The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 3

And stalwart men are dumb with grief, And sorrow pales the sternest cheek, While gentler women find relief, In tears--more eloquent than speech.

Surely there is some fairer land, Where friends who love each other here Can dwell, united heart and hand, Nor death nor separation fear.

Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears; Fond father, raise thy drooping head; Kind brothers, banish all your fears; Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead,

The care-worn casket rests in dust, The fadeless jewel wings its flight To that fair land, we humbly trust, To shine with ever glowing light.

For, on that ever-vernal sh.o.r.e, When death's appalling stream is cross'd, Your star will shine forevermore, Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON.

She is not dead, but sleepeth.

--Luke 8:52.

She is not dead, she's sleeping The dreamless sleep and drear; Her friends are gathered weeping Round her untimely bier.

She is not dead, her spirit, Too pure to dwell with clay, Has gone up to inherit The realms of endless day.

She is not dead, she's singing With angel bands on high; On golden harp she's singing G.o.d's praises in the sky.

She is not dead, O mother, Your loss you will deplore; Kind sisters and fond brother, Your Nora is no more!

No more, as we have seen her, The light and life of home, Of christian-like demeanor, Which ever brightly shone:

Of youth the guide and teacher, Of age the stay and hope-- To all a faithful preacher, To whom we all looked up.

She is not dead, she's sleeping, Her loving Saviour said; Then friends repress your weeping, G.o.d's will must be obeyed.

She is not dead, she's shining In robes of spotless white; Why then are we repining?

G.o.d's ways are always right.

She is not dead--O never Will sorrow cross her track; She's pa.s.sed Death's darksome river, And who would have her back?

Back from the joys of heaven!

Back from that world of bliss!

Call back the pure, forgiven, To such a world as this?

A world of grief and anguish-- A world of sin and strife-- In which the righteous languish, And wickedness is rife,

She is not dead, she's shouting, Borne on triumphant wing, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry, O Death, where is thy sting?"

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1878.

Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping, Closed thine eyes to all below; Round thy grave kind friends are weeping, Ling'ring, loath to let thee go.

Husband fond and children dear, Crushed and stricken by the blow, Banish ev'ry anxious fear, While we lay the lov'd one low.

For the angel's trump shall sound, And the bands of death will break; Then the pris'ner in this mound Shall to endless life awake.

Then the spirit which is gone Will return and claim this dust, And this "mortal will put on Immortality," we trust.

When that glorious day shall dawn, And the bridegroom shall descend With a gorgeous angel throng, The glad nuptials to attend,

Oh, the rapture of that meeting!

We of earth can never know Till we mingle in the greeting, Of our lov'd, lost long ago.

Let me like the righteous die, Let my last end be like his; When I close, on earth, my eye, Let me wake in realms of bliss.

STANZAS

Read at the celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele, Dec. 13, 1884.

Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here to-day; 'Tis nice for neighbors thus to call, In such a social way.

We meet to celebrate a day, Which people seldom see; Time flies so rapidly away 'Tis like a dream to me;

Since I, a lad with flaxen hair First met our friend, so gray; We both were free from thought and care, But full of hope and play.

Well Joseph Steele, we may be glad That we are here to-day, Although it makes me somewhat sad To think of friends away.

Of all our schoolboy friends but few Alas! can now be found, Not many but myself and you Are still above the ground.

I count upon my fingers' ends About the half, I know.

Of all acquaintances and friends With whom we used to go;

To _Humphreys_ and _Montgomery_ To _Cochran_ and to _Dance_, And some, who slip my memory, That used to make us prance,

Whene'er we missed a lesson Or placed a crooked pin Just where some one would press on Enough to drive it in.

O, it was fun alive, I vow, To see that fellow bounce And hear him howl and make a row And threaten he would trounce

The boy that did the mischief, But that boy was seldom found, And so, he had to bear his grief And nurse the unseen wound;

But time and rhyme can never tell The half our funny pranks, And that we ever learned to spell, We ought to render thanks.

Poor Dance! I always pitied him For he was just from college, And never having learned to swim, Was drowned with all his knowledge.