The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 20

DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR.

KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR.

Fierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed So proudly that terrific blade.

The feeble bosom scarce can give A throb to show he yet doth live, And in his eye the light which glows, Is but the stare, that death bestows.

The filmy veins that circling thread The cooling b.a.l.l.s are turning red; And every pang that racks him now, Starts the cold sweat up to his brow, But yet his smile not even death Could from his boyish face unwreath, Or in convulsive writhing show The pangs, that wring the brain below.

To the far fight he seeks to gaze, Where battling arms yet madly blaze, And with a gush of manly pride, Weeps as his banner is descried Above the piling smoke-clouds borne, Like the first dubious streaks of morn That o'er the mountains misty height Will kindle in a lovely sight.

"A foreign soil my blood doth stain, And the few drops that yet remain Add but still longer to my pain.

Land of my birth! thy hills no more May these fast glazing eyes explore, Yet oh! may not my body rest Beneath that sod my heart loves best?

My father--home! Joys most adored Dwell in that simple English word-- Go, comrades! Till your field is won Forget me--father, I die thy son."

Hark the wild cry rolls on his ear!

The foe approach who hovered near; Rings the harsh clang of bick'ring steel In blows his arm no more may deal.

"Beside me now no longer be, Ye need not seek to die with me; Go, friends"--his manly bosom swell'd With life the stiff'ning wounds withheld; And struggling to his knees, he shook The sword his hand had not forsook, But to his arm it was denied To slay the foe his heart defied.

The faintly wielded steel was left In the slight wound it barely cleft.

Borne to the earth by the same thrust, That smote his en'my to the dust, His breast receiv'd their cowardly blows-- The fluttering eye-lids slowly close, Then parting, show the eye beneath White with the searching touch of Death.

The last thick drops congeal around The jagged edge of many a wound; See breaking through the marble skin The clammy dews that lurk within, The lip still quivers, but no breath Seeks the unmoving heart beneath.

Thou gallant Clay--thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; For in the brightness of such blaze Even Alexander fame decays, Yes--yes, Columbia's n.o.ble son Died! Monarchs could no more have done.

A VALENTINE.

Oh! for a brief poetic mood In which to write a merry line-- A line, which might, could, would or should Do duty as a Valentine.

Then to the woods the birds repair In pairs, prepared to woo A mate whose breast shall fondly share This world's huge load of ceaseless care Which grows so light when borne by two.

But ah! such language will not suit, I'd better far have still been mute.

My mate is dead or else she's flown And I am left to brood alone, To think of joys of vanish'd years And banish thus some present tears; But then our life is but a dream And things are not what they seem.

LINES

SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND.

Like him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish'd most-- So, dearest, do I mourn for thee.

For oh! the future is as dark As is the ocean's barren plain, Whose restless waters wear no mark To guide his eyes, who seeks in vain.

True, reckless Fancy dares invade The realm of time's uncounted hours, As fondly gay, as if she stray'd In safety through a land of flowers.

And still doth hope s.h.i.+ne bright and warm-- But oh! the light with which it cheers, My darling one, but glows to form A rainbow o'er a vale of tears.

GEORGE WAs.h.i.+NGTON CRUIKSHANK.

George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858.

He is among the very best cla.s.sical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest in _The Cecil Democrat_, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill.

In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the Baltimore _Day_, which he edited while that journal existed.

Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank.

They are the parents of five children--three of whom survive.

Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published.

STONEWALL JACKSON.

[1863.]

AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH.

Bury the mighty dead-- Long, long to live in story!

Bury the mighty dead In his own shroud of glory.

Question not his purpose; Sully not his name, Nor think that advent.i.tious aid Can build or blight his fame, Nor hope, by obloquizing what He strove for, glory's laws Can be gainsaid, or he defiled Who'd honor any cause.

Question not his motives, Ye who have felt his might!

Who doubts, that ever saw him strike, He aimed to strike for right?

His was no base ambition;-- No angry thirst for blood.

Naught could avail to lift his arm, But love of common good.

Yet, when he deigned to raise it, Who could resist its power?

Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe, E'er to forget that hour?

His life he held as nothing.

His country claimed his all.

Ah! what shall dry that country's tears Fast falling o'er his fall?

His life he held as nothing, As through the flame he trod; To duty gave he all of earth And all beyond to G.o.d.

The justness of his effort He never lent to doubt.

His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd To put the foe to rout.

Mistrusting earth's tribunals, Scorning the tyrant's rod, He chose the fittest Arbiter, 'Twixt foe and sword, his G.o.d.

And doubted not, a moment, That, when the fight was won, Who rules the fate of nations Would bid His own:--Well done!

And doubted not, a moment, As fiercest flashed the fire, The bullet's fatal blast would call:-- Glad summons!--Come up higher!

And who would hence recall thee?-- Thy work so n.o.bly done!