Charles H. Evans.
Reading edition
Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him.
Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature of Agricola. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware.
For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses.
Influences.
Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever.
Flake follows flake, like sprites, Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realms of mind forever.
Beam follows beam, to cheer The cloud a bolt would shiver; Dream follows dream, and fear Gives way to joy forever.
The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream, Impress the heart forever.
Musings.
Few the joys—oh! few and scattered— That from fleeting life we borrow; And we’re paying, ever paying, With an usury of sorrow!
If a bright emotion, passing, Casts a sun-ray o’er our faces, Plodding Time—the envious plowman— Soon a shadowy furrow traces!
If a hope—ambition-nurtured— Gilds our future, ere we’ve won it, Vaunting Time—the hoary jailor— Shuts his somber gates upon it!
If a heart our bosom seeking, With a fond affection woos it, Heartless Time—remorseless reaper— Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!
Things of earth, all, all, are shadows! And while we in vain pursue them, Time unclasps his withered fingers— And our wasted life slips through them.
Lines.
Written on Viewing Turkey Point from a Distance.
Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high, With light-house mingling with the summer sky, How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood, Braving alike the wild winds and the flood? What howling gales have swept those shores along, What tempests dire have piped their dismal song. And lightnings glared those towering trees among?
And oft, as now, the summer sun has shed His golden glories round thy mountain head, And tarried there with late and lingering hues, While all below was steeped in twilight dews, And night’s proud queen, in ages past, as now, Hung her pale crescent o’er thy beetling brow. Soft lamp—that lights the happy to their rest, But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast, And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glide In lonely sadness up the mountain side; And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past, Some far off knowledge o’er my senses cast, Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale, And of past ages tell mysterious tale— Speak of those ages of primeval worth, And all the hidden wonders of thy birth— Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast, And raised the stately masses of thy crest?
Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side, Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride, And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil, To alien shrines upon his native soil. It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the story That stained the wreath of many a hero’s glory; But Nature’s mysteries must ever rest Within the gloomy confines of thy breast, Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed, Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed.