William James Jones.
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William James Jones was born in Elkton, August 25, 1829, and received his education at the common school and Academy in that town. His youth and early manhood was spent in mechanical pursuits and in the improvement of his mind by a desultory course of reading, and in perfecting himself in the knowledge of the Latin language.
In 1852, Mr. Jones purchased a half interest in the Cecil Whig and became the editor of that journal for a short time, and until its founder P.C. Ricketts, who was then editing the Daily News, of Baltimore, returned from that city and resumed the duties of editor of the Whig.
In 1853, Mr. Jones commenced the study of the law in the office of John C. Groome, Esq., in Elkton and was admitted to the Bar, September 21, 1855.
In politics Mr. Jones was a Whig, but allied himself with the American party when it was in course of formation and continued to be an active member as long as the party lasted. In 1857 he was appointed State’s Attorney for Cecil county, to fill a vacancy, and in 1859 was elected to the same office for the term of four years. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion Mr. Jones allied himself with the Union cause and was elected to the House of Delegates by the Union party in 1863, and was appointed two years afterwards, United States’ District Attorney for the district of Maryland, and held the office for about a year, and until he was removed by President Andrew Johnson for opposing his policy of reconstruction. In 1858 he married Miss Mary Jane Smith, of Connecticut. They are the parents of one son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is the wife of Rev. Walter E. Avery, of the Wilmington Conference.
Mr. Jones is one of the most earnest and successful members of the Elkton Bar, and though not a voluminous writer, in early life contributed poetry to the columns of the Cecil Whig, of which the following poems are specimens.
Autumn.
The autumn winds are moaning round And through the branches sighing, And autumn leaves upon the ground All seared and dead are lying.
The summer flowers have ceased to bloom For autumn frosts have blighted, And laid them in a cheerless tomb By summer sun unlighted.
Thus all our “fondest hopes decay” Beneath the chill of sorrow, The joys that brightest seem to-day Are withered by the morrow.
But there are flowers that bloom enshrin’d In hearts by love united, Unscathed by the autumn wind, By autumn frost unblighted.
And there are hearts that ever thrill With friendship warm and glowing, And joys unseared by sorrow’s chill With hallowed truth o’erflowing.
Mary’s Grave.
In a quiet country churchyard From the city far away, Where no marble stands in mockery Above the mould’ring clay; Where rears no sculptured monument— There grass and flowers wave ’Round a spot where mem’ry lingers— My once-loved Mary’s grave.
They laid her down to slumber In this lonely quiet spot, They raised no stone above her, No epitaph they wrote; They pressed the fresh mould o’er her As earth to earth they gave— Their hearts with anguish bursting, They turned from Mary’s grave.
She knew not much of grief or care Ere yet by Death’s cold hand, Her soul was snatched from earth away To join the spirit band: Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam, No more her sufferings crave The hand of pity, but the tear Falls oft o’er Mary’s grave.
I too would pay my tribute there, I who have loved her well. And drop one silent, sorrowing tear This storm of grief to quell; ’Tis all the hope I dare indulge, ’Tis all the boon I crave, To pay the tribute of a tear, Loved Mary, o’er thy grave.
To Anselmo.
Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James.
I know thee not, and yet I fain Would call thee brother, friend; I know that friendship, virtue, truth, All in thy nature blend.
I know by thee the formal bow, The half deceitful smile Are valued not; they ill become The man that’s free from guile.
I know thee not, and yet my breast Thrills ever at thy song, And bleeds to know, that thou hast felt The weight of “woe and wrong.”
’Tis said the soul with care opprest Grows patient ’neath the weight, And after years can bear it well E’en though the load be great.
And, that the heart oft stung by grief Is senseless to the pain, And bleeding bares it to the barb, To bid it strike again.
I care not if the heart has borne All that the world can give, Of “disappointment, hate and scorn;” In hope ’twill ever live,
And feel the barb’d and poison’d stings Of anguish, grief and care, As keenly as in years gone by, When first they entered there.
The weary soul by care opprest May utter no complaints, But loaths the weight it cannot bear And weakens till it faints.
Flowers.
Bring flowers for the youthful throng, Of variegated glow, And twine of them a gaudy wreath Around each childish brow.
Bring flowers for the maiden gay, Bring flowers rich and rare, And weave the buds of brightest hue Among her waving hair.
Bring flowers to the man of grief— They hold the syren art, To charm the care-look from his brow, The sorrow from his heart.
Bring flowers for the sick girl’s couch; ’Twill cheer her languid eye To know the flowers have bloomed again, And see them ere she die.
Bring flowers when her soul has fled, And place them on her breast, Tho’ ere their blooming freshness fade We lay her down to rest.
Life.
Life at best is but a dream, We’re launched upon a rapid stream, Gushing from some unknown source, Rushing swiftly on its course, Save when amid some painful scene, And then it flows calm and serene, That we may gaze in mute despair On every hated object there.
Fortune our bark and hope our chart, With childish glee on our voy’ge we start, The boat glides merrily o’er the wave. But ah! there’s many a storm to brave, And many a dang’rous reef to clear, And rushing rapid o’er which to steer.
Anon the stream grows wide and deep, While here and there wild breakers leap, O’er rocks half hidden by the flood, Where for ages they have stood, Upon whose bleak and rugged crest, Many a proud form sank to rest, And many a heart untouched by care Laid its unstained offering there.
Ah! they have met a happier lot, Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgot The pleasing scenes of childhood’s years, ’Mid that tempestuous vale of tears Which farther on begirts the stream, Where phantom hopes like lightning gleam Through the murky air, and flit around The brain with hellish shrieking sound Conjuring up each mad’ning thought, With black despair or malice fraught.
Swiftly, on in our course we go To where sweetest flow’rs are hanging low We stretch our hand their stems to clasp But ah! they’re crush’d within our grasp, While forward th’ rushing stream flows fast And soon the beauteous scene is past.
At last we view another sight, The shore with drifted snow is white, The stream grows dark and soon we feel An icy coldness o’er us steal, We cast our eyes ahead and see The ocean of Eternity.
When once amid its peaceful waves No holier joy the bosom craves— Ten thousand stars are shining bright Yet one reflects a purer light— No sooner does its glowing blaze Attract the spirit’s wand’ring gaze, Than all is turned to joy we see— That star is Immortality.