Authors and Writers Associated with Morristown Part 7

Here's a glancing mirror, I ween, Reflecting all the beautiful forms That move in our fairy-like scene.

Away! my lady, away!

Far over the ice we'll sweep, And wake the slumbering echo's voice From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Come away, from your sorrow and grief, All you that are gloomy and sad!

Unwrinkle your brows to the whistling wind, Till your hearts grow merry and glad!

Ho! Hark! how the laughter in peals, Is shaking the tides of the air, And shouting aloud to drown with its joy The muttering murmurs of care!

Then away! my boys, away!

Far over the ice we'll sweep, And wake the slumbering echo's voice From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Come, one and all, then, away!

Come, cheerily join in our song, And mingle with music the ring of the steel, Keep in time, as we're sweeping along!

Heigho! for the throne of the Frost!

We'll frighten the phantoms of night, And serenade, far under the depths, The river's listening sprite!

Then away! my boys, away!

Far over the ice we'll sweep, And wake the slumbering echo's voice From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Miss Henrietta Howard Holdich.

Miss Holdich, poetess and story-writer, has been a resident of Morristown, since 1878, and has written at various periods since she was seventeen years of age. Her poems, stories, and other writings have appeared from time to time in _Harper's Magazine_ and other important publications. We would like to give Miss Holdich's beautiful and thoughtful poem, "In Holy Ground", suggested by a Russian Legend, but, as we give her Centennial story entire, our s.p.a.ce does not allow. She is represented, instead, by a few lovely lines written for a golden wedding and sent to the happy pair with a basket of flowers and fruit.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING.

Orange buds a maiden wears On the blissful wedding morn; Snowy buds on golden hair Tell of love and faith new born.

Ripened now the perfect fruit, Fifty sunny years have pa.s.sed; Golden fruit on snowy hair Tells of love and faith that last.

William Tuckey Meredith.

Mr. Meredith, a Philadelphian by birth, and also a banker in New York City, is also one of our summer residents, his main interest in Morristown coming, as he says, from the fact that his grandmother was a Morristown Ogden. He served as an officer in the United States Navy with Farragut at the battle of Mobile Bay and was afterwards his secretary.

Mr. Meredith is perhaps best known by his spirited poem, ent.i.tled "Farragut", which appeared in _The Century_, in 1890, and heads the group of "Various Poems" in Stedman and Hutchinson's Library of American Literature.

Besides this, Mr. Meredith has written for _The New York Times_ and other journals and publications at various times. He wrote for _The Century_ a War article on "Farragut's Capture of New Orleans", which may be found in Volume IV of the published series. A novel appeared with his name, in 1890, ent.i.tled "Not of Her Father's Race", in which the "Fox Hunt" is, the author tells us, a study of a bag chase in which he took part some years ago near Morristown, although he has laid the scene in Newport. We give the poem, "Farragut".

FARRAGUT.

MOBILE BAY, 5 AUGUST, 1864.

Farragut, Farragut, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut, Thunderbolt stroke, Watches the h.o.a.ry mist Lift from the bay, Till his flag, glory-kissed, Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls, Looms the black fleet.

Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drum's beat!

Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men! to the battlement, Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane Hurtles in wrath Squadrons of cloud amain Back from its path!

Back to the parapet, To the guns' lips, Thunderbolt Farragut Hurls the black ships.

Now through the battle's roar Clear the boy sings, "By the mark fathoms four,"

While his lead swings.

Steady the wheelmen five "Nor' by East keep her,"

"Steady" but two alive: How the sh.e.l.ls sweep her!

Lashed to the mast that sways Over red decks, Over the flame that plays Round the torn wrecks, Over the dying lips Framed for a cheer, Farragut leads his ships, Guides the line clear.

On by heights cannon-browed, While the spars quiver; Onward still flames the cloud Where the hulks shiver.

See, yon fort's star is set, Storm and fire past.

Cheer him, lads--Farragut, Lashed to the mast!

Oh! while Atlantic's breast Bears a white sail, While the Gulf's towering crest Tops a green vale; Men thy bold deeds shall tell, Old Heart of Oak, Daring Dave Farragut Thunderbolt stroke!

Hannah More Johnson.

Miss Johnson, the niece of Mr. J. Henry Johnson, one of Morristown's old residents, and the last preceptor of the old Academy, will be found again among "Historians". She has written and published a large number of poems, besides, and from them we select the following:

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

Shall I tell you a story of Christmas time?

Of what Nellie found by her Christmas tree?

If I tell it at all, it must be in rhyme For it seems like a song to Nellie and me That ripples along to a breezy tune, Like a brook that sings through the woods in June; And yet it was dark November weather When song and story began together.

"Papa", said Nellie, with wistful tone, "When G.o.d sends little children here, Do beautiful angels flutter down As once when they brought our Saviour dear?

Don't they sing in the sky, where we can't see And listen up there to Harry and me?

'Cause I prayed last night for the bestest things Heavenly Father sends us, and Harry said I might ask for a sister who hadn't wings A dear little sister to sleep in my bed; For my other one went away, you know, To sing with the angels long ago, And I want another to stay with me A dear little sister like Daisy Lee.

So high, Papa! Look, don't you see?

Just up to my chin. Heavenly Father knows 'Bout her dress and her shoes and her curly hair 'Cause I told him all, and so I s'pose The first little sister He has to spare He'll send her down here, oh won't she be A dear little sister for Harry and me!"

"Yes, my Nellie", her father said, One gentle hand on the curly head With tender caress and whispered word Too low for her ear, 'though a Bright-one heard And pa.s.sed it up, meet signal given From love on earth to love in heaven; "Yes, my Nellie, wait and see!

We are all in our Heavenly Father's care And He'll send what is best for you and me When we look to Him with a loving prayer".

The days pa.s.sed on. 'Twas that happy time When bells ring out with their Christmas chime; There were people at work all over the land Busy for Santa Claus, heart and hand, And some in cabin and work-shop dim Who wouldn't have work if it wasn't for him; And Harry and Nellie?--There were none In that Christmas time had a gayer tree.

Papa was at work at early dawn And the children all tip-toe to see; But the dark December day wore on E'er the door was opened noiselessly, And the light streamed out in the dusky hall From a beautiful cedar bright and tall.

Starry tapers were gleaming there, Toy and trumpet and banner fair, The topmost flag on the ceiling bore While the laden branches swept the floor; While gay little Rover frisking in, Led the children in frolic and din As they spied each treasure and in their glee Shouted with joy round the Christmas tree, While Papa stood back in a corner to see.

"Oh! Harry", said Nellie, "I do declare Here's a basket for me!" She opened the lid And pulled back the blanket folded there And what d'ye think was safely hid But a dear live baby so fast asleep That it never waked up with the children's shout Till Nellie asked, "is it ours to keep?"

And kissed its hand as she stood in doubt.

"Of course," said Harry, "don't angels know When G.o.d has told them which way to go?

That's our little sister we wanted so!"

"Little sister", said Nellie, "I'm very glad, I know you're the best Heavenly Father had And now you're ours and you're going to stay 'Cause the angels have left you and gone away".

"No, my Nellie", a voice replied, As Papa drew near to Nellie's side, "Let us pray they may watch over this little one Day by day, till life is done, That she may be glad through eternity She was ever left 'neath our Christmas tree".

Miss Margaret H. Garrard.