THE HISTORY OF BUCKS COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA, CHAPTER XLIX, OUR POETS AND THEIR POETRY. from the discovery of the Delaware to the present time by W. W. H. Davis, A.M., 1876 and 1905* editions. Contributed for use in the USGenWeb Archives by Donna Bluemink. dbluemink@cox.net USGENWEB NOTICE: Printing this file by non-commercial individuals and libraries is encouraged, as long as all notices and submitter information is included. Any other use, including copying files to other sites requires permission from the submitters PRIOR to uploading to any other sites. We encourage links to the state and county table of contents. _____________________________________________________________________________ Transcriber's note: Liberty has been taken with numbering footnotes so as to include all footnotes from both the 1876 and 1905 editions, plus any additional text and pictures in the 1905 edition. All 1905 material will be noted with an asterisk. Transcriptionist's note: Because an additional chapter (on Bridgeton) was added to the 1905 edition, the chapter numbers for the 1905 edition will be one number ahead of 1876 addition. _____________________________________________________________________________ CHAPTER XLIX, 1876 Edition or CHAPTER XX, 1905 Edition OUR POETS AND THEIR POETRY. William Satterthwaite. -Came to Bucks county. -Pellar and John Watson. -Satterthwaite at Durham and Lumberville. -Domestic troubles. -His death and poetry. -Doctor Jonathan Ingham; Doctor John Watson; Paul Preston; Samuel Johnson; Eliza Pickering; Ann Paxson; Nicholas Biddle, and "Ode to Bogle." -Samuel Blackfan; Samuel Swain. -The Lumberville "Box." -Cyrus Livezey; George Johnson, Jerome Buck, Thaddeus T. Kenderdine; Isaac Walton Spencer; Allen Livezey; Sidney L. Anderson; Catharine Mitchel; Lizzie Van Deventer; Octavia E. Hill; Rebecca Smith; Laura W. White; Emily F. Seal; Elizabeth Lloyd; M. A. Heston. -John C. Hyde.* There was but little outgrowth of poetic feeling among the first settlers, as their life in the wilderness was too hard for any display of sentiment. But there was great proclivity of rhyming by the middle of the last century, and from that time to this our county has abounded in writers of verse. [This talent was stimulated by the establishment of a county newspaper.*] William Satterthwaite, who is classed among the "early poets of Pennsylvania," was probably the earliest, as well as the most distinguished, of our domestic versifiers, but only a few of his effusions have survived him. He was born in England the early part of the last century, received a good classical education, and settled in Pennsylvania while a young man. It is difficult to tell at what time he first came to Bucks county. He is said to have been a school teacher in England, and that one night a school girl, benighted on her way home, was offered the hospitality of his school-house. The evening was long enough for their courtship and marriage. Satisfied of the false step they had taken, they sailed for Pennsylvania in quest of better fortune, and here he resumed his old employment. He taught Greek and Latin for a while in Jacob Taylor's celebrated classical school in Philadelphia, and probably went from there to Durham furnace, where he taught the company's school several years at a fixed salary. At that time John Chapman was clerk at the furnace. When John Watson was surveying in that neighborhood, he stopped at Satterthwaite's house, that stood near a fine spring, where the two amused themselves reading, and talking poetry in praise of his spotted trout. Watson and his surveying party made their headquarters at the house of Cruikshank, a settler near the mouth of Saucon creek. At such times Satterthwaite would go up to see him, and Pellar, when work was suspended, and the poets would indulge their fancy for the muse. The following are the last four lines of an extempore ode, with which Watson woke some of the laggards in the morning: "The sun peeps o'er the highest tree, Ere we have sipped our punch and tea; So time rolls on from day to day, That it's noon before we can survey." From Durham Satterthwaite moved down into Solebury, and lived several years near Lumberville, then known as Hamilton's landing. Through the influence of friends he obtained several schools in the county, where he taught English and the classics - in Solebury, Buckingham, and elsewhere. Some 130 years ago he taught in the school house on the southwest side of the Street road between Buckingham and Solebury townships, nearly opposite the lane that leads into the old Blackfan homestead. He was appointed deputy -surveyor for Bucks by Jacob Taylor, when he became surveyor-general. Mr. Satterthwaite found warm patrons in Lawrence Growden and Jeremiah Langhorne. Growden invited him to come to Trevose, and offered to maintain him as long as he lived, but he went to Langhorne park, where he ended his days. It is said that while Satterthwaite lived at Langhorne's two of his negroes had a fight, and in consequence one of them determined to hang himself. Satterthwaite said it would be wicked to take his own life, and persuaded the negro to let him be the executioner. He performed this service so effectually that the negro was cured of a second attempt. He was unhappy in his conjugal relations, and after one of his disputes with his wife it is said that she tried to poison him. He had but one child, a son named George, of whom John Watson was very fond, but what became of him is not known. Mr. Satterthwaite gave free vein to his fancy when he paid court to the muse, and he wrote on many subjects. A good deal of his poetry was of the heroic stamp, while a pious strain runs through some of his productions. Among his works are a poem on "Mysterious Nothing," (1) written about 1738, another entitled "Providence," and "Religious Allegory of Life's Futurity," addressed to the youth, but never published. His poem entitled "Providence" begins with: "O, gracious power, divinely just and great, Who rules the volumes of eternal fate; Thou guard of thought, inspirer of my song, My thanks to Thee, kind Providence, belong; Thou wing'st my genius and inspir'st my soul To sing Thy praise, Great Ruler of the Whole." (1) On of his female scholars requested him to write her some poetry, and on his asking her for a subject, she answered, "Oh, nothing." A verse addressed to a young lady, in reproof for singing, ran: "Though singing is a pleasing thing, Approved and done in Heaven, It only should employ the souls Who know their sins forgiven." (2) (2) This was contained in a pamphlet that was in the possession of John E. Kenderdine some years ago. He composed a poem on "Free Grace," which he called "Excellent Mortal," which began: "Hail, Excellent Mortal, all blooming and gay, Serene as the morning, and fair as the day; Thy garment's unspotted, and free from a stain Of sinful pollution, so let them remain." While ascending Coppernose, (3) he was bitten on the finger by a rattlesnake, and his life is said to have been saved by Nutimus, the old Indian doctor of Nockamixon. He anathematized the serpent in the verse, beginning: "Thou pois'nous serpent with a noisy tail, Whose teeth are tinctured with the plagues of hell." (3) A bold hill near Lumberville. Mr. Satterthwaite's eccentricities cropped out in various ways. His wife kept him poor by her extravagance, and to rebuke her pride he wrote an epic poem entitled the "Indian Queen," the scene being laid in New Jersey on the creek that empties into the Delaware opposite Paxson's island. He describes an Indian princess who lived delightfully on her domain, dressed in buckskin, etc., but was not satisfied until she had a calico gown and a looking-glass. Being dressed fine she must go abroad to show her clothes; while passing a fire her calico dress caught the flames and she was burned to death, while her buckskin dress would have enabled her to pass the fire in safety. The last two lines read: "Thus, like Alcides on his flaming hearse, The princess dies, and I conclude my verse." The poetry did not reclaim his wife, who deserted him, and he became a poor, forlorn old man. It is said of him that one bright Sunday afternoon, he strolled down to William Skelton's mill, at the mouth of Cuttalossa, and finding him absent, wrote with chalk, the following couplet on the door: "Here Skelton lurks, and an unkind refugee seeks, On Delaware's doleful banks, between two awful peaks." (4) (4) Now known as "Indian" and "Quarry" hills. On referring to the attempt of his wife to poison him, he remarked to some friends that he had been poisoned by a snake, and poisoned by a woman, and that now he defied all the devils in hell to do it. Among his eccentricities was that of calling his mare to him by repeating to her Greek verses, which she appeared to understand, at least he knew what he wanted. When Satterthwaite grew impatient of teaching, he would repeat to himself: "On! What stock of patience needs the fool Who spends his time and breath in teaching school; Taught or untaught, the dunce is still the same; But yet the wretched master bears the blame." On the death of his great friend and patron, Jeremiah Langhorne, Mr. Satterthwaite wrote an elegy on his character, from which we copy the following lines: "He stood the patriot of the province, where Justice was nourished with celestial care. He taught the laws to know their just design, Truth, justice, mercy, hand in hand to join, Without regard to fear, or hope, or gain, Or sly designs of base, corrupted men." The date of Mr. Satterthwaite's death is not known Doctor Jonathan Ingham was one of the ablest and most useful men the state ever produced. He learned Hebrew, when well along in life, of Samuel Delezenna, (5) a Jewish rabbi, and spent much of his time in reading the Hebrew Bible. He talked and wrote in meter with great ease. He wrote a journal in elegant verse, descriptive of a journey up the Delaware to buy logs for his mill, and translated the Aphorisms of Hippocrates into poetry at the request of Doctor Bond, of Philadelphia. He communicated the death of a young British officer, whom he attended in his last illness, to Washington, in poetry, in the style of an elegy, beginning: "Ah, gentle reader! As thou drawest near To read the inscription on this bumble stone, Drop o'er the grave a sympathizing tear, And make a stranger's hapless cause they own. * * "Flushed with ambition's animating fires, My youthful bosom glow'd with thirst for fame, Which oft, alas! but vanity inspires, To these inclement, hostile shores I came." (5) From whom Samuel D. Ingham got his initial "D." Doctor Jonathan Ingham, Jr., who learned Greek at a school in Southampton, probably in the old school-house at the Baptist church, was as learned as his father. He was a scholar in Greek, Latin, French, German, and Dutch, learning the latter of a hired man. Satterthwaite left him some of his Greek books at his death, and he succeeded to the practice of Doctor Joseph Watson, who was likewise a poet. Doctor John Watson, whose genius adorned our county a century ago, a son of the above named Doctor Joseph Watson, was born in Buckingham township in 1746, and died there in 1817, in his 73rd year. (6) He married Mary Hampton, of Wrightstown, in 1772, who died in 1778. He devoted the latter years of his life to literary culture, and indulged his native taste for poetry, and some of his productions are much admired to this day. He was a poet of no mean parts, and his verse is noted for being written on Ameri can subjects, devoted to home-life and characteristics, and in sweet-flowing stanzas. He drew no inspiration from antiquity. He wrote considerable in prose, and among his productions are the History of Buckingham and Solebury townships, and a pamphlet on the "Customary Use of Spirituous Liquors," published in 1810. The few of his poetical productions within our reach exhibit genius. His ode to "Spring," written in 1777, but re-written and changed 25 years afterward, and published in Asher Miner's "Correspondent," in 1805, is esteemed one of his best pieces. A few verses will show its merits: "The jolly boatman down the ebbing stream By the clear moonlight, plies his easy way, With prosp'rous fortune to inspire his theme, Sings a sweet farewell to the parting day. His rustic music measures even time, As in the crystal wave he dips his oar, And echo pleas'd returns the tuneful chime, Mixed with soft murmurs from the listening shore. The lamp of love pursues the day's decline; And wearied nature seeks a soft repose; The stars bright shining, and the sky serene, Silence seems list'ning as the water flows. From all around the inspiration comes As the mild breezes of the spring advance, The op'ning buds dispense their sweek perfume, And trembling light beams on the eddies dance. So when the tide of life serenely flows And health's sweet gales the prosp'rous voyage attend, With nature's charms th' enraptured fancy glows, And these gay scenes the poet's themes befriend. The morning's fragrance, the refreshing shade, The murm'ring waters and the cooling breeze, The lofty mountain and the rough cascade Delight the senses and the fancy please." (7) (6) He was a descendant of Thomas Watson, who with his wife and sons, immigrated from Cumberland in 1701, and settled on 450 acres in Buckingham valley, in 1704. Doctor John Watson was the grandfather of Judge Richard Watson, of Doylestown. (7) The first five stanzas are part of those originally written an hundred years ago, the sixth a verse of the new composition. The ode sings the praises of the "Flowing Delaware." In Doctor Watson's "Pastoral View on the Advance of Spring," written a year before the foregoing was published by Asher Miner, there runs the same charming rural feeling and sentiment: "Though the weather be broken it yet is the spring; The frogs make a croaking and chirping birds sing; The wheat and the rye are arraying in green, The clover is growing and soon will be seen, The nights are a shortening to add to the day, The waters are flowing and hastening away, The bees are a flying, the lambs are at play, Old April is passing, it soon will be May, The trees are a budding and merry birds sing - All nature revives at the coming of spring." * * Some of Doctor Watson's admirers believe that the verses he wrote on the misfortunes of Elizabeth Ferguson are his best. She was the daughter of Doctor Graeme, and her husband, a Scotchman, went off with the British at the evacuation of Philadelphia in 1778, leaving her to fight the battles of life alone. She was a poetess, and a lady of distinguished literary abilities, and wrote under "nom de plum" of "Laura." He wrote: "Can the muse that laments the misfortunes of love Draw a shade o'er the sorrowful tale, That Laura was cheated, and fully could prove That Scotchmen have honor that sometimes may fail." At the death of Doctor Watson a friendly hand wrote: "He is gone, who the lyre could awaken To ecstasy's magical thrill, Laoskekie, (8) they mount is forsaken, And the harp of thy poet is still." (8) Buckingham mountain. Paul Preston, (9) as well as his two daughters, wrote considerable poetry. His production entitled "Solomoncis," was of considerable length. The following is all of the fifth book of this unfinished poem: "Now let the muse in meditation deep, With humble awe, disturb the silent sleep Of David's harp, and sweep the sounding strings Till notes harmonious utter wondrous things. That harp whose awful music would recall That holy sense which had forsaken Saul, Whose powerful charms had often dispossess't And drove the evil spirit from his breast, Now be employ'd a nobler theme to raise, Blest with the clearer light of gospel days, The fields of heavenly wonder to explore, And sing of matters never sung before." (9) He died about 1804 or 1805. He translated the works of Torquatus, on the Consolation of Philosophy, from the Latin, which his friends had published as a tribute to his memory after his death - printed by Asher Miner, at Doylestown, in 1808. Among his productions in verse was a narrative of "The Captivity of Benjamin Gilbert and Family," who were taken by the Indians in 1780, which had considerable celebrity at the time. He left behind him a manuscript work on surveying, and another that teaches the uses to which a straight stick and compass can be applied. In 1787 his friend and former pupil, Jonathan Ingham, dedicated to him an English translation of the Epitaph of Theocritus on Hipponax, which is "humbly inscribed to my well-esteemed friend and tutor, Paul Preston." Samuel Johnson, of Buckingham, in his day, was one of the most cultivated and scholarly men of the county, and fond of poetizing. His manners were popular, and he had political influence. Eighty years [100*] ago he owned and lived on the farm now George G. Maris's (now Colonel Henry D. Paxson's), on the New Hope pike. The following, written in a young lady's album, is given because its length best suits our limited space: "Lady, I thus meet thy request, Else should I not have deemed it best To scribble on this spotless page, With the weak, trembling pen of age. I've written in Time's album long, Sketches of life with moral song, Blotted in haste full many a leaf, Whose list of beauties might be brief. Could I some pleasing views now glean, 'Twould make at best a winter scene; On the bleak side of seventy years How sear the foliage appears; And frost-nipt flowers we strive in vain By culture to revive again; The snows of time my temples strew, Warning to bid the muse adieu." The lines addressed to his wife on the 50th anniversary of their marriage, and those on the "Harp," are considered among his best productions. His "Vale of Lahaseka," a charming valley in Buckingham, written about 1835, is too long to be inserted, bu we give a few verses to show its pleasant, flowing meter: "From the brow of Lahaseka, wide to the west, The eye sweetly rests on the landscape below; 'Tis blooming as Eden when Eden was blest, As the sun lights its charms with his evening glow. Flow on, lovely streamlets, in silvery pride, From the hills on the west send your bounty afar, As you brightly burst forth from their dark sylvan sides, And fancy delight with your crystalline car. Ere civilized Man here exerted his power, The Native had cultured this spot on its plains; To freedom and joy had devoted the hour, And love lit his torch in their happy domains. * * As our vale rose in beauty, refinement began, Taste touched and retouched tho' simple her art; Then more intellectual Youth rose up to Man, And the civilized virtues embellish the heart. * * To Friendship and Virtue may long be devoted The Vale of Lahaseka, pride of the plains; For charms intellectual her daughters be noted, And Wisdom and Science enlighten'd her swains." (10) (10) Lahaseka, a mountain in the township of Buckingham, lying nearly northeast and southwest, about two miles in length, near the middle of the valley. This is the Indian name. Mr. Johnson's humorous poem, entitled "The Banking Rats, a Fable," portraying the disastrous failures of a bank, is one of his best, and as applicable now as when written. The two daughters of Samuel Johnson, Eliza, who married Jonathan Pickering, both now deceased, and Ann, wife of Thomas Paxson, of Buckingham, inherited the poetic fire of their father. Of Mrs. Pickering's verse we copy a few stanzas of her lines addressed to Halley's comet, (1835,) after it had disappeared from this hemisphere: "Thou hast gone in thy brightness thou beautiful star, With the train of refulgence that streamed from thy car; Where Philosophy's eagle flight never may soar, Nor e'en Fancy's bold pinion attempt to explore. * * When the stars of the morning triumphantly sang, And the shouts of archangels in joyfulness rang, Was then thy glad orb launched on ether's vast deep, Unchanging for ages, its pathway to keep. What spheres has thy lamp's rich effulgency warmed, 'Mong suns and through systems, unharming, unharmed? In safety and peace was thy swift career bent, Or in fearful concussion to rend or be rent? Was thine the dread task in rude fragments to shiver Some world like our own into new worlds to sever? Such, philosophers tell, might the Asteroids be - Do these owe their separate existence to thee? * * Speed on, glorious one, in they wonderful course, From the beams of our sun gain new light and new force; Still roll on through ether thy chariot sublime, Till Eternity springs from the ruins of Time." Mrs. Paxson has written considerable poetry, and we dare hardly trust our uncultivated judgment to make a selection. But we venture to present to our reader her stanzas entitled "A Thanksgiving," as not unworthy the reputation of the writer: "For the morning's ruddy splendor, For the noontide's radiant glow; For the golden smile of sunset, Illuming all below; For flowers, thou types of Eden, That gem the verdant sod, And seem to ope their petals To tell us of our God. They flood the silent wilderness With beauty and perfume; They bloom around our pathway, They blossom on the tomb; They are alphabets of angels, Though written on the sod; And if man would read them wisely, Might lead his soul to God. For the Spring, with all its promise, For the Summer's boundless store; For Autumn's richer treasures, And the Winter's wilder roar; For the joyous evening fireside, By thought and feeling awed; For the loving hearts around it, I thank Thee, Oh, my God. For the memories that encircle The happy days gone by; For the holy aspirations That lift the soul on high; For the hope in brighter regions, By seraph footsteps trod, To meet the lost and loved ones, I thank Thee, Oh, my God." Mrs. Paxson was born in January, 1782, and was married to Thomas Paxson in 1817. Nicholas Biddle, in his life and death a Bucks countian, was a poet of wide reputation. A man of large and careful cultivation, he devoted a portion of his leisure at his beautiful home on the Delaware in courting the muse. Of his productions, "An Ode to Bogle" (11) became popular on its appearance, and is still remembered and quoted. It was written July 16, 1829, and dedicated," with a piece of mintstick," to Meta Craig Biddle, his granddaughter, aged four years. We have only room for a few stanzas of this ode: * * Hail! mayest thou, Bogle, for thy reign Extends o'er Nature's wide domain, Begins before our earliest breath, Nor ceases with the hour of death; Scarce seems the blushing maiden wed, Unless thy care the supper spread; Half christened only were that boy Whose heathen squalls our ears annoy? If, service finished, cakes and wine Were given by any hand but thine, And Christian burial e'en were scant Unless his aid the Bogle grant. * * Death's seneschal, 'tis thine to trace For each his proper look and place; How aunts should weep where uncles stand, With hostile cousins hand in hand; Give matchless gloves, and fitly shape By length of face the length of crape. See him erect, with lofty tread, The dark scarf streaming from his head, Lead forth his groups in order mete And range them grief-wise in the street; Presiding o'er the solemn show The very Chesterfield of woe. * * No jot of honor will he bate, Nor stir toward the churchyard gate Till the last person is at hand And every hat has got it band. Before his stride the town gives way, Beggars and belles confess his sway; Drays, prudes, and sweeps, a startled mass, Rein up to let his cortege pass; And death himself, that ceaseless dun, Who waits on all, yet waits for none, Now bears a greater waiter's tone, An scarcely deems his life his own. * * Nor less, stupendous man! Thy power In festal than in funeral hour, When gas and beauty's blended rays Set hearts and ball-rooms in a blaze. Or spermaceti's light reveals More inward bruises than it heals. In flames each belle her victim kills, And sparks fly upward in quadrilles; Like icebergs in an Indian clime Refreshing Bogle breathes sublime - Cool airs upon that sultry stream From Roman punch and frosted cream." (11) Bogle, the subject of the ode, whom Mr. Biddle calls a "colorless colored man," was a light mulatto, and a well-known character of the day, who resided in Eighth, near Sansom street, Philadelphia. He united the vocation of public waiter and undertaker, frequently officiating at a funeral in the afternoon, and at a party the evening of the same day, presenting on all occasions, the same gravity of demeanor. The "jeu d'esprit" closed with a stanza addressed to the little granddaughter of the author: "Meta, thy riper years may know More of this world's fantastic show, In thy time, as in mine, shall be Burials and pound-cake, beaux and tea; Rooms shall be hot and ices cold, And flirts be both as 'twas of old. Love, too, and mintsticks shall be made, Some dearly bought, some lightly weighed; As true the hearts, the forms as fair, An equal joy, and beauty there; The smile as bright, as soft the ogle, But never, never such a Bogle!" Samuel Blackfan, a farmer and minister among Friends of Solebury, a man of many eccentricities, wrote considerable poetry 50 years ago. He was the son of William Blackfan, and was born on a farm, on the Windy Bush road, now owned by Mahlon Atkinson. He introduced poetry into all his sermons. He was found dead in his wagon on the road from Philadelphia, between the Fox-chase and Sorrel Horse. We make the following extracts from his poetry from his "Ode to the Winter Sun:" "Fair fountain of heat, In bleak winter so sweet, Every sensible person w'd perish; Yes, rather expire Than to witness thy fire, Discontinue, creation to cherish. How cheerful and warm Coming after a storm, Is the heat from thy orb emanating; To the people of earth, Animation and mirth In the room of despondence creating. When thy sister, the moon, At the brilliance of noon, Eclipses thy splendor awhile; Every creature is sad, Till thy countenance glad Re-creates it again by its smile. How stupendous and grand, The adorable Hand That created The Luminous Ocean, To brighten our eyes As thou coursest the skies, While thy beams kindle warmth by their motion." The following, from the same author, the first two verses of lines to "The Belles" are not too old to be appreciated at the present day: "I apportion a part of each week To dressing my hair with a comb, And the rend'ring it tidy and sleek, Even when I continue at home. But when I determine to visit The house of a neighboring girl, I adorn it, and trim it, and friz it, In front, into many a curl." The meter of the following, by the same, is charming: "Meandering streams, romantic glades, And winds that pass thro' twilight shades, Retiring from the west; The saffron moon, the vernal grove, Have still the magic pow'r to move, And harmonize the breast." His lines addressed to "The Carter" are probably among the best he ever wrote - beginning: "The carter that crossed the tall Allegheny, Is happier than Jews with their gold; He matters not whether the weather be rainy, Or keen-blowing, frosty and cold. When he quits his dear Pittsburgh companions awhile, And from Anna prepares to depart, He perceives by the sorrow that saddens her smile, That he had a high place in her heart." Among our later poets, Samuel Swain, of Bristol, probably stands at the head. He was born on his father's farm in Bensalem, but removed into Bristol at ten years of age. A sickly boyhood and a retired place of birth had something to do in shaping his after life, and he learned early to love Nature and Harmony. His cottage-home overlooks the beautiful Delaware, and there he courts the muse in sweet retirement, and cultivates the affections. Quoting from one of his productions, it may with truth be said, that years have left no frost upon a heart "That throbs for beauty and for truth And divine in art." Mr. Swain is the son of exemplary members of the society of Friends; was married in 1850, and his taste for the divine art has not disqualified him for contact with the world, and the rougher routine of making a living. He has written so many good things, that we hesitate to make a choice between them, but present the following: FROM "LAUREL HILL." "When I must leave the hearts I fondly love And all the beauty of this bright green earth, I ask no labored stone this form above With words that tell a doubting world my worth. The only monument my soul desires Shall be the rainbow bent o'er falling tears - The blessed radiance from the kind heart's fires My love hath kindled thro' departed years!" FROM "THE FRONT DOOR." "The love of beauty grows with love of home, And as they fill the soul They draw us nearer to that love Supreme, Whose presence make us whole. From all the beauteous and the dear of earth, We frame the amaranth bowers, And fill the glory of the angel's home With the lowlier sweets of ours!" We close selections, from Mr. Swain, with "By the Sea," written at Ocean Grove, New Jersey, in August, 1873, and esteemed one of his best productions: "Day after day I weary not of thee, Blue wonder of the world! And tune my ear Morning and evening with a fresh delight To thy unbroken hymn. My fitful heart Takes home the lesson of thy constant praise Ashamed of its poor worship. I feel my soul, With all its wavering purposes ascend To nobler range of power while gazing out O'er the green desert of thy lilied waves Climbing toward Heaven. My life and care Grow paltry in thy light of visions born At thy mysterious verge! Out from myself I travel on thy breast in search of Him Who holds thy waters in his forming hand, For no such causeway to the invisible world As thine, is mapped on matter! Evermore Moving to purification, powerful, Unchanged thro' centuries, what can lead like thee To Thought's great Father? The messengers Of Commerce whitening o'er thy perilous waste, The nerves of lightning trembling thwart thy deep Foundation floors, bearing the messages Of hope and fear, of joy and sobbing grief From heart to parted heart, attune thy psalm With the sweet triumphs and divine advance Of human love and peace ! The waves roll on The progress of the World. They waft the fair King messages of Truth from land to land, And link the fortunes of all climes! Father of being And Arbiter of earth for evermore, Bring into harmony all nations round The borders of Thy deep. Speed on the day When murderous war and servitude shall cease To crimson these pure waves, whose choral tones Lead human hearts to Thee!" Some 60 [80*] years ago a few persons, inclined to letters, organized "The Lumberville Literary and Debating Society," which stimulated the poetic talent of the neighborhood. In the society's book of record are found several effusions of the local poets which were dropped into the "box," and read at the next meeting. We print two of these - the first "An Acrostic on Music," by Henry Greatorex: (12) "Midst the dark ruins of despair, Unhappiness and woe - Securely bless'd by Thee while there, In time of need, in time of care, Can ceaseless pleasures flow." (12) Henry Greatorex or Greatrake, was born at Wilmington, Delaware, about 1800, resided in Solebury in 1823-24, and was a frequent contributor to the Lumberville Society. A number of his pieces are preserved. He left the neighborhood about 1825 or 1826, and his subsequent career is unknown. "THE ROSE." By William C. Ely. (13) "Look yonder, says Harry, that full, blushing rose, How delightful it is to our view; Its stem gently bends as the soft zephyrs blow, 'Tis an emblem, dear Anna, of you. Its sweet-scented fragrance spreads an odor around, 'Tis delicious to soul and to eye; But, now look again - it lies on the ground, It has lost all its rubicund dye. Such, Anna, is life, a day, and we're gone, To-morrow we yield our last breath; That rose has once bloomed, but its blooming is done, And its beauties are shrouded in death. Our life is a barge on the gulph-stream of woe, (This rose is a typical view;) Tho' pleasures may beam for awhile here below, They will flee from the stalk where they grew. This barge may be wreck'd on the quicksands of youth Ere they double the cape of "Old age;" Then here let us learn from the lesson of truth That true modest virtue's a blessing forsooth That will bear us thro' life's latest stage." (13) Was a son of Jesse Ely, and born near Carversville the beginning of the present century. He was fond of music, literature and poetry from his youth, and was a frequent contributor to the "box," while he taught school in the neighborhood. He went West and died there. "The Rose" was written in March, 1823. ON THE "DEATH OF HENRY CLAY." By Martin J. Head. (14) "A glorious orb has fallen! But fallen like the sun Who sinks to rest in splendor when his daily task is done; Yet whose brightness, never dying, lends to other orbs the light That breaks with lesser radiance on the gloomy brow of night. He passed away forever! But his genius liveth on Like the light that lingers with us when the god of day has gone; And other orbs that follow in the coming lapse of time Will borrow from the brightness of this leading light sublime." (14) Mr. Head is the son of Joseph Head, of Lumberville, and born August 11, 1819. He exhibited great talent for drawing in his youth, and was a pupil of Edward Hicks, at Newtown. He afterward spent several years in Italy, studying and practicing art, and also in Brazil. On his return he established himself in New York, where he ranks high as an artist. He has contributed a good deal to the public press and paid some attention to poetry. "THE COMING OF MAY." By Cyrus Livezey. (15) "The storms of winter are over and gone, And the sun gently smiles o'er hill-top and lawn; The bright streams are murmuring on every hand, 'And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.' The trees are all budding in beauty again, The wheat fields enliven the hill-slope and plain - In the meadows the violets are dripping with dew, And cloth'd in their vestments of heavenly blue. The birds sing their lays in the forest once more, Rejoicing that winter's stern reign is o're; The children are merry and lustily play, While the old folks rejoice at 'The coming of May.'" (15) Mr. Livezey, storekeeper and postmaster at Lumberville, was a member of the old literary society at that place, and patronized the "box," but "The Coming of May" was written in a young lady's album. He was a frequent worshiper at the feet of one of the Nine, and has not entirely forgotten his first love. [He died some years ago.*] George Johnson, son of Edwin E. and Anna E. Johnson, of Upper Makefield, where he was born March 5, 1845, was a gifted young man. He was brought up on a farm, and obtained his education at a common school, except two terms at the Carversville high-school. From birth to manhood he was surrounded by rural influences, which ministered to the contemplative in his character. He developed a taste for literature, and especially poetry, at an early age, but his modesty hid them from publication until the age of eighteen, when some of his early effusions were published in the "Bucks County Intelligencer." Having a taste for journalism, he went to Philadelphia in 18171, and engaged as new editor on the "North American," and was subsequently on the "Saturday Evening Post" and other papers. His literary labors broke down his health, and he was obliged to retire to Solebury to recuperate, where he died May 20, 1875, at the early age of 30. In June, 1874, he married Miss Mary Shoemaker, of Philadelphia. Since his death a volume of his poems have been issued from the press. Of Mr. Johnson's verse we have only room for one production: "TEARS." "Long ago, long ago Ah! Earth remembers well, From our mourning mother's eyes, On the dews of Paradise The first tear fell - The first of human woe! Since then, since then, From the eyes and hearts of men, How full has been the flow! Tears of joy, tears of pain, Some as sad as on the leaf Drops the dreary autumn rain, With patient, meek despair; Some like April showers brief, When the opening heavens again Show even more fair. O! delicious, balmy grief, A kind of bliss thou art! Thy drops destroy no bloom. Tears that never outward start, But fall inward on the heart, These sear and consume. Alas! the tears we see Are not the half that fall. We hide our misery - God only knoweth all. The face puts on a smile, Yet all the weary while The heart tastes gall. We mask our deepest woes, For bitterer tears are shed For the living than the dead That no one knows. O, Earth! there comes a day When a sweet voice from on high Shall beam downward through the sky, Fresh from Heaven, and say: 'Weep no more! Weep no more! For the living nor the dead. Sorrow's long, long night is o'er, The last tear is shed!' But how may years, But now many tears Before those words are said!" Jerome Buck, (16) eldest son of Samuel and Martha Buck, was born at Doylestown, in 1835. He was a pupil of George Murray, and finished his scholastic education with Rev. Samuel Aaron at Norristown. He afterward studied law, and on being admitted to the bar settled at New York. Mr. Buck finds time to tread the paths of literature, and with a natural love of poetry, his pen not infrequently wanders into that region. In 1865, he was married to Miss Kate McGrath, of Kentucky. Of Mr. Buck's poetry we give the following: "THE WISH." "The bird will e'en its broken wing Re-wound to find its mate, Must then this heart, so hurt by love, Be scarred and desolate? The wave tho' marred upon the sands Will distant seas explore, Is it then sure this injured heart Must venture love no more? The rose, though torn, with odor sweet Its debtor makes the wind, Doth love owe naught to this poor heart Which is to love so kind? The harp whose strings are mutilate Sweet strains doth yet retain - It will! this heart, so silent, will Vibrate with love again!" "CHRISTABEL." "Where the zephyr softly breathes And gold seeds burst their golden sheathes, Where birds no chorus leave unsung Her ear to charm against his tongue - To kiss lips riper than the grain, Long sues he Christabel in vain. Where the frost makes silver tips Of stubble-tops - with ashen lips Rustic Christabel is sighing, Hope itself within her dying: "He comes not!' sooner comes the snow, And Christabel will lie below." (16) Jerome Buck, who died at New York, February 21, 1900, in this 65th years, was a descendant of Nicholas Buck, who came to this country from Thionille, Loraine, 1752, landing at Philadelphia and shortly settling in Springfield township, Bucks county. His mother was a daughter of Josiah Y. Shaw, Doylestown, a woman of great beauty, and from whom the son inherited his brilliant qualities. On the death of his father his mother married John Titus, Esq., with whom Mr. Buck read law. Mr. Titus reached the Supreme bench of Arizona and died while there. Mr. Buck was one of the most brilliant men born in Bucks county, in the past century.* Among our later poets, Thaddeus S. Kenderdine, son of the late John E. Kenderdine, of Lumberville, has a very respectable standing. Born in 1836, he received a good, but not a liberal education, dividing his time between work and school. Seeking a little adventure in the summer of 1858, he drove an ox-team across the plains to Salt Lake City, whence he continued to San Francisco, and returned home by way of the Isthmus in 1859. During the Civil War he served as a lieutenant in the 174th Pennsylvania regime nt. Mr. Kenderdine has written several things that have the stamp of a true poet. Among his best productions are "The Graveyard," "The Old Mill," "The Old Meeting-house," and a poem of 138 lines, entitled "At Gettysburg," in which battle his younger brother, Robert, fell mortally wounded. His friends consider the last the finest thing he has ever written. We insert a few verses from two of his poems, as we have not room for more: "THE GRAVEYARD." (17) * * 'Like ghastly, goblin sentinels, Keeping their watch and ward, The tombstones picket the field of death, Solemnly standing guard, Wearied with watching since time far gone, Some lean over and some lie prone. The gates stand invitingly open, Beckoning mortals to come; From the sandy soil, with little toil, Can be scooped a mortal's home. The populous charnal-house seems to say, 'Ho! life-wearied children, come this way!' A grim old man is the sexton, With his well-worn mattock and spade; He joyfully welcomes new-comers To the fresh-dug home he has made. He heareth, unmoved, the rattling cold, And deftly pats the arching sod. * * Form of mold the purest, Cheeks kissed by clustering curls, Eyes that dazzle like sunbeam, Teeth out rivaling pearls; What are they all in these halls so lone? Nothing! ah, nothing but dust and bone! * * Well that the hopes of mortals Triumph o'er their fears; The body may rot and be forgot In the dreamy lapse of years. Fear shrinks at the sight of Death's drear halls, While hopes leaps over the graveyard walls." * * (17) Written for the "Doylestown Democrat" in 1862. "THE OLD MILL." (18) "Half hidden by weeping willows, At the foot of a wood-crowned hill, Nestling in quiet beauty, Standeth the old grist-mill. Its roof is seamed and moss-covered, And tottering is its wall, And silent and still is the old water-wheel, All clasped in time's enthrall. * * Hark, how the mill-stones rumble As the golden grain leaps through, List to the clattering "damsel" Shaking the aguish "shoe;" Swiftly is gliding the belting, The cogs whirl round in a maze, And with mute surprise in my juvenile eyes, I wondering stand and gaze. There stands the miller musing On the ups and downs ofÐCorn; His form appears bowed down with years And the weighty sacks he's borne. Dust wraps him 'round like a halo, Dented and dinged is his hatÐ An honest old man was the miller, I ween, Though, on dit, his swine were fat. Weighing out quarters of flour, Measuring bushels of feed, Plenty of grist-work his dower, Plenty of water his need. Toiling from morn till even, Grinding the golden grain, When death one day chanced over that way And heavenward jogged the twain. * * And now the grist-mill standeth Cheerless and silent and old, Owls and bats through the windows Are flitting fearless and bold; Time and the rats are gnawing At rafter, and beam, and floor, And soon the old mill, so silent and still, Will crumble to rise no more! Oh! what is life but a grist-mill, Where Right is ground down by Power, Where Fashion is grinding its millions Into very indifferent flour; Where Vice is crushing out Virtue, Where Mammon is grinding the Poor, Where grists of cares, and hopes, and fear, Pass in and out at the door." * * (18) Published in the "Doylestown Democrat" in 1862. A poetic vein runs through all the sons of John E. Kenderdine. Robert, born in 1851, and fell at Gettysburg, wrote considerable in prose and verse, probably his best production being a poem entitled "After the Battle." His elder brother, Watson, is the author of "A Satire" on poetry, and one other production published in "The Olive Branch" in 1849. Isaac Walton Spencer, the youngest son of Amos and Ann Spencer, was born in the old family homestead in Northampton, in 1815. He received his education at the common schools and taught during the early part of his life in the middle and lower sections of the county, being a frequent contributor to the columns of the "Literary Chronicle" and "Newtown Journal," and later to the "Bucks County Intelligencer." After engaging in mercantile pursuits in the county, and subsequently in Philadelphia, he returned in 1860, and spent the remainder of his days on a farm in Warwick, where he died in February, 1868. He married Mrs. Louisa Michener, daughter of John Jamison, of Warwick, and widow of Doctor Charles P. Michener, of Newtown. Mr. Spencer wrote and published considerable, and the selection we have made first appeared in the "Bucks County Intelligencer," in 1849. "YOUTH." "I wish I were a young again, a careless, happy youth, Without a thought of grief or care, all innocense and truth, As when in life's effulgent morn each vernal leaf and flower Told but of hopes, when sere and dry, of spring's reluming power. Then, 'neath the spreading vine-clad tree, sweet voices full of love Spoke to the trusting heart of hope on earth and bliss above, And waters bright, whose murmuring streams flow joyously away, Are emblems of our fleeting dreams of joys that soon decay. Alas! they told a happy tale, those scenes of early days! Too soon the brightest colors pale, the sweetest flower decays: Affection's kindest smile may greet, sweet sympathy may bind In concord, harmony and truth, mind with its kindred mind. Yet doubts their dark'ning shadows may around our pathway cast, And thro' the mist affection's smile, sunlight of love, be lost. But hope, immortal, whose bright ray can penetrate the gloom, Remains, till lost in certainty, beyond the quiet tomb. Vain wish! could I recall again those days, so free from care, So full of hope and buoyancy, back from the things that were, I would not so; the path of life is strewn with thorns and flowers; Vain, transitory, are its joys, even in our happiest hours. Earth is not our abiding place, I would not alway stay Where sins the fairest forms deface and all things feel decay, Where sorrows meet us ere we deem our happiness begun, And, in each cup of joy we quaff, some bitter dregs are run. In youth our hearts and hopes are bright, our home a blissful place, Loved thoughts and images arise as now its scenes we trace. In after life our paths diverge, we grope our dubious way, Through darkness and uncertainty by reason's bright'ning ray. But even reason fails to guide the thoughts thro' mists of time In search of perfect happiness--the font of Truth sublime. Still Hope leads on--Faith, freely given, points smilingly above, Earth fades from view--we see the source of Light, and Life, and Love." Allen Livezey, descended of an old family of the county, is the son of Robert and Sarah L., and was born in Solebury township, January 11, 1811. He developed an early attachment for books, and was fond of writing verses. On his marriage he settled in Lumberville, but afterward spent several years in Philadelphia, whence he returned to the county, and settled first at Taylorsville and then at Yardleyville, where he now resides. He has contributed many prose sketches and snatches of poetry to the county papers, etc. His verses "To Cuttalossa," a delightful retreat near Lumberville, we give below: "How often in my youthful days I've walked along thy winding ways, When shaded from the sun's bright rays, How dear was Cuttalossa. But what a change in fifty years, I hardly can refrain from tears, My mind is haunted so with fears For the fate of Cuttalossa. How wild and how romantic then The path along this silent glenÐ Now shorn of all by grasping men Where rolls old Cuttalossa. Near by the stream I used to run To shoot the squirrel with my gun, And there to fish I first begun In thy waters, Cuttalossa. But since the trees of ev'ry height Have disappeared from human sight, In shines the sun from morn till night On dear old Cuttalossa. No more the squirrels do we see Nimbly leaping from tree to tree; No fox is running wild and free Along old Cuttalossa. Thy streams grow less, ah! tell me why At they decline we heave a sigh, And raise our voice to Him on high To spare us Cuttalossa. There are other writers of verse in Bucks county, whose productions are of a highly respectable character, and would do credit to our volume, but the length of the chapter warns us to bring it to a close, and we have room for but a few of these. "WATER LILIES." Sidney L. Anderson. (19) "Do you know that the Lilies I hold in my hand, Are wafting me back to the fairy land Of my beautiful past? When we sailed that night And watched in the Heavens the Pleiades' light; Over all the stream with its wealth of flowers Through those silently passing summer hours, Lay the starlight's glitter and shimmering glory, And the "Lilies," and I heard the 'old, old story.' To-night it is floating back to me, That tender, witching mystery; Ð In the starry silence, I hear once more, The silvery plash of the dipping oar; And the odorous Lilies that lay at my feet, In their closed buds, held my secret sweet. Months passed, and Christmas bells were ringing Glad voices of childhood, the 'Carols' were singing, 'Neath the frosted splendor of mistletoe, Red lips were kissed in the yule log's glow; On the parlor walls hung the holly-wreath red With its crimson buds; and I--had my dead, Hearts pulsing with joy, and I so weary, My lips only murmured their 'miserere.' And when summer warmed the land into bloom, I gathered the Lilies to lay on your tomb. As storm-tossed mariners recall Some coral belted, calm 'atoll,' Upon whose pulseless sapphire breast, They safely moored their barque for rest; So I, to-night with tear-dimmed eye, Dream o'er that dream of bliss gone by. When my soul ensphered in your passionate love Smiled back, as the sea does, the Heaven above; And dreamed that your tenderness would be My haven of rest on Life's surging sea. And the long, long summer to come, will set me Face to face with your memory; Never again shall Lilie's bloom, Fill the dewy night air with its rich perfume; And I not remember a starlit night (In the years that are dead) 'neath the pale moon-light When the Lilies unstirred the rippling river, And we vowed to be 'tender and true' forever. (19) Formerly of Newtown, (now of Philadelphia. [1876 edition only]) "GREEN ERIN." Catharine Mitchell. (20) "And sure I was born in the Emerald Isle, Where the Shannon's rough waves are dashing, And I've stood on the shores of Dingle bay When the ocean's white surg was splashing. You would laugh in your sleeve, if ever you heard How I mingled the brogue with my blarney, And with my shillalah a bog trotter beat. When a boy, on the backs of Killarney. O, Erin, green Erin, is ever my home,Ð I live near the lake of Killarney. The mixed rose of England is thorny, I ween; Like false friends, Scotch thistles are stinging; But the shamrock grows smooth on a fair maiden's cheek When its soft-tinted blossoms are springing; And all the fine folks in Edinburgh town Care not for Saint Pat or Saint Barney, But the priest in old Dublin will worship their names While the mossy turf grows in Killarney. O Erin, green Erin, is every my home,-- Let me dwell on the banks of Killarney. Your lofty Ben Nevis, and Grampian hills You have grandly surnamed your Highlands; Let me hear the sound from the Rock Eagle's Nest. That re-echoes among the Islands. I've roamed o'er the heaths, the braes and the moors, But Give me the sweet Groves of Blarney; I've seen your Loch Levin, Loch Ness, and Loch Tay Still they are not like the lake of Killarney. O Erin, green Erin, is ever my home,Ð Let me sleep by the side of Killarney. Your lads they are bold, your lassies are fair, And bright as the dews of the morning; Their hearts are as pure as the bridal wreath Our dear lady's brow now adorning; But one that I love is now waiting for me, And as sure as my name is O'Karney, I'll stay till this merry wedding is o'er, Then hurry me back to Killarney. O Erin, green Erin, is ever my home,Ð Let me rest by the lake of Killarney." (20) Of Hulmeville. From her volume of poems entitled "The Minstrel's Bride." "EVENING THOUGHTS." By Lizzie Van Deventer. (21) "A solemn whiteness veils the sky With misty moonbeams trembling through The winds are low as a lullaby And the hyacinth bells are full of dew. Their perfume floats upon the air And the night is full of wondrous calm, Save the strange, sweet music breathing there Like the waking notes of a seraph's psalm. And my heart, like a captive bird, to-night Beats wildly against its prison bars, For I long for a glimpse of that world of light, Of that beautiful home beyond the stars, For a gleam from its streets of shining gold, For a rapturous strain from an angel's lute, For a clasp of the hands that have long been cold, And a word from the lips that have long been mute. Six weary months! how the days creep by As we sadly wait on the lonely shore, With many a longing, many a sigh, For the loved and lost who have gone before, Their feet are pressing the golden strand, Their hearts are thrilling with perfect bliss, For, O! the glory of that bright land, And, O! the pain and woe of this! And my tortured heart pours out on the night The burden of its anxious prayer: Do they love us still in that world of light? Do they long for us? Do they miss us there? Do they stand and wait at the pearly gate As they see us nearing the river's brim? Will the voices we know in the world below Be the first to chant the 'welcome hymn?' Oh! the cry is vain, not a murmur mars The slumbrous stillness of the night, And through the mist the watching stars Seem to mock my prayer with their eyes of light. But a sweet, low whisper speaks within, 'Peace, weary heart! Peace, child of dust! All hearts are blest in that land of rest!' And I fold my hands in hope and trust." (21) Daughter of John Van Deventer, of Richborough, Northampton township. "MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN." Rebecca Smith. (22) 'Glorious trinity of words, Sweetest in the English tongue, What a magic spell ye weave, 'Round the hearts of old and young. Mother, cherished name the child's first lisping As it steps upon life's stage, Hallowed name the last that lingers, On the feeble lip of age. How that name recalls to memory, Days and scenes of other years; How it thrills my heart with gladness, How it fills my eyes with tears. Tears of fond affection falling For the loved ones passes away, Joy that one so kind and gentle, Watched me in life's early day. Home, thou dear domestic altar, Ark of safety and of love, Where the mother waits to welcome Back again each wandering dove. Here the spendthrift of life's vigor, Turns again with weary feetÐ And ambition's bankrupt votaries, Seek in thee a calm retreat." (22) Daughter of Mahlon Smith, of Erwinna. ["VOICES OF SHARON." By Laura Watson White." (23) "Tell us a story, ye trees of the wild wood, Standing around us so stately and staid; Give us a glimpse of the times of your childhood As we cluster to-day in your Sharonite shade. Tells us of years when your tall tops o'er-reaching. Naught but an unbroken forest beheld; Ere the settler's sharp axe a new story came teaching, And your life-long companions by hundreds were felled. Read us your history, rocks that lie sleeping. All through the hillsides of Sharon to-dayÐ Valuable truths you must hold in your keeping. Wonderful secrets be hiding away. Feel ye no pride that we come to you pleading Just for a page from the depths of the Past? Think ye the lore too profound for our reading? Deem ye your pearls would be fruitlessly cast? Modest gray mosses, that lovingly linger. Lining these by-ways we fearlessly tread; Can ye not sight us with unerring finger Back to a day, neither voiceless nor dead, When, through these denser shades stealthily creeping, Wild beasts instinctively lurked for their prey; While, in their tracks, with drawn bows, came leaping Types of a race as unfettered as they? Waves of Neshaminy, ceaselessly flowing, Sing us a song of the ages at rest. Years are but waves that are going and going, Stopping nor staying at human behest. Rippled and danced ye as gaily and gladly Under the bow of the red man's canoe? Tumbled and rushed ye as wildly and madly Just as it still suits your fancy to do? Soft airs of Sharon, that wander unheeding: Blustering breezes that sweep through its shade; Pause but a moment and list to our pleading; Why be so careless, or coy, or afraid? Was this your playground in years that had faded Down the dim aisles of the vista of Time, Ere e'en the red man your haunts had invaded, Or human ear noted your rhythmical rhyme? Glorious sunlight, that over and over This spot hath lighted in ages agone; Beautiful Moon, who art always a rover, Hiding thy light from us ever anon; Stars of the morning, that never more clearly Sang in the past than you're singing to-day, Chant us a hymn that shall draw us more nearly Into the circle of scenes we love dearlyÐ Scenes of an age that has faded away. * * Pause we and listen: The voices are 'round us, Nature's sweet music that never is still; Only the language must ever confound us, Each, as he hearkens, interprets at will. Mellow with age are your choruses ringing, Voices of Sharon! and we, who, to-day List to the songs of the past you are singing, Feel, in your presence, like children at play."*] (23) Youngest daughter of the late Ephraim A. White and Lydia L. (Watson) White, Newtown, Pa. The subject of these verses was part of the Worth estate, near Newtown, fitted up many years ago as a pleasure resort, and now included in the George School property. They were recited at a dramatical, elocutionary and musical entertainment held at Newtown, 1885.* "UNDER THE STARS." Emily F. Seal. (24) "The moon moves grandly up the sky, The snow-hills flash its radiance back, The cold snow-hills, that stilly lie Along the highway's beaten track, Or stretch far out among the fields, Topped by the fences old and gray, And flank'd by naked woodland shields, As still, and bare, and bleak as they. The Christmas fires burn bright and clear, Shaming the moon-beams through the pane. The steady tramp of the coming year Echoes from mountain unto main. The young New Year with a joyous bound Steps where the Old Year, moaning dies. Well may he shake the grey beard round, And scorn him as in death he lies. For the sorrow and sin of years We bury deep in his wide grave, While a Nation's greeting of happy tears Proclaims the new has come to save. (25) But I turn from the yule-log's blaze, The ringing promise of dawn, To where, beneath the moon's pale rays, The camp-fire's light shines brightly on, 'Gainst dark pine woods the white tents gleam; The weary soldiers silent lie. Can I find 'mong the gathered groups The glance of a familiar eye? Is there a young head pillow'd there Fill'd with dreams of his far off home? The star-light on the soft bright hair That I so lov'd to smooth and comb! Where the Potomac's dark waves beat Like caged bird 'against its prison bars, Lies my brother in restless sleep, To-night, under the gleaming stars? Oft in the chill September time I woke with shivering start and moan, Dreaming the cricket's mournful chirp Had been my brother's dying groan. The weary days have come and gone Since then when first his sword he bore, And we have learned a patient way For hearts so early grieved and sore. But what to me are ringing bells, And what to me the New Year's joy! Under the glittering stars to-night On snow-hills, lies our soldier-boy. Oh, twinkling eyes from the dark sky, Lit up by the cold moon's pale light, Look from your royal home on high, And guard my brother's bed to-night. Look down, look down, your watches keep As angels from the Father's throne, Hover over his weary sleep, Whisper him words from friends at home, Breathe a charm through the still night air, A shield from danger 'round him cast. Make this, oh, stars, your nightly care, And guide my brother home at last." (24) Eldest daughter of Joseph Fell, of Buckingham, and wife of William T. Seal, of Attleborough. (25) Lincoln's Emancipation proclamation. Octavia E., daughter of Jacob Hill, was born in 1843, and came to Doylestown in her 17th year, where she made her home until her marriage to Mr. Henry J. Fahnestock, of Gettysburg, October 17, 1872, whither she removed, and died four months afterward. Her poetic talent was principally developed while she lived in Bucks county, although she had written previously, both in prose and poetry. She had decided ability, great perseverance, a quick imagination, and showed wonderful talent in letter-writing. She taught for two years at the Moravian Seminary, Bethlehem, with great success, and won for herself a high place among teachers and scholars by her great energy, fondness for study, high regard for duty, and her unfailing kindness and love for her pupils. During this period her mind showed great capability, and gave promise of better things in the future, but she died when but 30 years old. Her friends have carefully preserved a few poetical treasures from her pen, from which we select the following: "LENTEN THOUGHTS." ("Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."--Gospel for Quinquagesima Sunday.) "The loving, joyous Christmas-tide is o'er, The startled Magi seek the Babe no more, The mother-wail is hushed on Rama's shore. The Forty Days of satan's tempting near, The purple robe, the crown of thorns appearÐ Afar, the cry of 'Crucify!' we hear. As earth awaketh from her winter sleep Our souls awake to sense of sin, so deep That penitence can only pray and weep. While early blossoms haste to hail the Spring, And homeward-flying birds her message bring, We lay our hearts before our suff'ring King. Thou loving Christ, grant, while we weep with Thee, Our tears of penitence may heartfelt beÐ May we forsake our sins eternally. Touch Thou our eyes, that, as thou passeth by, Our darkened hearts may see and feel Thee nigh, And, pleading, echo Bartimeus' cry. Do what Thou wilt to make us Thine ownÐ O, Crucified! We would be Thine alone! We pray Thee hear our penitential moan. What'er Thou wilt, our heart to purify, Call us to Thee to live, for Thee to dieÐ But make us feel when "Jesus passeth by." Miss Hill wrote considerable poetry during the late war, of a martial character, which was much admired and copies into many newspapers. ["LET THEM REST." By Octavia Hill. (26) "Let them rest, the fight is over, And the victory bravely won, Softly wrap their banner 'round them, Lay them low, their work is done. Rest in peace! Rest in peace! Rest in peaceÐ the fight is over, And the vict'ry all is won. Never more the roar of battle E'er shall break on comrades' sleep, Safe the rest they've won and o'er it Angel-sentries' guardiance keep. Nevermore! Nevermore! Nevermore shall foe surprise them For the angels guardiance keep. Many a flower this laughing May-time In a her0's heart hath rootÐ Sweet thy slumber 'neath the blossoms, Till their deeds have borne the fruit. Slumber on! Slumber on! Slumber on beneath the blossoms, Till your deeds have borne the fruit. Let the flags float out above them. Let the music fill the air; In the hearts of those who love them It shall echo like a prayer. Free the flags! Free the flags! That the stars they died defending, Still may shine upon them there. Leave we now, our martyr brothers, All to God and mem'ry then, Till with the great thereafter Freedom's armies rise again. So farewell! Ah, farewell! Till within the Great Hereafter, Peace proclaimed, we meet again. (26) Written for the dedication of the 104th Regiment monument, Doylestown, and read on the occasion, May 30, 1868.*] "THE GIRL IN THE CALICO DRESS." By Lizzie Lloyd. (27) "As I strolled out one day, by a farmhouse I passed, And what think I saw there? I know you can't guess; 'Twas the prettiest sight that I ever have seen, Yet 'twas onlyÐ a girl in a calico dress! The next time that I walked to that farmhouse I strayedÐ My object in going you'll readily guessÐ For the sight I had seen an impression had made, And I sought for the girl in the calico dress! It was evening; I found her out milking the cows, But I liked her for that not one whit the less; So I watched the white streams that flowed into her pail, While I talked to the girl in the calico dress! The next time I waited till milking was done, Then I put to the buggy my new horse, Brown Bess; She blushed when she saw me; she guessed that I came To ride with the girl in the calico dress! And so things proceeded as they had begun, Till at length she consented my whole life to bless; And I was the happiest man in the town When I married the girl in the calico dress! And now when at evening I come from my work, And we meet at the door with a loving caress, There isn't a beauty in velvet and pearls, Can compare with my wife in her calico dress!" (27) Daughter of Benjamin and Lydia T. Lloyd, of Lower Makefield. "LET THE BELLS BE TOLLED." By M. A. Heston. (28) (Upon hearing of the death of George Peabody, orders were given in many of the New England towns that the bells should be tolled.) "Toll the bell loudlyÐ a great man is dead, Ring out a requiem, let tears be shed; Noble and great to the end of his days, Toll the bell loudly, sound forth his praise. Toll the bell sadly, a good man is gone, Earth cannot but miss him from out of her throng; Just to his fellow-man, good to the poor Toll the bell sadly, lives he no more. Toll the bell grandly, a noble man sleeps Royalty honors him, poetry weeps; 'The poor ye have with you,' he remembered indeed, Toll the bell grandly, it is truly his meed. Toll the bell gently, a kind man rests, Rests from his labors which thousands have blessed; For out of his bounty, how many have fed, Toll the bell gently, George Peabody's dead. Toll ye bells softly, as over the seam Borne 'mid the wild winds and waves that are free; The friend of humanity comes home to his clay, Toll ye bells softly, as loved ones would pray." (28) Wife of George T. Heston, of Newtown. ["SUBMISSION." By Rev. J. C. Hyde. (29) "Oh, God, Thou knowest best; And at Thy high behest, My soul shall sweetly rest, My soul shall rest. A sinner saved by grace; I love Thy ways to trace, Thy saving truth to embrace, Thy truth to embrace. Thy chastening rod I feel; Which wounds me but to heal, And only for my weal, But for my weal. What e'er befalleth me; Though dark as night it be, By faith, my Lord I see, My Lord I see. And falling at His feet, Claiming His promise sweet, In Him I am complete, In Him complete. My heavenly home I see; 'Tis waiting now for me; Oh! there I long to be, I long to be." Bristol, October, 1883. (29) The author of the above, Rev. J. C. Hyde, Bristol, was of New England birth, and a graduate of Colby University, Maine. Upon graduating he came to Bucks county, 1848, and taught music some time and then a school. He was the first pastor of the Point Pleasant Baptist church, and afterward pastor of the Bristol church, which he resigned, 1871. He was a helpless invalid, several years before his death. [SONG OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY By Elizabeth Lloyd Christ in the heart, and his love in the nation, is the only cure for the ills which threaten us to-day. Ð -Ex. President Harrison at the Ecumenical Conference in New York.] "Christ in the heat and his love in the nation!" Stronger are these than the gun or the sword; Dawns the new day of our country's salvation, Cleansed from her sins by the might of the Lord. Christ in the human heart, Teach us the better part. Save us from treachery, battle, and greed; Love be the nation's word. By every people heard. Love for humanity in its great need. Angels of Bethlehem, sound your glad chorus, Thrilling our souls by its message divine; Warfare and carnage no more shall rule o'er us, Brightly the star of our Savior shall shine. Star of the Prince of Peace, Bring to us swift release, Let not our brothers their brothers destroy; Lead us to truly pray, Show us the higher way, Teach us that living for others is joy. Flag of our fathers, float on in thy glory! Always thy red stand for justice and law Ever thy white tell the sweet gospel story. Never thy blue in its truth show a flaw, And every lustrous star Shine from thy folds afar, Over a people united and free; Guarding this flag above, Keep us, O God of Love, Loyal to country, to manhood, and Thee.*] Had we space we could increase our chapter to a volume. There are many others whose effusions we would gladly insert, but want of space forbids. We have met with but one poet among our Germans, who do not seem inclined to court the muse. The one to whom we refer is Daniel Horne, son of Valentine and Sarah Horne, born near Flatland church, Richland, about 1800. He taught school a number of years, and died about 1836, unmarried. He had a poetical turn of mind, and wrote a number of ballads, some of a religious cast, in German and English. They were quite popular throughout the upper end of the county 50 [75*] years ago, but we have not been able to procure any of his productions. END OF CHAPTER XLIX, or XX, 1905 Edition.