Mrs. Annie McCarer Darlington.
Reading edition
Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends’ Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to The Cecil Democrat, under the nom de plume of “Gertrude St. Orme.”
A Birthday Greeting
To My Little Nephew.
[July 4th, 1886.]
I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He’s six years old to-day.
I scarce can think six years have passed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name.
But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You’ll find them, every one.
And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie’s birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum.
At sunrise on those happy days The cannon’s deaf’ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four.
But now those landmarks all are passed, He’s getting fast away, The boy’s a man, no baby now, He’s six years old to-day.
Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy.
And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he’s right? Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might.
I know ’tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day.
Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then? For most small boys will imitate What’s seen in grown up men.
And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man.
Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he’s six to-day, Some other time I’ll tell you more, If—Charlie says I may.
Murmurings.
Falling, falling—gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain.
Sweeping by the crazy casement, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things.
Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o’er the soul.
But ’tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains.
And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky.
But he pauses not to listen, Onward with demoniac will; Till Aeolian harps in Heaven Softly whisper, “Peace, be still.”
The Old Oak Tree.
Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough: In youth it sheltered me, And I’d protect it now.
—George P. Morris.
’Tis living yet! Time has not dared To mark it, as his own, Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared This giant, firm and lone. It stands, as stood in years gone by, The chieftain in its shade, And breathed the warning, ere the cry Of war went through the glade.
The Council tires then brightly burned Beneath its spreading bough, But oh, alas! the scene has turned, Where burn those fires now? The old oak stands where it did then, The same fresh violets bloom, But far down in the narrow glen, They deck the Indian’s tomb.
Life then seemed bright and free from care; When this old tree was young The Indian maiden twined her hair, And to her chieftain sung A song, low, gentle, and sincere, In pathos rich and rare; The warrior-lover brushed a tear, For thought was busy there.
Yes, busy was the fertile brain, That bid him onward flee, The Indian moon was on the wane And drooped the hawthorne tree. The light canoe of rounded bark Scarce dared to skim the flood, For they had come with meaning dark To ravage lake and wood.
* * * * * *
The conflict ended! but the bow Which twanged across the plain. Dealt its proud owner death’s cold blow, And laid him with the slain. But to a better, happier home, Have gone the Indian braves; Where cruel white men cannot come, To call their brothers—slaves.
Then let it stand, that aged oak, Among its kindred trees; Tho’ now, no more the wigwam smoke Will curl upon the breeze. ’Tis left alone—the last sad thing That marks a nation vast, Then spare it, that its boughs may sing A requiem to the Past.
Sweet Florida.
Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers, Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold, Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers, And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold.
Soft are thy rivulets, gentle thy water-falls, Rippling so merrily toward the broad sea; Fringed with bright daisies, which bloom on thy borders, E’en Nature herself pays a tribute to thee.
Sweeter and lovelier than all thy fair sisters, Thy gentleness surely hath fame for thee won, While thy star, not forgotten, shines forth in a glory That crowns the best flag that waves under the sun.
Thy name brings a scent of the dogwood and myrtle, The jessamine, too, comes in for a share, With great yellow petals so heavy with perfume, That can with the tube-rose’s only compare.
Tho’ large be the family, there’s room for the fairest; No house is too small for a family with love: So Florida, thou who art brightest and dearest, The “Pet of the Household” forever shall prove.
Thy rivers are broad and thy lakes fringed with grasses, The glint of the waves of the bright Santa Fe, With her edging of cypress and long-floating mosses, Forever are murmuring a sonnet to thee.
While high on a hill sits the Queen of the Villas, Sweet Melrose! whose name is the least of her charms, Waves a welcome to all, to come over the billows And find a safe home ’neath her sheltering arms.
And so they are coming, the weak and the weary, From near and from far, the strong and the brave, All ready to drink of the life giving breezes, The only Elixir that truly can save.
Evening.
’Tis Evening! soul enchanting hour, And queenly silence reigns supreme; A shade is cast o’er lake and bower, All nature sinks beneath the power Of sweet oblivion’s dream.
The Sun—the hero-god of day, Has from this happier half of earth, Passed on with sweet life-giving ray, To smile on millions glad and gay, In sorrow or in mirth.
While in his stead, the Heavens above Are shaded with a silver light, So soft, so pure—that angels rove, To guard from evil those who love The God, who made all bright.
Then soon that planetary sea Is studded o’er with diadems, Shining alike on land and sea. High, high above the loftiest tree; Proud Nature’s priceless gems.
Who would not leave the crowded room, The grand, but cold musician’s art; To wander ’neath the calm still moon. When nature speaks ’mid wild perfume, So sweetly to the heart.
Who would not shun proud Fashion’s hall, Escape her cold and torturings ways, To calmly rest where dew-drops fall; Perfumes that mind and soul enthrall, Beneath fair Luna’s rays.
Who would exchange a home of flowers, Down in a pure and modest dell, For palaces ’mid art-reared bowers, Washed o’er by artificial showers, Where naught but sorrows dwell.
Blest hour of thought! to thy pure scene A mild and soothing charm is given, When hearts to hearts in love convene, And roses deck the silvered green Of mingled Earth and Heaven.
The truth—that plainly proves a God, Not chance, performed the better part Which teaches us His Heavenly Word: Breathes magic for the singing bird, And links us heart to heart.