William Pinkney Ewing.
Reading edition
William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father’s farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing’s early life was spent on his father’s farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to the Ladies’ Garland, the Cecil Whig and Cecil Democrat. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of the Daily Atlas of that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until the Atlas was merged into the Gazette. He then accepted a position on the Southern Lady’s Book, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New York Tribune, New York Evening Post and Chicago Tribune.
In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865.
In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa.
Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author.
The Angel Voice.
“Oh mother, dear mother, As calmly last night I lay on my pallet An angel in white Hover’d o’er me, and softly Said—‘come, brother, come, Away from this world, To a heavenly home!’”
“Then let me die, mother— Tho’ sweet birds are singing, And flowers in brightness And beauty are springing On hillside and mountain, O’er meadow and lea, They no longer possess Any sweetness for me.”
“For that angelic voice, Ringing still in my ear, Has attuned my heart To a holier sphere; And like a caged eagle, My soul pines to stay So long from its home— Its redeemer away.”
O, pale grew that mother, And heavy her heart, For she knew her dear boy From her sight must depart, And be laid, cold and stiff, In the earth’s humid breast, Where the wicked cease troubling, The weary have rest;
But she smoothed down his pillow, And murmured a prayer, For the Giver of mercies Her loved one to spare; But ere she had finished Her pious request, His spirit had flown To the realms of the blest!
Then and Now.
[Midnight.]
I love thee, Maude, as I ne’er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again; And though that love has cost me much of pain, Of agony intense, I would live o’er Most willingly, each bitter hour I’ve known Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heart On one by thee deemed worthier is set, And I must bear the keen and deathless smart, Of passion unrequited, or forget That which is of my very life a part. To cherish it may lead to madness, yet I will brood over it: for oh, The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe.
[Daydawn.]
“I love thee, Maude, as I ne’er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again;” Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more Devotedly I love thee now, than when Those lines were written. But avails it aught? Have I return? Hold I the slightest part Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? I dare believe so:—nor will soon resign The dream I’ve cherished long, that some day thou’lt be mine.
The Neglected Harp.
I touch not that harp, Let it slumber alone; For its notes but awaken Sad memories of one Whose hand often swept The soft wires along, And aroused them to music, To love, and to song.
But Death, the destroyer, Ere grief threw a ray O’er her flowery path, Snatched her rudely away; And the harp that resounded, With loveliest tone, To her delicate touch, Has since slumbered alone.
Then awake not a strain— Let it still repose there, And be breathed on alone By the sweet summer air; For its numbers though lively, Though joyous and light, But cast o’er my spirits A wildering blight.
Alone.
Never, no nevermore, Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine, Or on my breast thy weary head recline, As oft of yore.
And though thou wert to me Life’s only charm, I yet can bear A little while, since thou art free from care, Alone to be.
For to my heart is given, The cheering hope, that soon, where pain And partings are unknown, we’ll meet again— In yonder heaven.
Gone Astray.
Leila, thou art resting well, In thy lonely, narrow cell— Dark and lonely, narrow cell,— And I would with thee had died, And was sleeping by thy side,— In the graveyard by thy side,— She who gave thee being, she Who made life a joy to me,— A blessing and a joy to me.
Were she with thee, I could bear All life’s agony and care,— Bitter agony and care,— But alas, she went astray From the straight and narrow way,— Virtue’s straight and narrow way— And, O misery, became To her sex a thing of shame,— A thing of infamy and shame.
Now, of her and thee bereft, Naught have I to live for left,— Naught on earth to live for left;— And with bleeding heart I roam, From a desecrated home,— A broken, desecrated home,— Looking, longing for the day When my life shall ebb away,— To its giver, ebb away.
For I feel, a God of love, In the better land above,— Brighter, better land above,— To these yearning arms again, With a soul all free from stain,— Free from every earthly stain,— Will the wanderer restore, To be tempted nevermore— Passion-tempted nevermore.
Lay of the Last Indian.
They are gone—They are gone, From their green mountain homes, Where the antelope sports, And the buffalo roams; For the pale faces came, With insidious art, And the red men were forced From their homes to depart!
In the land Manitou Bestowed on their sires, Oh! never again Round their bright council-fires, Will they gather, to talk Of the feats they have done, Or, to boast of the scalps By their prowess they’ve won.
For they’ve gone—they have passed, Like the dew from the spray, And their name to remembrance Grows fainter each day; But for this were they forced From their ancestors’ graves; They dared to be freemen, They scorned to be slaves.