The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland. Various

      Sing on, sweet feathered warbler, sing!

       Mount higher on thy joyous wing,

       And let thy morning anthem ring

       Full on my ear;

       Thou art the only sign of spring

       I see or hear.

      The earth is buried deep in snow;

       The muffled streams refuse to flow,

       The rattling mill can scarcely go,

       For ice and frost:

       The beauty of the vale below

       In death is lost.

      Save thine, no note of joy is heard—

       Thy kindred songsters of the wood

       Have long since gone, and thou, sweet bird,

       Art left behind—

       A faithful friend, whose every word

       Is sweet and kind.

      But Spring will come, as thou wilt see,

       With blooming flower and budding tree,

       And song of bird and hum of bee

       Their charms to lend;

       But I will cherish none like thee,

       My constant friend.

      Like the dear friends who ne’er forsake me—

       Whatever sorrows overtake me—

       In spite of all my faults which make me

       Myself detest,

       They still cling to and kindly take me

       Unto their breast.

An Eastern Tale

       Table of Contents

Addressed to Mrs. S.C. Choate.

       Table of Contents

      A Persian lady we’re informed—

       This happened long, long years before

       The Christian era ever dawned,

       A thousand years, it may be more,

       The date and narrative are so obscure,

       I have to guess some things that should be sure.

      I’m puzzled with this history,

       And rue that I began the tale;

       It seems a kind of mystery—

       I’m very much afraid I’ll fail,

       For want of facts of the sensation kind:

       I therefore dwell upon the few I find.

      I like voluminous writing best,

       That gives the facts dress’d up in style.

       A handsome woman when she’s dressed

       Looks better than (repress that smile)

       When she in plainer costume does appear;

       The more it costs we know she is more dear.

      The story is a Grecian one,

       The author’s name I cannot tell;

       Perhaps it was old Xenophon

       Or Aristotle, I can’t dwell

       On trifles; perhaps Plutarch wrote the story:

       At any rate its years have made it hoary.

      The Greeks were famous in those days

       In arts, in letters and in arms;

       Quite plain and simple in their ways;

       With their own hands they tilled their farms;

       Some dressed the vine, some plow’d the ocean’s wave;

       Some wrote, were orators, or teachers grave.

      They were Republicans, in fact;

       The Persians might have called them “black

       Republicans;” they never lacked

       The power to beat a foeman back.

       Thermopylæ, so famed in Grecian story

       Is but another name for martial glory.

      A busy hive to work or fight,

       Like our New England bold and strong;

       A little frantic for the right,

       As sternly set against the wrong;

       And when for right they drew the sword, we know,

       Stopped not to count the number of the foe.

      To me it is a painful sight

       To see a nation great and good

       Reduced to such a sorry plight,

       And courtiers crawl where freemen stood,

       And king and priests combine to seize the spoil,

       While widows weep and beggar’d yeomen toil.

      The philosophic mind might dwell

       Upon this subject for an age:

       The philanthropic heart might swell

       Till tears as ink would wet the page;

       The mystery, a myst’ry will remain—

       The learning of the learned cannot explain.

      The Persians were a gaudy race,

       Much giv’n to dress and grand display;

       I’m grieved to note this is the case

       With other people at this day;

       And folks are judged of from outside attractions,

       Instead of from good sense and genteel actions.

      The dame in question was a type

       Of all her class; handsome and rich

       And proud, of course, and flashing like

       A starry constellation, which

       She was, in fact a moving mass of light

       From jewels which outshone the stars at night.

      The tale is somewhat out of joint—

       I’m not much given to complain;

       ’Tis in a most essential point

       A blank; I’ve read it oft in vain

       To find one syllable about her size,

       The color of her hair, or of her eyes.

      Or whether she was short or tall,

       Or if she sung or play’d with grace,

       If she wore hoops or waterfall

       I cannot find a single trace

       Of proof; and as I like to be precise,

       My disappointment equals my surprise.

      This Persian belle; (confound the belle)

       Excuse me, please; I won’t be rude;

       She’s in my way, so I can’t tell

       My tale, so much does she intrude;

       I wish I knew her age, and whether she

       Was single, married, or engaged to be.

      These are important facts to know,

       I wonder how they slipped the pen