David Scott (of James.)
Reading edition
David Scott (of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first cousin, David Scott (of John)—to a sketch of whose life the reader is referred for other information respecting the family—was born on his father’s farm, called “Scott’s Adventure,” on the road leading from Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879.
His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood.
In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until 1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death.
In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and served six years with great acceptability.
In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the time of his death.
In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him.
In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of “Anselmo,” and the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper during the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life.
For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years.
Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character.
The Forced Alliance.
Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend?
—Miss Whittlesey.
Ah, that our natural wants and best affections Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle! Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections, Whose derelictions merit such corrections, Must bear the illicit smuggle!
We would it were not so. This compromising, Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden, Of higher natures, with the wants arising From poor humanity—’tis a sympathizing That may not all be hidden.
We both have learned there is a high soul feeling, That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven; And one of us, there is a sad congealing Of sweet affection!—a veil the rock concealing, Where hearts are rent and riven.
Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion; And arbitrary fate is earth’s arbiter; The adverse elements of a marvelous union, With counter-currents vex the spirit’s pinion, When high intents invite her.
It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing May wring the spirit with a quivering pain; Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring, Is but a momentary, blissful sharing, That flutters back again.
It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow, Or wander withering in the maze of doubt, Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow, Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow— That will not all go out.
Yes! there are bosom-chords—thanks to the Giver! The sad, low whisperings of which can never Be all subdued, though they may shake and shiver With death and coldness, if we brave the river With wise and strong endeavor.
O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling! Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink; ’Tis past!—too late—too late, vain trump, your swelling; My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling— ’Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling— O what a joy to think!
My Cottage Home.
A Vesper Hymn.
Awake, my harp! a song for thee, While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers; ’Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free— Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers? For the day’s well spent, And I’m content, Tho’ weary and worn, and worn and weary; ’Tis a heaven below, The joys to know— The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery.
The world’s all beauteous now and bright, And calm as a cradled infant sleeping, And the chords of love are attuned aright, Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leaping As free and sweet As a brother’s greet In a foreign land all strange and dreary; And halls more bright Have less delight, I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery.
My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home! With its trellised vines around the casement clinging, And the happy strain of that sweet refrain, The gentle tones of loved ones ringing, When the day’s well spent, And all content. What though the o’er-labored limbs are weary? Our hearts are free And merry, and we Rejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery.
With wants so few, while hearts so true, With a fond concern, are beating near us; We’ll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile. The approving smile of Him to cheer us, Who makes us to know The poor and the low. Tho’ weary and worn, and worn and weary, At last will rest With the truly blest— O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery.
The Mighty One.
You have felt his power—you have felt his power— For a mighty one is he: He is found in the field and is known in the bower And hid in the cup of the tenderest flower, He lurks where you may not see.
He’s a sleepless sprite, and at dead of night He’ll come with his feathery tread, And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams, And light up your vision with silver beams, Though he leaves you an aching head.
Away, and away, like a thought, he flies, His home in the air and sea; Of all that is earth he claims a birth, And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forth On the breeze’s back, unceasingly.
In the sea’s great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps, In chambers of coral and gold— Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weeps O’er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps, And places that never were told—
He is everywhere, and very well known In palace, in court, and cot; Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown, He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne, And his chains are spells of thought.
The maiden has murmured in ’plaint so low, While the tear trickled over a smile, That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till “no,” Was the heart’s quick response, “I would not have him go— The ‘Annoyer’ may linger awhile.”
He shadows the pages of classic lore In the student’s loneliest hour, And wakes up a thought that had slept before— An image is born that can die no more— The student feels his power.
A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river, A voice in the song of birds; It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiver Of oak, beech and fir-leaf—it speaketh forever In thrilling, mysterious words;
’Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well, His presence you may not shun; For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell, And poets may sing us and sages may tell That Love is a mighty one!
The Surviving Thought.
How long, ah me! this weary heart hath striven With vanity, and with a wild desire! How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven, While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given, One after one expire?
These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable; And we are all too prone to clutch them fast, Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable, To which a “thread of gossamer is cable—” They cannot—cannot last!
Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing— The settlement of proud Belshazzar’s doom! These timely buds must early feel a blighting— This earthly strife—ah, ’tis a sorry fighting! The victory—the Tomb!
The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished; The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright— Are they all gone—forever gone, and perished— Ev’n the last bud my silent tears had nourished— Have all been Death’s delight?
And will he come and mock me with his booty, And twirl my visions round his bony finger? And will he tell my heart no other beauty Upon the earth is mine—no other duty, Than for his mandate linger?
Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished, Assert thy heritage—exert thy might; Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished, And pain and wrong’s envenomed part out-anguished, One ray breaks through the night.
There is, there is one blessed thought surviving; The heart’s sure fulcrum in the saddest strait— An overture to this unequal striving— A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving! Bear up, my heart, and wait.
Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful; A calm must follow each untoward blast; With steady eye look forward to the sequel; The common road will then seem less unequal, That brings us home “at last.”
Come trial, pain, and disappointment’s shiver, Ye are my kindsmen—brothers of this clay; We must abide and I must bear the quiver A little while, and we shall part forever— Beyond the surges of that shoreless river Ye cannot “come away.”
The Working Man’s Song.
Toil, toil, toil, Ever, unceasingly; The sun gets up, and the sun goes down, Alike in the city, in field or town, He brings fresh toil to me, And I ply my hard, rough hands With a heart as light and free As the birds that greet my early plow, Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow In gusts of song and glee.
Toil, toil, toil, Early, and on, and late: They may call it mean and of low degree, But I smile to know that I’m strong and free, And the good alone are great. ’Tis nature’s great command, And a pleasing task to me, For true life is action and usefulness; And I know an approving God will bless The toiler abundantly.
Toil, toil, toil— Glory awaits that word; My arm is strong and my heart is whole, And exult as I toil with manly soul That the voice of Truth is heard. On, Comrades! faint not now— Ours is a manly part! Toil, for a glorious meed is ours— The fulcrum of all earthly powers Is in our hands and heart.
Toil, toil, toil— Life is labor and love: Live, love and labor is then our song, Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng, With our Architect above. Then monuments will stand That need no polish’d rhyme— Firm as the everlasting hills, High as the clarion note that swells The “praises of all time.”
Ode to Death.
I do not fear thee, Death! I have a bantering thought!—though I am told Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold; And that thy upas breath Rides on the vital air; Monarch and Prince of universal clime, Executor of the decrees of Time— Sin’s dark, eternal heir.
Over the land and sea Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings, And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings, Over the feast the panting summer brings, “For me—’tis all for me!” All seasons and all climes— In city crowded, and in solitude, Ye gather your unsatisfying food; Ev’n through the rosy gates of joy intrude Thy deep, sepulchral chimes.
I know thee well, though young; Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke Hast thou. A brother, sister—then the Oak, (Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,) Round which our young hopes clung! Ye wantonly have crush’d, By your untimely and avenging frost, The buds of hope which bid to promise most; Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost, Could ye, O! Death have hush’d
The music that endears, And makes this chill’d existence tolerable? Yet will I not such selfishness—’tis well; I hear, I hear a happier, holier swell From out the eternal spheres! I do defy thee, Death! Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears? To weary out the agony of years, With nothing but the bitter brine of tears, And scarcer existing breath.
My soul is growing strong, And somewhat fretful with its house of clay, And waiting quite impatiently to lay It off, and soar in light away, To hymn th’ “eternal song.” This is a cowardice Perhaps—a deep, mean selfishness withal. That whets our longings in the spirit’s thrall To lay aside these trials, and forestall The hours of Paradise.
Thou wise, Eternal God! Oh, let me not offend Thy great design! Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign, Make me be patient, let me not repine Beneath this chast’ning rod; Though storm and tempest whelm, And beat upon this naked barque, ’tis well; And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell— Hush, rebel thoughts!—my heart be calm and still, The Master’s at the helm!