USA > Pennsylvania > Bucks County > History of Bucks County, Pennsylvania: From the Discovery of the Delaware to the Present Time (Volume 1 and 2) > Part 36
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From all around the inspiration comes As the mild breezes of the spring advance, The op'ning buds dispense their sweet perfume, And trembling light beams on the eddies dance.
So when the tide of life serenely flows And health's sweet gales the prosp'rous voyage attend, With nature's charms th' enraptured fancy glows, And these gay scenes the poet's themes befriend.
The morning's fragrance, the refreshing shade, The murm'ring waters and the cooling breeze, The lofty mountain and the rough cascade Delight the senses and the fancy please."?
In Doctor Watson's "Pastoral View on the Advance of Spring." written a year before the foregoing was published by Asher Miner, there runs the same charming rural feeling and sentiment :
"Though the weather be broken it yet is the spring; The frogs make a croaking and chirping birds sing ; The wheat and the rye are arraying in green, The clover is growing and soon will be seen,
The nights are a shortening to add to the day, The waters are flowing and hastening away, The bees are a flying, the lambs are at play, Old April is passing, it soon will be May, The trees are a budding and merry birds sing- All nature revives at the coming of spring." * * * *
7 The first five stanzas are part of those originally written an hundred years ago, the sixth a verse of the new composition. The ode sings the praises of the "Flowing Delaware."
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Some of Doctor Watson's admirers believe the verses he wrote on the misfortunes of Elizabeth Ferguson are his best. She was the daughter of Doctor Græme, and her husband, a Scotchman, went off with the British at the evacuation of Philadelphia, 1778, leaving her to fight the battles of life alone. She was a poetess, and a lady of distinguished literary abilities, writing under the nom de plume of "Laura." He wrote :
"Can the muse that laments the misfortunes of love Draw a shade o'er the sorrowful tale, That Laura was cheated, and fully could prove That Scotchman have honor that sometimes may fail."
At the death of Doctor Watson a friendly hand wrote:
"He is gone, who the lyre could awaken To ecstasy's magical thrill, Laeskekie," thy mount is forsaken, And the harp of thy poet is still."
Paul Preston,' as well as his two daughters, wrote considerable poetry. His production entitled "Solomoncis," was of considerable length. The fol- lowing is all of the fifth book of this unfinished poem :
"Now let the muse in meditation deep, With humble awe, disturb the silent sleep Of David's harp, and sweep the sounding strings . Till notes harmonious utter wondrous things. That harp whose awful music would recall That holy sense which had forsaken Saul, Whose powerful charms had often disposses't And drove the evil spirit from his breast, Now be employ'd a nobler theme to raise, Blest with the clearer light of gospel days, The fields of heavenly wonder to explore, And sing of matters never sung before,"
He translated the works of Torquatus on the "Consolation of Philosophy," from the Latin, which his friends had published as a tribute to his memory after his death-printed by Asher Miner, Doylestown, 1808. Among his pro- ductions in verse was a narrative of "The Captivity of Benjamin Gilbert and Family," who were taken by the Indians, 1780, which had considerable cele- brity at the time. He left behind him a manuscript work on surveying, and another that teaches the uses to which a straight stick and compass can be applied. In 1787 his friend, and former pupil, Jonathan Ingham, dedicated to him an English translation of the Epitaph of Theocritus on Hipponax, which is "humbly inscribed to my well-esteemed friend and tutor, Paul Preston." .
Samuel Johnson, Buckingham, in his day, was one of the most cultivated and scholarly men of the county, and fond of poetizing. His manners were popular, and he had political influence. One hundred years ago he owned. and lived on the farm (now Colonel Henry D. Paxson's), on the New Hope
8 Buckingham mountain.
9 He died about 1804 or 1805.
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pike. The following written in a young lady's album, is given because its length best suits our limited space :
"Lady, I thus meet thy request, Else should I not have deemed it best To scribble on this spotless page, With the weak, trembling pen of age. I've written in Time's album l'ong, Sketches of life with moral song, Blotted in haste full many a leaf, Whose list of beauties might be brief.
Could I some pleasing views now glean, 'Twould make at best a winter scene; On the bleak side of seventy years How scar the foliage appears; And frost-nipt flowers we strive in vain By culture to revive again ; The snows of time my temples strew, Warning to bid the muse adieu."
The lines addressed to his wife on the fiftieth anniversary of their mar- riage, and those on the "Harp," are considered among his best productions .. His "Vale of Lahaseka," a charming valley in Buckingham, written about 1835, is too long to be inserted, but we give a few verses to show its pleasant,. flowing meter :
"From the brow of Lahaseka, wide to the west, The eye sweetly rests on the landscape below; 'Tis blooming as Eden when Eden was blest, As the sun lights its charms with his evening glow. Flow on, lovely streamlets, in silvery pride, From the hills on the west send your bounty afar, As you brightly burst forth from their dark sylvan sides. And fancy delight with your crystaline car.
Ere civilized Man here exerted his power, The Native had cultured this spot on its plains. To freedom and joy had devoted the hour, And love lit his torch in their happy domains. * *
* * * As our vale rose in beauty, refinement began, Taste touched and retouched tho' simple her art; Then more intellectual Youth rose up to Man, And the civilized virtues embellished the heart. * # * *
To Friendship and Virtue may long be devoted The Vale of Lahaseka, pride of the plains ; For charms intellectual her daughters be noted, And Wisdom and Science enlighten'd her swains."10
10 Lahaseka, a mountain in Buckingham, lying nearly. north-east and south-west, about two miles in length near the middle of the valley. This is the Indian name.
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Mr. Johnson's humorous poem. entitled "The Banking Rats; a Fable," portraying the disastrous failures of a bank, is one of his best, and as applic- able now as when written.
The two daughters of Samuel Johnson, Eliza, who married Jonathan Pickering, both now deceased, and Ann, wife of the late Thomas Paxson, of Buckingham, inherited the poetic fire of their father. Of Mrs. Pickering's verse we copy a few stanzas of her lines addressed to Halley's comet, ( 1835), after it had disappeared from this hemisphere :
"Thou hast gone in thy brightness thou beautiful star, With the train of refulgence that streamed from thy car; Where Philosophy's eagle flight never may soar, Nor e'en Fancy's bold pinion attempt to explore. * * *
* * *
When the stars of the morning triumphantly sang, And the shouts of archangels in joyfulness rang, Was then thy glad orb launched on ether's vast deep, Unchanging for ages, its pathway to keep.
What spheres has thy lamp's rich cifulgency warmed, 'Mong suns and through systems, unharming, unharmed? In safety and. peace was the swift career bent, Or in fearful concussion to rend or be rent ?
Was thine the dread task in rude fragments to shiver Some world like our own into new worlds to sever? Such, philosophers tell, might the Asteroids be- Do these owe their separate' existence to thee? * * * * * *
Speed on, glorious one, in thy wonderful course, From the beams of our sun gain new light and new force; Still roll on through ether thy chariot sublime, Till Eternity springs from the ruins of Time."
Mrs. Paxson wrote considerable poetry. and although we dare hardly trust our uncultivated judgment to make a selection, we venture to present our readers her stanzas entitled "A Thanksgiving." as not unworthy the reputation of the writer
"For the morning's ruddy splendor, For the noontide's radiant glow ; For the golden smile of sunset, Illuming all below ; For flowers, thou types of Eden, That gem the verdant sod, And seem to ope their petals To tell us of our God.
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1
They flood the silent wilderness With beauty and perfume ; They bloom around our pathway, They blossom on the tomb;
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They are alphabets of angels, Though written on the sod; And if man would read them wisely, Might lead his soul to God.
For the Spring, with all its promise, For the Summer's boundless store; For Autumn's richer treasures, And the Winter's wilder roar; For the joyous evening fireside, By thought and feeling awed; For the loving hearts around it, I thank Thee, Oh, my God.
For the memories that encircle The happy days gone by ; For the holy aspirations That lift the soul on high ; For the hope in brighter regions, By seraph footsteps trod, To meet the lost and loved ones, I thank Thee, Oh, my God."
Mrs. Paxson was born in January, 1782, and married to Thomas Paxson, 1817.
Nicholas Biddle, in his life and death a Bucks countian, was a poet of wide reputation. A man of large and careful cultivation, he devoted a portion of his leisure, at his beautiful home on the Delaware, in courting the muse. Of his productions, "An Ode to Bogle"11 became popular on its appearance and is still remembered and quoted. It was written July 16, 1829, and dedicated, "with a piece of mintstick," to Meta Craig Biddle, his granddaughter, aged four years. We have only room for a few stanzas of this ode :
* "Hail! mayest thou, Bogle, for thy reign Extends o'er Nature's wide domain, Begins before our earliest breath, Nor ceases with the hour of death ; Scarce seems the blushing maiden wed, Unless thy care the supper spread; Half christened only were that boy Whose heathen squalls our ears annoy? If, service finished, cakes and wine Were given by any hand but thine, And Christian burial e'en were scant Unless his aid the Bogle grant.
II Bogle, the subject of the ode, whom Mr. Biddle calls a "colorless colored man," was a light mulatto, and a well-known character of the day, who resided on Eighth, near Sansom street, Philadelphia. He united the vocations of public waiter and un- dertaker, frequently officiating at a funeral in the afternoon, and at a party the evening of the same day, presenting on all occasions, the same gravity of demeanor. -
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Death's senechal, 'tis thine to trace For each his proper look and place ; How aunts should weep where uncles stand, With hostile cousins hand in hand; Give matchless gloves, and fitly shape By length of face the length of crape. See him erect, with lofty tread, The dark scarf streaming from his head, Lead forth his groups in order mete And range them grief-wise in the street; Presiding o'er the solemn show The very Chesterfield of woe. * * * #
* No jot of honor will he bate, Nor stir toward the churchyard gate Till the last person is at hand And every hat has got its band. Before his stride the town gives way, Beggars and belles confess his sway; Drays, prudes, and sweeps, a startled mass, Rein up to let his cortege pass; And death himself, that ceaseless dun, Who waits on all, yet waits for none, Now bears a greater waiter's tone, And scarcely deems his life his own. * *
Nor less, stupendous man! thy power In festal than in funeral hour, When gas and beauty's blended rays Set hearts and ball-rooms in a blaze. Or spermaceti's light reveals More inward bruises than it heals. In flames each belle her victim kills, And sparks fly upward in quadrilles ; Like icebergs in an Indian clime Refreshing Bogle breathes sublime- Cool airs upon that sultry stream From Roman punch and frosted cream."
The jeu d'esprit closed with a stanza addressed to the little granddaughter of the author :
.
"Meta, thy riper years may know More of this world's fantastic show, In thy time, as in mine, shall be Burials and pound-cake, beaux and tea ; Rooms shall be hot and ices cold, And flirts be both as 'twas of old. Love, too, and mintsticks shall be made, Some dearly bought, some lightly weighed; As true the hearts, the forms as fair,
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An equal joy, and beauty there; The smile as bright, as soft the ogle, But never, never such a Bogle!"
Samuel Blackfan, a farmer and minister among Friends of Solebury, a. man of many eccentricities, wrote considerable poetry seventy-five years ago. He was the son of Edward Blackfan, and born on a farm on the Windy Bush road, lately owned by Mahlon Atkinson. He introduced poetry into all his sermons. He was found dead in his wagon on the road from Philadelphia, between the Fox-chase and Sorrel Horse. We make the following extracts from his "Ode to the Winter Sun:"
"Fair fountain of heat, In bleak winter so sweet, Every sensible person w'd perish ; Yes, rather expire Than to witness thy fire, Discontinue, creation to cherish.
How cheerful and warm
Coming after a storm,
Is the heat from thy orb emanating ;
To the people of earth,
Animation and mirth
In the room of despondence creating.
When thy sister, the moon,
At the brilliance of noon,
Eclipses thy splendor awhile;
Every creature is sad,
Till thy countenance glad
Re-creates it again by its smile.
How stupendous. and grand,
The adorable Hand That created The Luminous Ocean, To brighten our eyes As thou coursest the skies, While thy beams kindle warmth by their motion."
The following, from the same author, the first two verses of lines to "The Belles" are not too old to be appreciated at the present day :
"I apportion a part of each week To dressing my hair with a comb, And the rend'ring it tidy and sleek, Even when I continue at home.
But when I determine to visit The house of a neighboring girl, I adorn it, and trim it, and friz it, In front, into many a curl."
The meter of the following, by the same, is charming :
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"Meandering streams, romantic glades, And winds that pass thro' twilight shades, Retiring from the west ; The saffron moon, the vernal grove, Have still the magic pow'r to move, And harmonize the breast."
His lines addressed to "The Carter" are probably among the best he ever wrote-beginning :
"The carter that crosses the tall Allegheny, Is happier than Jews with their gold; He matters not whether the weather be rainy, Or keen-blowing, frosty and cold. When he quits his dear Pittsburgh companions awhile, And from Anna prepares to depart, He perceives by the sorrow that saddens her smile, . That he hath a high place in her heart."
Among our later poets, the late Samuel Swain,12 of Bristol, probably stood at the head. He was born on his father's farm, Bensalem, but removed into Bristol at ten years of age. A sickly boyhood and a retired place of birth had something to do in shaping his after life, and he learned early to love Na- ture and Harmony. His cottage-home overlooked the beautiful Delaware, and there he courted the muse in sweet retirement and cultivated the affections. Quoting from one of his productions, it may with truth be said, that years . left no frost upon a heart
"That throbs for beauty and for truth And divine in art."
Mr. Swain was the son of exemplary members of the society of Friends ; was married, 1850, and his taste for divine art did not disqualify him for contact with the world, and the rougher routine of making a living. He was the author of so many good things, we hestitate in making a choice, but pre- sent the following :
FROM "LAUREL HILL."
"When I must leave the hearts I fondly love And all the beauty of this bright green earth, I ask no labored stone this form above With words that tell a doubting world my worth.
The only monument my soul desires Shall be the rainbow bent o'er falling tears- The blessed radiance from the kind heart's fires My love hath kindled thro' departed years!"
12 Samuel Swain descended from Quaker ancestry, his great-grandfather, Benja- min Swain, coming here from England about 1725. He was born May 7, 1820, and died at his home in Bristol, April 17, 1900, survived by his widow and a married daughter. He was married, 1850, to Martha Frost, and they celebrated their golden wedding a week before his death. He was a man of strong intellect and deep convictions, with' a high standard of duty. He wrote much in verse and many beautiful poems came from' his pen. During the latter years of his life, Mr. Swain was a minister among Friends.
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FROM "THE FRONT DOOR."
"The love of beauty grows with love of home, ' And as they fill the soul They draw us nearer to that love Supreme, Whose presence makes us whole. From all the beauteous and the dear of earth, We frame the amaranth bowers, And fill the glory of the angel's home With the lowlier sweets of ours!"
We close the selections, from Mr. Swain, with "By the Sea," written at Ocean Grove, New Jersey, August, 1873, and esteemed one of his best produc- tions :
"Day after day I weary not of thee, Blue wonder of the world! and tune my ear Morning and evening with a fresh delight To thy unbroken hymn. My fitful heart Takes home the lesson of thy constant praise Ashamed of its poor worship. 'I feel my soul, With all its wavering purposes ascend To nobler range of power while gazing out O'er the green desert of thy lilied waves Climbing toward Heaven. My life and care Grow paltry in thy light of visions born At thy mysterious verge! Out from myself I travel on thy breast in search of Him Who holds thy waters in his forming hand, For no such causeway to the invisible world As thine, is mapped on matter! Evermore Moving to purification, powerful, Unchanged thro' centuries, what can lead like Thee To Thought's great Father ? The messengers
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Of Commerce whitening o'er thy perilous waste, The nerves of lightning trembling 'thwart thy deep Foundation floors, bearing the messages Of hope and fear, of joy and sobbing grief From heart to parted heart, attune thy psalm With the sweet triumphs and divine advance Of human love and peace! The waves roll on The progress of the World. They waft the fair Kind messengers of Truth from land to land, And link the fortunes of all climes! Father of being
And Arbiter of earth for evermore, Bring into harmony all nations round The borders of Thy deep. Speed on the day When murderous war and servitude shall cease To crimson these pure waves, whose choral tones Lead human hearts to Thee!"
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Some eighty years ago, a few persons, inclined to letters, organized "The Lumberville Literary and Debating Society," which stimulated the poetic talent of the neighborhood. In the society's book of record are found several effu- sions of the local poets dropped into the "box," and read at the next meeting. We print two of these-the first "An Acrostic on Music," by Henry Greatorex : 121/2
"'Midst the dark ruins of despair, Unhappiness and woe- Securely bless'd by Thee while there, In time of need, in time of care, Can ceaseless pleasures flow."
"THE ROSE."
BY WILLIAM C. ELY.13
"Look yonder," says Harry, "that full, blushing rose,. How delightful it is to our view ; Its stem gently bends as the soft zephyrs blow, 'Tis an emblem, dear Anna, of you.
Its sweet-scented fragrance spreads an odor around,. 'Tis delicious to soul and to eye ;
But, now look again-it lies on the ground, It has lost all its rubicund dye.
Such, Anna, is life, a day, and we're gone, To-morrow we yield our last breath ; That rose has once bloomed, but its blooming is done, And its beauties are shrouded in death.
Our life is a barge on the gulph-stream of woe, (This rose is a typical view;) Tho' pleasures may beam for awhile here below, They will flee from the stalk where they grew.
This barge may be wreck'd on the quicksands of youth Ere they double the cape of "Old age;" Then here let us learn from the lesson of truth That true modest virtue's a blessing forsooth . That will bear us thro' life's latest stage."
121/2 Henry Greatorex or Greatrake, was born at Wilmington, Delaware, about 1800, resided in Solebury, 1823-24, and was a frequent contributor to the Lumberville Society. A number of his pieces are preserved. He left the neighborhood about 1825 or 1826, and his subsequent career is unknown.
13 Was a son of Jesse Ely, born near Carversville the beginning of the last century. He was fond of music, literature and poetry from his youth, and was a frequent contributor to the "box," while he taught school in the neighborhood. He - went West and died there. "The Rose" was written in March, 1823.
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ON THE "DEATH OF HENRY CLAY."
BY MARTIN J. HEAD. 14
"A glorious orb has fallen! but fallen like the sun Who sinks to rest. in splendor when his daily task is done; Yet whose brightness, never dying, lends to other orbs the light That breaks with lesser radiance on the gloomy brow of night.
He has passed away forever! but his genius liveth on Like the light that lingers with us when the god of day has gone; And other orbs that follow in the coming lapse of time Will borrow from the brightness of this leading light sublime."
"THE COMING OF MAY."
BY CYRUS LIVEZEY. 15
"The storms of winter are over and gone, And the sun gently smiles o'er hill-top and lawn; The bright streams are murmuring on every hand, 'And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.'
The trees are all budding in beauty again, The wheat fields enliven the hill-slope and plain- In the meadows the violets are dripping with dew, And cloth'd in their vestments of heavenly blue.
The birds sing their lays in the forest once more, Rejoicing that winter's stern reign is o'er ; The children are merry and lustily play, While the old folks rejoice at 'The coming of May.'"
George Johnson, son of Edwin E. and Anna E. Johnson, Upper Makefield, where he was born March 5, 1845, was a gifted young man. He was brought up .. on a farm and obtained his education at a common school, except two terms at the Carversville high school. From birth to manhood he was surrounded by rural influences, which ministered to the contemplative in his character. He developed a taste for literature, and especially poetry, at an early age, but his
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14 Mr. Head was the son of Joseph Head, Lumberville, born August 11, 1819. He exhibited great talent for drawing in his youth, and was a pupil of Edward Hicks, at Newtown. He afterward spent several years in Italy, studying and practicing art. and also in Brazil. On his return he established himself in New York, where he took high rank as an artist. He contributed a good deal to the public press and paid some attention to poetry.
15 Mr. Livezey, storekeeper and postmaster at Lumberville, was a member of the old literary society at that place, and patronized the "box," but "The Coming of May" was written in a young lady's album. He was a frequent worshiper at the feet of one ,of the Nine, and died some years ago.
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modesty hid him from publication until the age of eighteen, when some of his .early effusions were published in the Bucks County Intelligencer. Having a taste for journalism he went to Philadelphia, 1871, and engaged as news editor on the North American, and was subsequently on the Saturday Evening Post and other papers. His literary labors broke down his health, and he was obliged to retire to Solebury to recuperate, where he died May 20, 1875, at the early age of thirty. In June, 1874, he married Miss Mary Shoemaker, of Phila- delphia. Since his death a volume of his poems have been issued from the press. Of Mr. Johnson's verse we have only room for one production :
"TEARS."
"Long ago, long ago, Ah, Earth remembers well, On the dews of Paradise From our mourning mother's eyes, The first tear fell- The first of human woe! Since then, since then, From the eyes and hearts of men, How full has been the flow!
Tears of joy, tears of pain, Some as sad as on the leaf Drops the dreary autumn rain, With a patient, meek despair ; Some like April showers brief, When the opening heavens again Show even more fair. O! delicious, balmy grief,
A kind of bliss thou art! Thy drops destroy no bloom. Tears that never outward start, But fall inward on the heart, These sear and consume.
Alas ! the tears we see Are not the half that fall. We hide our misery- God only knoweth all. The face puts on a smile, Yet all the weary while The heart tastes gall.
. We mask our deepest woes, For bitterer tears are shed For the living than the dead That no one knows.
O, Farth ! there comes a day When a sweet voice from on high Shall beam downward through the sky,
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Fresh from Heaven, and say : Weep nc more! Weep no more! For the living nor the dead. Sorrow's long, long night is o'er, The last tear is shed!' But how many years, But how many tears Before those words are said!"
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