Mrs. Ida McCormick.
Reading edition
Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county. She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of the Cecil Whig.
On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling.
My Fancy Land.
I’m roaming to-day in a far-away land Where the roses and violets grow, Where white waves break on a silvery strand, And are lost on the cliffs below. High up in a palace of sparkling gold Where voices are hushed and still, Where lips are silent and hearts are cold, And the days are rich with a glory untold, And no one disputes my will.
The walls are rich with an amber light, And waters in fountains fall, There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright, And servants within my call; There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet, With tender, plaintive chords, Like the patter of tiny innocent feet, Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet And their hearts speak out, their words.
All day from my turret I watch the sails That fleck the sweep of the tide,— Whose passengers all are joyous and hale, As into the harbor they ride. They enter my golden castle gate,— They roam thro’ my stately halls,— They rest in chambers furnished in state, Then close by my glory-throne they wait, Until I shall answer their call.
There are faces bright with a merry light And the music of long ago; And others dark as Lethe’s night And as cold as the winter’s snow. Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp With blushes that come and go, Strangers to pain in this world so vast, With its pleasure now and sorrow at last, In the land we do not know.
They are bound for this strangely mystical land So shadowy, lone and so dim, And my castle’s a port on the ocean strand, Where they wait for the ferryman grim, To row them away from the silvery beach Beyond the foam of the tide, Where a palace looms far away from their reach, Whose gates are closed with a clang to each Who have chosen the pathway wide.
They tell me I’m treading with careless feet This thorny, deceitful path, When the Master cometh my face to greet He will open his vials of wrath. But I turn again to the world so real, And my “Fancy Land” grows dim, Time’s hand has taught me not to feel The wounds which sympathy cannot heal, And I anchor my faith in Him.
With the Tide.
Beneath the bright sun’s dazzling ray, She watched his vessel sail away To distant, far-famed lands. Her heart was gone,—upon her hand Sparkled a diamond fair and grand, Telling in silent jubilee “His love is all the world to me.”
Time goes by wings,—the years flew on, The days had come,—the summers gone, And still no loved one came To feed the burning passion flame Still glowing in her heart. They told her “in another land He captive held a heart and hand And graced Dame Fashion’s mart.”
She listened to love’s second tale That came with Autumn’s misty gale, And hid her heart within the fold Of satins rare, and lustrous gold, Sadness so deep, must live untold Shut in her marble palace high, Reared almost up to touch the sky.
Haughty and cold her heart had grown, For wealth and glory she lived alone, Yet as oft she watched an out bound ship Its prow in foamy waters dip, The day came back when lip to lip Her heart met his in a sad farewell. Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain— “He’s falser than human tongue can tell.”
* * * * * *
September’s sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the shore, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law. Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a noble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and passion warm.
She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;— “No welcome for the leal and true? Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I’ve come to you Faithful as when I went!”
“No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?” Thou’rt dead! Why have I lived for this? To gain a life of shipwrecked bliss? To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again?
* * * * * *
A funeral train,—all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when ’twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;— A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,— A ship at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday.
The Old Fashion.
“The old, old fashion,—Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!”
—Dickens.
Despite all human passion, And all that we can do,— There is an old, old fashion That comes to me and you. It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell.
When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best. And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead.
It came in the wild March weather With bluster of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet. And then,—God pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child.
“Give thanks for the old, old fashion,” No, that can never be. Where is the Divine compassion That God has shown to me? Fling wide each shining portal,— Let me—a sinner through,— Thank God for the immortal Is all that I can do.
No prayer of love or passion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fashion, Of immortality.
My Baby and the Rose.
A rose tree grew by the garden wall, And its highest blossom was just as tall As my baby’s curly head; A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,— But sweeter from head to dimpled toes, Was the baby I fondly led.
Now summer is over and winter gone, And the winds of March are whistling on Where the rose its petals shed; No trace of rose perfumed and rare, No baby face as seraph fair, My baby sweet is dead.
The summer sun will shine again, And ’neath the pattering, warm June rain, Again the rose will bloom, And so beyond these lowering skies My baby dear, with smiling eyes, Shall peer through earthly gloom,
And guide me with her angel hand Through Heaven’s gates,—and with me stand Away from worldly woes,— Where Heaven’s flowers, divinely sweet, Soften the path for weary feet With perfume of the rose.