Folger McKinsey.
Reading edition
Folger McKinsey was born in Elkton, on the 29th of August, 1866, in the cottage on Bow street now occupied by Thomas W. Green. His early life was spent in Elkton, except a few years in childhood when his parents resided in the West and South, until 1879, when they removed to Philadelphia, taking their son with them. His paternal grandfather was a Scotchman, and his grand parents on his mother’s side were Germans, from the country bordering on the Rhine. Through the marriage of his maternal great grandmother he is distantly related to Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe. Both his parents are persons of intellectual ability, and have written verse, his mother having been a contributor to the local newspapers of this county, and to several western journals.
Mr. McKinsey received his education at the primary school of Miss Tabitha Jones, on Main street, in Elkton, where he was sent when seven years of age. Except an attendance of eight months at the public school of Elkton, he never attended any other schools. In early childhood he showed a great desire to read, and is indebted to his relative, William J. Jones, and to L. Marshall Haines and E.E. Ewing for the means of gratifying his early thirst for information. Shortly after removing to Philadelphia Mr. McKinsey entered a mercantile establishment as clerk, but soon afterwards accepted a position in the office of a publishing house, and subsequently entered the office of the Philadelphia and Reading railroad company as clerk in the record department. While in the office of the railroad company he wrote and published his first poem. It is called “Satana Victo” and is written in blank verse. Since that time he has been a prolific writer of both poetry and prose, much of which has been published.
In October, 1884, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of editor of the Shore Gazette, a weekly journal published at Ocean Beach, N.J., which he continued to fill for some months, when he returned to Philadelphia and accepted a position as special writer on a prominent daily journal of that city. In October, 1885, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of associate editor of the Cecil Whig, which he continued to fill until the following March when he became editor of the Daily and Weekly News, of Frederick City, Maryland. During the time he was connected with the Whig he began the publication of a journal in Darby, called the Delaware County Independent.
In January, 1886, Mr. McKinsey married Miss Fannie Holenrake Dungan, an estimable young English lady of Camden, N.J. Mr. McKinsey is a great admirer of Joaquin Miller and Walt Whitman, and a warm personal friend of the latter.
Though young in years he writes with as much fluency and ease as if he had been writing poetry for half an ordinary lifetime, and gives promise of a brilliant career that will be creditable to his native town, and beneficial to the human race.
Waiting Their Crowns.
They wait, the forest monarchs tall, In naked beauty on the hills, Until the snows of Winter fall, And icy arms embrace the rills.
The golden glory of the days, When Indian Summer fills the land, Descends in gleams and dreamful haze, Like blessings from the Lord’s right hand.
No matin call of tardy bird, Long stayed by sunshine in the north, Above the fluttering clouds is heard. A moment’s pause, then bursting forth
In all the glorious sweets of song That thrill from soul to soul aflame, And die the barren hills among From whence the summer carols came.
All day the leafless monarchs wave Their hoary branches high in air, And white-winged spirits guard the grave Where late they laid the Autumn fair.
A sterner nature marks the land, The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep, The Summer trips it, hand in hand, With Autumn o’er the distant deep.
Where lift the dim, perpetual isles Their purple ensigns of the youth That ever dimples, romps and smiles Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth.
And deep within the wooded lane The oak and pine, in plaintive call, Unto the wintry tide complain, As leaves and brown nuts constant fall.
They wait their crowns, the naked kings! And down the avenues of night The frosty god, December, brings Them glistening diadems of white.
White petals of the virgin snow, With sprigs of ivy here and there, They deck the forest monarch’s brow, While breezes whistle through his hair.
A sterner nature marks the soul, Men’s lips draw near the cup of life, They wait to hear the centuries’ roll That bring the kingly crowns of strife.
The spring-time months and summer years Beside the Autumn days are laid, Beneath the grave of conquered fears, Beneath the sloping hill-side’s shade.
And deeper joy, serener faith, Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp, While death, the monarch, gently lay’th Upon their brows a kinglier clasp.
They wait no more the golden crown; Men, trees, the careless days of strife, Drift onward to the far, sweet town,— God’s kingdom of eternal life.
Sea Echoes.
I walk not by the sounding sea; I dwell full many leagues from shore And still an echo drifts to me Of the eternal, constant roar Of waves, that beetle past the crags And moan in weary flights of song Where wet sea moss and coral drags The shiny lengths of sand along.
I see beyond the friendly vales, And grand old hills that guard my home, To where the seaward petrel sails And storm winds of the Northland moan. I live again in brighter days, New-born from dreams of the dead past, When she and I stood there to gaze At sparkling hull, and spar, and mast
Of some staunch sea-craft bound amain At will of wayward wind and fate, Deep plunging in the waves to gain Some northern isle, or rich estate Of palm and pine in southward clime, Where all day long the playful air Pranks with the grizzled beard of time And paints his hoary visage fair.
Within the dim, old forests here, I wander now long leagues from shore, And still the old song haunts my ear, The century singing ocean’s roar; And now I know, fond soul of love; Why still the murmurous echoes live, And sound for aye the hills above That back to earth the music give;
She, too, walked there in dreams with me, In love’s sweet unity we trod The moon-bathed sands, and swore to be Forever true before our God. I see it still, her pale, calm face, With angel love-light in her eyes, And ever there, beside such grace, A dim, sweet token of surprise.
Oh, tender touch of one soft hand! I held it then in simple trust, Alas, ye waves that lick the sand! How long has that hand lain in dust? I see her soul in yonder star, I see the soft lines of her face, And could God so unkindly mar That angel beauty and its grace?
Roll, murmuring echoes of the sea! Repeat thy sweet, immortal moan, Drift ever inland unto me Within my sunny Southern home; And it shall be a tender dream— Thy plaintive music thrilling me, And her star face above—shall seem Like other days beside the sea When our lips touched eternally.
Where Fancy Dwells.
The sea winds blow from western isles, From isles where fancy dwells and peace. Where summer sunshine softly smiles And perfumes of the far off east Float over waves white-capped with foam That glisten in the pale sweet light Shed from the far eternal dome Where fair star faces paint the night.
Life must have rest sometime, somewhere, On land or wave its peace shall be, And I have found my life’s fond share In yon fair isle of Hebride; In yon fair isle where all day long The sunlight shadows drift and float And all the world seems bathed in song Borne trembling from the skylark’s throat.
O! isle of peace, the waves that kiss Thy beaches all the centuries through, Flow from mysterious founts of bliss From founts o’er run with sunny dew, And o’er thy tree-tops lazily The perfumed breezes come and go With odors from that far countree Where eglantine and jessamine grow.
Fair isle of summer, isle of love, Where souls forget their bitter strife And mingled sadnesses that move In tempests o’er the sea of life; I kiss thy fair shore with my knee, And lift a thankful heart to God, For perfect joy comes unto me Where thy trees’ blossomed branches nod.
Thy long sea waves float in beyond The dim blue lines of sunlit sky, Where films of cloudy lacework frond The billows tumbling mountain high; And shoreward in the still sweet eve The low songs of the mermaids drift, As in some coral grot they weave Their seaweed robes, and sometimes lift
Their long, strong, tangled lengths of hair Above the bosom of the wave, While ’mid its golden meshes fair The distant sunbeams stoop to lave. Sweet isle of fancy, far beyond The dark dim vales of human woe, My bark of love sails o’er the fond Blue waves that ever shoreward flow.
My bark sails on the unknown sea Led by a large, pale star alone, That star wherein her face may be, Who to that better land hath gone. O, never turn, brave white-sailed ship, Again towards that barren shore But bear me on the waves that dip And kiss yon isle forevermore.
Sweet day of rest when toil is past, When hearts can lay their burdens by And feel the peace God’s angels cast In isleward flights from his fair sky! Sweet isle of love where fancy dwells, And nature knows no pang of care, I hear the music of its bells Far floating on the evening air.
I hear the lonely shepherd’s song Flow down the green and mossy vale, And westward all the calm night long The restless sea gulls sail. I sometimes turn towards the stars With sudden shock of glad surprise, And half believe these island bars Are but the gates to Paradise.
At Key’s Grave.
I stood one summer, friend, beside The foam waves of a distant sea That muttered all the summer through A low sweet threnody.
A mournful song was ever on The lips that it were death to kiss, A song for those who died as died The brave at ancient Salamis.
A thousand graves lay in the trough Of that great ocean of the East, A thousand souls fled through its foam Towards the starlit land of peace.
And for each ship-wrecked soul that slept Beneath the dark inconstant waves The wind gave songs in memory Of men true-hearted, pure and brave.
But I have stood, sweet-singer, by Thy lonely, unmarked grave to-day, And all the songs thy memory got Came from the branches in their sway.
Ah, peace! ah, love! ah, friendship true! No wreath rests here wove by your hands To mark the Poet’s silent tomb. As tombs are marked in other lands.
But in my noon-day dream there came From the fair bosom of the hills The voice of some sweet psalmist, thus— “’Tis so God wills, ’tis so God wills.”
The Eternal Life.
I care not for the life that is, I think not of the things that are; I live, oh! soul of tenderness, Beneath an angel blessedness That draws its light from one small star.
I know not if the world be ill, I care not for its throb of pain, I live, oh heart, in fellowship With other hearts that rise and dip In the great sea that floods the main
From east to west with tides of love— The ocean of Eternal Life, Whose waves flow ever free and warm From land of snow to land of palm And heal the naked wounds of strife.
I only know God’s law is just, And that is all we need to know, I live down creeds of hate and spite, I build the nobler creeds of right That beautify our beings so.
The days are brief that come apace, When morn wakes up and night sinks down, But far beyond the hills of jet The glory of the sweet sunset Lights all the steeples of the town
Within whose walls no sadness lives, No broken hearts, no simple strife, For that I live, oh soul of faith, For that whereof the Master saith “Here find eternal love and life.”