that radiance like the sun
Didst shade with grief the spirit flown,
Or dim the brightness of his crown!

Then heard his spirit's inmost ear
A voice that he alone could hear,
"A shadow walks with me akin to pain,
I seek to shun it, but in vain,

"For as I left the life of time,
And journeyed toward th' blessed clime,
I passed along that darkened shore.
Where wail the lost forevermore.

"As on that awful gulf I walked,
A black-robed demon with me talked:
'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry,
''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I.

"'I, with the tempter's gilded snare,
Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer;
Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun,
My power had vanished; thou hadst won.'

"Above the harps and angel's songs I hear,
The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer;
Oh, comrade! brother! saint!
Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!"

DAVID SCOTT (of James.)

DAVID SCOTT (of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first
cousin, David Scott (of John)--to a sketch of whose life the reader is
referred for other information respecting the family--was born on his
father's farm, called "Scott's Adventure," on the road leading from
Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on
January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879.

His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger
making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was
obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he
obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood.

In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a
private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only
seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until
1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and
removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an
active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as
Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started
a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued
as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death.

In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and
served six years with great acceptability.

In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have
charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the
time of his death.

In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They
were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His
first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie
Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him.

In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write
for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of "Anselmo," and the
Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_ during the time he was engaged in
teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close
of his life.

For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of
Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who
contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, with
several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several
others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several

Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a
considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual


Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door
of memory on a friend?

--Miss Whittlesey.

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,
Anticipating 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 shiver
With death and coldness, if we brave the river
With wise and strong endeavor.

O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling!
Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink;
'Tis past!--too late--too late, vain trump, your swelling;
My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling--
'Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling--
O what a joy to think!



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 casement 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.


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 classic 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!


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 prone 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,
Assert 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 shiver,
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 shoreless river
Ye cannot "come away."


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 God 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.
On, Comrades! faint not now--
Ours is a manly part!
Toil, for a glorious meed is ours--
The fulcrum of all earthly powers
Is in our hands and heart.

Toil, toil, toil--
Life is labor and love:
Live, love and labor is then our song,
Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng,
With our Architect above.
Then monuments will stand
That need no polish'd rhyme--
Firm as the everlasting hills,
High as the clarion note that swells
The "praises of all time."


I do not fear thee, Death!
I have a bantering thought!--though I am told
Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold;
And that thy upas breath
Rides on the vital air;
Monarch and Prince of universal clime,
Executor of the decrees of Time--
Sin's dark, eternal heir.

Over the land and sea
Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings,
And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings,
Over the feast the panting summer brings,
"For me--'tis all for me!"
All seasons and all climes--
In city crowded, and in solitude,
Ye gather your unsatisfying food;
Ev'n through the rosy gates of joy intrude
Thy deep, sepulchral chimes.

I know thee well, though young;
Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke
Hast thou. A brother, sister--then the Oak,
(Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,)
Round which our young hopes clung!
Ye wantonly have crush'd,
By your untimely and avenging frost,
The buds of hope which bid to promise most;
Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost,
Could ye, O! Death have hush'd

The music that endears,
And makes this chill'd existence tolerable?
Yet will I not such selfishness--'tis well;
I hear, I hear a happier, holier swell
From out the eternal spheres!
I do defy thee, Death!
Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears?
To weary out the agony of years,
With nothing but the bitter brine of tears,
And scarcer existing breath.

My soul is growing strong,
And somewhat fretful with its house of clay,
And waiting quite impatiently to lay
It off, and soar in light away,
To hymn th' "eternal song."
This is a cowardice
Perhaps--a deep, mean selfishness withal.
That whets our longings in the spirit's thrall
To lay aside these trials, and forestall
The hours of Paradise.

Thou wise, Eternal God!
Oh, let me not offend Thy great design!
Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign,
Make me be patient, let me not repine
Beneath this chast'ning rod;
Though storm and tempest whelm,
And beat upon this naked barque, 'tis well;
And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell--
Hush, rebel thoughts!--my heart be calm and still,
The Master's at the helm!


Henry Vanderford, editor and journalist, was born at Hillsborough,
Caroline county, Md., December 23, 1811. His maternal ancestors were
from Wales, his paternal from Holland. He was educated at Hillsborough
Academy, a celebrated institution at that time, having pupils from the
adjoining counties of Queen Anne's and Talbot. He acquired a knowledge
of the art of printing in the office of the _Easton Star_, Thomas Perrin
Smith, proprietor. From 1835 to 1837 he published the _Caroline
Advocate_, Denton, Md., the only paper in the county, and neutral in
politics, though the editor was always a decided Democrat, and took an
active part in the reform movement of 1836, which resulted in the
election of the "Glorious Nineteen" and the Twenty-one Electors. The
press and type of the _Advocate_ were transferred in 1837 to
Centreville, Queen Anne's county, where he founded the _Sentinel_, the
first Democratic paper published in that county, in January, 1838. He
was appointed for three successive years by Governor Grason chief judge
of the Magistrate's Court, but declined the office. In 1840 he was
appointed Deputy Marshal for Queen Anne's, and took the census of that
county in that year. In 1842 he sold the _Sentinel_ and removed to
Baltimore, where, three years later, he resumed his profession and
founded _The Ray_, a weekly literary and educational journal, and the
subsequent year published the _Baltimore Daily News_, and the _Weekly
Statesman_, in company with Messrs. Adams and Brown, under the firm of
Adams, Vanderford & Brown. The _News_ and _Statesman_ were Democratic
papers. In February, 1848, he bought _The Cecil Democrat_ of Thomas M.
Coleman, enlarged the paper, quadrupled its circulation, and refitted it
with new material. In 1865 he sold out the _Democrat_ to Albert
Constable and Judge Frederick Stump, and bought a farm in St. Mary's
county, Md., and engaged in agriculture. Three years later, failing
health of himself and family, induced him to sell his farm and remove to
Middletown, Del., where he founded the _Transcript_, and resumed the
business of a printer and publisher. The _Transcript_ was the first
paper published in that town, and was a success from the start. It was
transferred in 1870 to his youngest son, Charles H. Vanderford. From
1870 to 1878 he was associated with his eldest son, William H.
Vanderford, in the publication of _The Democratic Advocate_,
Westminster, Md. In 1873 he was elected to the House of Delegates from
Carroll county, and in 1879 to the Senate, in which body he held the
important position of Chairman of the Committee on Finance, and was a
member of the Committee on Engrossed Bills and the Committee on

On the 6th of June, 1839, he married Angelina, the daughter of Henry
Vanderford, of Queen Anne's county, a distant relative of his father.
Mr. Vanderford is a member of the Masonic Order, and he and his wife are
both communicants of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the Church of
their ancestors, as far back as the history of the Church can be traced

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